guns that at this very moment may be sending to the bottom any number of ships like your
He glared at her as if he could have struck her. Then, abruptly, he shrugged and turned away, striving to repress a grin of apology.
'Touche!' he growled. 'Very well. You win. We'll go on.'
In an instant all her anger was forgotten. Like a schoolgirl she flung her arms round the American's neck, regardless of what the refugees might think, seeing a woman dressed in such a comparatively ladylike fashion eagerly embracing a bearded moujik. He returned her kiss and they might have remained lost to the world around them if Craig O'Flaherty's jovial voice had not come to their ears.
'Come and see!' he called. 'It's well worth looking at!'
All the others had climbed down from the wagon and walked over to a terrace terminating in a balustraded wall. Marianne and Jason joined them, hand in hand, and saw Moscow lying at their feet.
The view which met their eyes was both grand and romantic, and with something fascinating about it also. It took in the whole extent of the great city, enclosed within its red walls, twelve leagues in extent and very ancient. At their feet the Moskva looped itself in snakelike coils round islands studded with palaces and gardens. Most of the houses were built of wood plastered over. Only the public buildings and the huge mansions of the nobility were constructed of brick of a dark, velvety softness. Numerous parks and gardens could be seen, their greenery forming a harmonious background to the buildings.
The sun shone on a thousand and one church steeples and was reflected brilliantly from their gilded or sky blue domes and from rooftops of metal painted black or green. And in the midst of the city, set upon a raised hillock and ringed about by lofty walls and battlemented towers was a vast citadel, a veritable bouquet of palaces and churches: the Kremlin, the proud symbol of the ancient glory of Holy Russia. While all around it Europe and Asia met and mingled like the warp and weft of some fabulous material.
'It's beautiful!' Marianne breathed. 'I never saw anything like it!'
'Nor I,' said Jolival, adding, as he turned to his companions: 'It was certainly worth the journey.'
Clearly he spoke for all of them, even Shankala who, since Kiev, had seemed to lose all interest in her companions. Occasionally, at the staging posts or when the kibitka slowed down on the road, she would speak to a passing peasant or to a stable lad, always asking the same question. The man would wave his arm and answer her briefly and then the gipsy would return to her place without a word and resume her scrutiny of the road ahead.
But now she was leaning on the balustrade, gazing down with blazing eyes upon the fabulous city spread out at her feet, while her nostrils quivered as though seeking out one single scent from all the many odours that rose to meet her. For the trail of the man she followed must end here, before this city over whose beauty war hung like a menacing cloud.
For the war was a presence to be breathed and felt. The wind carried a smell of burnt powder and, except for an occasional outburst of noise here and there, the silence in the city seemed to grow more disquietingly complete with every moment that passed. None of the ordinary, everyday sounds could be heard, no bells, no cheerful bustle of men at work, no music hovering about the smokeless rooftops. It was as though the harsh voices of the distant guns had silenced every other.
Jolival was the first to break the spell which seemed to hold them all enthralled. He sighed and turning from the balustrade remarked: 'If we want to be inside the city by nightfall, I think it's time that we were on our way. We can try and get news of what's happening down there. All the people of the better sort speak French and there always used to be a large French colony in Moscow.'
Enchantment gave way to something more like horror as they descended the hill and approached the city gates. The confusion here was unbelievable. The tide of refugees came up against a solid mass of women and old men, all kneeling in the dust before the doors of the Danilovski monastery, staring up with clasped hands at the great cross on the principal dome as though expecting some miraculous apparition. The sound of their prayers was a ceaseless murmur.
At the same time a large convoy of wounded men emerging from a side street was endeavouring to enter by the gates which were already jammed with the press of vehicles. The people in the crowd did their best to make way for it and indeed showed to the wounded men a pious awe almost as great as that with which they gazed upon the monastery cross. Some of the women even fell on their knees and attempted to kiss the bloodstained rags binding an arm or leg.
These wounded soldiers, filthy and ragged, were a sight both pathetic and terrible, an army of spectres with hollow eyes burning in faces parched by the sun.
People ran out from those few shops which had remained open and from the houses near the gate with offerings of fruit and wine and food of all sorts, while some of those who were leaving actually turned back to give up their carriages to them, or to offer the use of houses left empty in the care of a few servants. Indeed, it all seemed so natural that it did not occur to Marianne and her companions to protest when a pair of tall fellows wearing aprons, who could have been in charge of the wounded, requisitioned their kibitka.
'We'll probably be torn to pieces if we refuse,' Jolival whispered. 'It'll be a poor look-out if in all this confusion we can't find a vehicle of some sort to continue our journey! Besides, I must confess these people have surprised me. They show a remarkable example of unity in the face of disaster.'
'Unity?' Craig muttered. 'Yet it seems to me that there is one great difference between those leaving and those staying. For the most part the carriages we've met have been smart and well-upholstered. The rich are going, the poor are left behind.'
'Well, naturally, only those who have some property to go to outside the city can go away. What's more, I think it's chiefly their property that they are trying to protect. The others have nowhere to go. Besides, the Russian soul is essentially fatalistic. They believe that everything happens by God's will.'
'I'm coming to very much the same view of things myself,' Jason said grimly. 'The exercise of free will seems to have become increasingly difficult for some time past.'
However, after some delay and considerable effort on their part, they did manage to pass through the gate and found themselves in a long street, equally jammed with traffic, leading towards the centre of the city. But as they went on they passed the entrances to broad, deserted boulevards and empty streets that showed no sign of life, in vivid contrast to the one they were following. Many of the houses had their shutters up and presented blind faces to the world.
Before long they came to the Moskva and saw men in barges busy sinking casks and boxes in the river. The Kremlin walls towered redder than ever in the setting sun. But the travellers' eyes were already growing accustomed to the almost asiatic splendours of the Holy City and they spared no more than a passing glance for the ancient citadel of the Tsars. What was taking place outside its walls was far more interesting.
There were still crowds of people all along the river and on the bridges across it, and in the huge square outside the Kremlin wall. But these crowds were of a different kind from those outside the city. Young gentlemen in frock coats, armed with swords, were hurrying to meet the convoys of wounded, which seemed to be arriving from all directions, and greeting them with eager cries. Their youth, the elegance of their dress and, in many cases, their extreme good looks formed a striking contrast to the dirt and suffering among which they moved and attempted in a clumsy and often ill-judged fashion to relieve.
Trapped in the bottle-neck of one of the bridges, Marianne and her friends were caught up and carried along almost in spite of themselves in an irresistible tide, so that they had crossed the river almost without noticing and found themselves deposited, with more or less freedom of movement, in the vast square in front of an enormous, glittering church whose vivid colours made it look like some gigantic jewel.
On its eastern side, the square was bounded by a line of large and splendid private palaces which, with their elegant, white stuccoed classical facades and green, spreading gardens formed a barrier between it and Kitaigorod, the chief commercial district of Moscow. And outside of these palaces a crowd had gathered and was roaring with excitement at what, Marianne soon realized with horror, could only be a public execution.
A ladder had been placed upon a platform built against the palace wall and bound to it by his wrists dragged up above his head was a man, naked to the waist, and being beaten with the knout.
The whip, which was made of fine thongs of plaited white leather which it was the habit to steep in milk the night before an execution in order to stiffen them, left a bloody weal across the victim's back at every stroke and drew a groan of agony from him.
Standing on the dais a step or two away from the ladder, observing the proceedings, was a giant of a man
