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tant shouting, a faint, barely audible sound that might have been the wind. Vladimir smiled, his eyes relishing every detail of my person, his erection swelling even more.

"When Count Orlov starts to leave, I ask him about you.

'What about the woman?' I ask. 'What shall I do with her?'

'Do anything you like with her,' he tells me. 'She's yours now.' He gives me his whore."

"I belong to no one," I said.

"You belong to me. I use you like I used the barmaid. I give it to you rough. I make you pay for all your disdain and haughty airs. I make you cook for me and lick my boots and spread your legs, and when I feel like it I beat you thoroughly. When my friends return, I share you with them. I laugh as I watch them take you, one right after the other. In Russia we know what to do with women like you.

We know how to treat them."

"Chivalry is dead, it seems."

"What is this 'chivalry'?"

"Something you couldn't begin to comprehend."

I wondered what caused a man to become so twisted, so full of hatred and violence. Vladimir had hated me vehemently from the moment he first laid eyes on me, had longed to hurt and humiliate me. Why? Was it because I represented something he knew he could never hope to attain?

Was it because he secretly hated serving another man, hated his master and, not daring to express this hatred, channeled it toward someone he could hate openly-a foreigner, a lowly woman, a whore in velvet who treated him coldly and made him feel his inferior position all the more keenly? Whatever the reason, the hatred was there, burning in his eyes along with the lust, and it was a frightening thing to behold.

"Now you pay," he said.

He moved slowly to the bottom of the stairs and placed his large hand on the smooth wooden railing.

"Don't take another step," I said coldly.

"And if I do?"

"Don't," I said.

He grinned. "You will hurt me?"

"I will kill you," I said.

"This is very funny. This is a big jest."

"It's no jest, Vladimir. It's a promise."

"I laugh."

"You won't, I assure you."

"No more talk. Now I take."

He moved up one step, another, then another, slowly, relishing his power over me, savoring the sensations inside, a great, malicious cat slowly stalking a mouse, taunting his prey. I stood very still, not at all alarmed, held fast by a steely resolve. I told him to stop. He chuckled, eyes glittering. He moved up another step, just four steps below me now, and he lifted his foot to move up another and I raised the pistol from under the folds of velvet and cocked it and aimed it between his eyes.

Color drained from his face. He opened his mouth to say something. The words never came. He tried to grab at the gun and I squeezed the trigger and his forehead seemed to explode into a mass of redness. The impact threw him against the railing and the wood creaked and then his body flopped over to the other side and crashed against the wall and crumpled and tumbled haphazardly downstairs, arms and legs flailing crazily. It landed on the floor in a twisted heap, a dark red pool forming beneath his head.

The barrel of the pistol was smoking still, tiny spirals of smoke curling in the air. I blew on it and lowered it and stared at the corpse below as echoes of the deafening gunshot reverberated throughout the house.

Perhaps a minute and a half passed before the front door burst open and one of the guards came tearing in with rifle raised. His face was ashen, and it turned even grayer when he spied the twisted corpse and the pool of blood. A towering brute with rough-hewn features, deep-set blue eyes and thick black hair, he wore the Orlov livery and short fur-trimmed cape and had apparently lost the black fur hat in his haste to reach the house. I had seen him several times, but I couldn't recall his name. Holding the rifle firmly, he came nearer the corpse, staring at it in dismay, and then he looked up and saw me standing on the staircase.

"What happened?" he cried.

"I shot him," I said.

"You shot Vladimir?"

"He intended to rape me. I warned him I would kill him.

He didn't listen."

The guard's face slowly suffused with color, the blue eyes snapping with anger. "Vladimir was my friend!"

"I'm sorry about that."

"This afternoon, after the others leave, he comes out, we have vodka together, he tells me what he plans to do with you. Orlov gives you to him and he says he will share. Now he is dead!"

"Very," I said.

"You murder my friend!"

He stared at me with blazing eyes, gripping the rifle tightly, and after a moment an idea dawned on him and I could almost see the thoughts shaping in his none-toobright mind. Orlov had given me to Vladimir and

Vladimir had intended to share. As Vladimir was dead, why not take me for himself? Sensual speculation replaced the anger in his eyes. He grinned a wide grin, extremely pleased with his good fortune. My pistol was useless until it was reloaded. He knew that. He put the rifle down, leaning it against the wall, looking at me with merry greed.

"This is very interesting," he said.

"Don't even think about it," I told him.

"You can't shoot me. You have already fired:'

"I can bash your brains out with the butt of the pistol."

"I like this. I like a spirited woman. We have many good times fighting together."

Over his shoulder, beyond the hallway, I saw Mitya step in through the front door, which the guard had left open.

My expression didn't change. Slowly, silently, he crept toward the guard. I looked at the man with eyes that were suddenly appreciative of his masculine charms. A provocative smile shaped on my lips. He was surprised by this sudden change in my attitude.

"You like the idea, yes?"

"I might. I-I never cared for Vladimir, but you-you look quite appetizing."

"The women always like me. Once a very great lady in St. Petersburg, a princess, she
pays
me to make love to her."

"There's no accounting for tastes," I said. "Come-come a little closer. Let me get a good look at my new protector."

"I protect you good. Vladimir, he has disdain for all females.

He never likes them, always takes them by force.

Me, I stroke them and pet them and make them pant and purr before I stick it in."

"A true gentleman," I said;

He came nearer, almost stumbling over the corpse he'

had completely forgotten. Mitya reached silently for the rifle left leaning against the wall, took hold of the barrel with both hands, raised it. The guard grinned at me, stepping closer. Mitya swung the rifle back in a high arc and the heavy butt came smashing down on top of the guard's head and there was a horrible noise like a melon splitting in two. His mouth flew open. His eyes glazed instantly.

His knees gave way and he fell heavily, landing half atop the corpse.

"Is-is he dead?" I asked shakily.

"Probably," Mitya said. "We must hurry. They come."

"Who-what are you-"

He pointed toward the open door. Through it, far in the distance, I could see bright orange fireflies dancing in the woods facing the house. They swayed and swirled, moving closer, and I could hear the shouting clearly now, raucous cries that chilled the blood. The fireflies were torches.

Pugachev's peasants were on their way to the house, would be clearing the woods any moment now, and then they would be swarming over the lawns. I was stunned, momentarily unable to move a muscle. Mitya scowled and leaped up the steps and took my wrist and dragged me roughly down into the hall.

"The other rifle-it's in the library-" I exclaimed. "The powder horn and bags of shot. We must-"

"Lead the way! Quickly!"

I flew into the library with Mitya close behind. No candles were lighted, and the room was a dark cave. I stumbled against a table, cursed aloud, groping my way toward the corner where I had left the rifle behind the large chair.

The shouting outside grew louder, closer. They must have cleared the trees. Jesus! Where was the chair? I fell to my knees and my head bumped against the arm of the chair and I uttered a cry of relief and reached behind the chair and grasped the rifle, handing it to Mitya.

"The powder horn-I can't find-"

"Hurry!"

"Here it is. I've got it. Can you take the bags of shot? No, you've got both the rifles. I can manage-"

I slipped the pistol and the powder horn into the roomy pockets inside the cloak and, gripping a bag of shot in each hand, climbed to my feet. Mitya was already on his way out of the room. I stumbled after him. Reaching the hall, I foolishly peered out the door and saw men in the distance, racing toward the house, waving torches, waving pitchforks, waving scythes. They must be able to see us in the lighted hall as well. From the basement came the sounds of a woman shrieking in terror. Old Mathilda, probably.

Her prayers weren't going to help much now.

"Grushenka!" I cried.

"She's waiting in back. We can't go out the front door.

I've never been inside the house, You must lead the way!"

"Follow me!"

Gripping the shot bags tightly, I dashed down the hall, past the corpses, past the staircase, my cloak flapping, the money bag banging against my thigh. The house was filled with screams and cries of alarm now as the servants began to scatter and race through the rooms. A terrified maid darted past us, heading for the front hall, splitting the air with her screams when she spotted the corpses. I led Mitya through the dusty back hall with its clutter of discarded furniture and boxes and on into the kitchen with its huge iron stove. The slovenly cook was huddled against the wall, clutching a skillet, her face the color of dough.

"Run!" I cried. "You must leave at once!"

She shook her head, muttering gibberish. Mitya threw open the back door. Standing in the shadows beside the steps, Grushenka gave a cry of relief as we hurried out.

The moon was high in a cloudless black sky, and the bright moonlight washed the yard with silver, mottling the inky black buildings with silver and pewter gray. Mitya led the way across the cobbles, past the barracks, past the pens, around the stables. The peasants had almost reached the house now. Their shouting was a demonic din, sounds from hell itself, and the cries and shrieks of terror from within the house added to the horror.

We paused for a moment in back of the stables, standing against the wall, in the shadows. Before us lay a vast expanse of snowy ground, dazzling in the moonlight, coated a pale silver-blue, the woods beyond at least four or five hundred yards away. Until we reached the shelter of those trees we would be clearly exposed in the brilliant light. My heart was pounding. My lungs felt as though they were ready to burst. Grushenka was gasping for breath, an expression of stark terror on her face. We could hear glass shattering, wood splintering. In moments they would be tearing around to the back and swarming all over. None of us relished the thought of racing across that brilliant expanse of ground, but we couldn't stay here.

"We must go," I said.

"I –I don't think I can make-" Grushenka began.

"You must!" Mitya cried.

"Mitya, I -"

"Come! We have no time to lose!"

We dashed out of the protective shadows and started across the ground and were immediately bathed in bright silver. It was as light as day here on the snow, with no shadows to relieve the glare. Our footsteps crunched noisily as we ran, and I stumbled several times, certain I was going to fly facedown and skid across the hard-packed snow slippery as ice. Grushenka had the food bag slung across her back- and she dropped it and it burst open, cheese, bread, apples, and meat scattering in every direction.

She cried out, stopped, began to gather things up.

Mitya slung one of the rifles over his back by its strap and seized the girl's wrist, propelling her forward, yelling that there was no time. We raced on, pursued by demons, it seemed, for the cries echoed weirdly, reverberating all around.

On and on we ran, the trees two hundred yards away a haven of darkness and shadow in this blazing silver hell.

My foot turned the wrong way, lost purchase. I fell to my knees, dropping both bags of ammunition. One skidded twenty feet away, spewing shot like hard black marbles over the snow. I grabbed the other and got to my feet and lurched on ahead, my ankle smarting. A hundred yards.

Seventy-five. Behind us the wild fury of noise rose in volume.

Were they pursuing us? I dared not look back. I was going to collapse any moment now. My lungs were going to explode. My heart was going to burst open. I couldn't run any longer. I couldn't! Fifty yards left now. Only fifty. I had to make it. Madly, blindly, I pushed on, and the blazing light vanished and shadows enveloped me and I leaned against the trunk of a tree, panting furiously.

I closed my eyes, and for several moments I knew nothing but agonizing pain as my lungs burned and my heart continued to pound and my breath came in furious gasps.

My throat felt raw, as though the skin had been lacerated.

My mouth was dry. My bosom heaved, and my legs seemed to be on fire. I whirled in darkness, it seemed, only halfconscious

but still aware of the torture, and eventually my heart stopped battering against my rib cage and beat more slowly and I caught my breath and opened my eyes.

Grushenka was sobbing. Mitya was holding her tightly in his arms, telling her not to look.

I looked through the trunks of the trees, beyond the vast expanse

of silvered snow, I saw the great house, dark against the brightness, like some little girl's doll house from this distance, the outbuildings even smaller, and I saw the flickering orange lights blazing in the windows and saw the tongues of flame reaching out to lick the walls. I saw the tiny figures dancing and leaping like imps in the glare, dozens of them, dozens and dozens, waving their makeshift weapons as their frenzy increased. The stables and bar.

racks were already sheathed in vivid flame, burning rapidly, roofs collapsing, flames shooting higher.