rumbling, of wheels echoed from the archway, and the kibitka rolled
into the courtyard. It stopped near the foot of the grand
staircase. Boris, who sat upon the farther side, rose to
alight, in order to hand down his wife; but no sooner had he made
a movement than Prince Alexis, with lifted whip and face flashing
fire, rushed down the steps. Helena rose, threw back her veil, let
her mantle (which Boris had grasped, in his anxiety to restrain her
action,) fall behind her, and stepped upon the pavement.

Prince Alexis had already reached the last step, and but a few feet
separated them. He stopped as if struck by lightning,--his body
still retaining, in every limb, the impress of motion. The whip
was in his uplifted fist; one foot was on the pavement of the
court, and the other upon the edge of the last step; his head was
bent forward, his mouth open, and his eyes fastened upon the
Princess Helena's face.

She, too, stood motionless, a form of simple and perfect grace, and
met his gaze with soft, imploring, yet courageous and trustful
eyes. The women who watched the scene from the galleries above
always declared that an invisible saint stood beside her in that
moment, and surrounded her with a dazzling glory. The few moments
during which the suspense of a hundred hearts hung upon those
encountering eyes seemed an eternity.

Prince Alexis did not move, but he began to tremble from head to
foot. His fingers relaxed, and the whip fell ringing upon the
pavement. The wild fire of his eyes changed from wrath into an
ecstasy as intense, and a piercing cry of mingled wonder,
admiration and delight burst from his throat. At that cry Boris