g fire, in every attribute of her being. Then she came
a step nearer to me, and continued:

"He was there in the spirit of the outrage. He creates and upholds the
law which permitted it. Yes, you would have killed him, and you would
not have called it murder. You would have given the deed another name;
you would have called it retribution. I see it in your face; it flashes
in your eyes. I am not telling you a romance, in order to excite your
compassion, or to create sympathy. I am relating an actual occurrence.
I am telling you the story that made me a nihilist."

What a woman Zara was at that moment! She seemed the embodiment of
vengeance--of righteous retribution; the personification of the cause
she so splendidly advocated. I looked upon her almost with awe, at the
same time realizing that I was thrilled almost into active acquiescence
to her demands. She continued:

"There are not words to describe the emotions that sweep over you, as
you listen to the servant's story. You become benumbed, dazed. You hear
it through to the end, and there is not much more.

"You learn from him that papers of incriminating character were found
among your sister's effects; that a letter was there, which told that
she was engaged in a conspiracy to assassinate the czar, by poison;
that she, being a welcome guest at the imperial palace, had agreed to
put poison in the wine that he should drink on the following day--a
deadly poison--cyanide of potassium; that the poison itself was found
with the letter--a harmless looking powder, but a deadly one. You are
told that Yvonne was dragged away by those men, and taken--ah, the
servant could not tell you where they took her; but he could tell you
how she sobbed, and moaned, protesting her innocence, repudiating all
knowledge of the things they had found, crying out for you, in her
agony; and how one of the men struck her a brutal blow in the face,
because she would not be quiet. That is all the servant could tell you.
Yvonne was gone. That one truth glared at you from every hideous corner
of the desecrated room. Hours--many of them--have passed since then.
You laugh wildly, insanely, as you brush the servant aside, and dash
from the house in pursuit.

"'The czar is my friend! He is her friend! He will save her!' That is
what you cry aloud as you run along the streets towards the palace,
forgetting your _britzska_, in your haste, and agony. You forget that
you have been suspended from attend