"Way there, way there," D'Aubant did not scruple to thrash about him soundly, huddling his beasts into the comers and leaving a clear path.

Larion led Charlotte to the door that opened behind her chair. Between this chair and the next one to her right was hung the thick red curtain. According to Russian custom it was not yet time for husband and wife to see each other's faces.

She had hoped to slip in unobserved, but her appearance, like a trumpet sounded in the lists, loosed a furious melee, and enthusiastic pledging of her health.

"The tsarevna, the tsarevna!" they shouted until the musty walls seemed like to crumble in. The rough genuineness, the glitter of their swords, the excitement, roused the warrior spirit of her race. Charlotte's eyes sparkled and she faced them, squarely on her feet. When she took her seat, smiling graciously, the storm broke out afresh.

D'Aubant, by main strength, shoved himself into the opposite door, and his eyes glistened at Charlotte's splended courage.

Alexis sat beside her fingering a whip, and listening to Barbara at his elbow. D'Aubant thanked God for the curtain.

How Charlotte lived through that drunken carouse she did not know. For years and years it remained the indistinct terror of her dreams. Men and women gorged themselves like gluttonous beasts, and gulped their fiery liquors down as madmen do. Larion reddened with shame at the songs they sang, even though he knew that Charlotte could not understand a word that was said.