MISS HILDRETH.

A Novel.

BY A. DE GRASSE STEVENS,

AUTHOR OF "OLD BOSTON," "THE LOST DAUPHIN,"
"WEIGHED IN THE BALANCE," ETC.

In Three Volumes.
VOL. II.

LONDON:
WARD AND DOWNEY,
12, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C.
1888.

[All rights reserved.]

Copyright by A. de Grasse Stevens, 1888.

CONTENTS.

MISS HILDRETH.

CHAPTER I.

A FACE FROM OUT A CRIME.

The same dazzling and brilliant sunshine, that for so many weeks had held sway in Petersburg, was still beautifying the Tsar's great capital, and gilding all things with an illusory sheen, which had all the appearance of true gold, but which fled away at the approach of darkness, leaving bare the cankerous fever spots, the dry bones and wasting disease of the most tyrannous, but most doomed phenomenon of autocratic power.

During all the early hours of morning the sleeping city lay bathed in this wonderful alchemy; the Neva resting tranquil beneath the spell, even its cold grey waters catching reflections from the sun-god's rays. From above its low bank rose a long grey stone wall, broken here and there into sharp angles and protected by recurrent cannon, set at regular intervals; beyond this a tall and slender spire shot up high into the air, graceful and quivering with a thousand golden lights, that seemed to break against it, and then fling the fragments broadcast with careless prodigality; these in falling touched again the fluttering flag on the white belfry, glanced athwart the Imperial mint, and awoke myriad reflections in the façade of the Winter Palace.

This tall spire, shooting upwards like a lance, is the crowning glory of Russia's great State prison, and Russia's Imperial tomb of kings, the grim fortress of Petropavlovsk. It is a familiar sight to Petersburg's populace, as they pass to and fro across the Troitski Bridge, or linger in the spacious Boulevard-park, which is never empty, and through which the dwellers on the Petersburg side go in and out to their homes.

Beneath its solid foundations lie the bones of Russia's greatest sovereigns; within its granite walls languish many of Russia's truest patriots; while without its precincts, separated only by a few rods, lying almost within its shadow, rises the stately palace, within which lives Russia's Tsar, conscious always of the everlasting surveillance of Peter's prison, yet unable to cast it from him, or flee before it.

It was very early in the day, about a month after Olga Naundorff's interview with Ivor Tolskoi, and as yet but few people were astir in the city's streets, save those whose avocations called them forth in the pursuance of itinerant trade. Now and then a mounted orderly would ride past, leading an uncaparisoned horse by a long rein, the iron hoofs clattering over the bridge, breaking clear and distinct across the sharp morning air; presently they would disappear under the arched entrance to the barracks, and then, perhaps, a dark, sombre figure would come next, passing swiftly along, with secrecy written on every line of the face and habiliments, to be swallowed up in the frowning doorway of the Imperial Chancellerie; while those he passed on his way drew back instinctively, the women crossing themselves furtively, the men cursing below their breath. For was not this an emissary of that terrible secret police, from whom no one was safe, whose inexorable will was as iron and blood? And who could say who would be the next in turn to feel that cruel hand upon his throat, and know, with helpless certainty, that Petropavlovsk was his eternal destination?

Just as the clocks on tower and steeple struck seven, following the single notes by the ecclesiastical