The Circassian Chief: A Romance of Russia. Kingston William Henry Giles
dark and stormy night. The wind blew in violent and fitful gusts through the ill-lighted and irregular streets, now and then entirely extinguishing some of the few straggling lamps, while the remainder gave but a feeble and uncertain light, as the rain rushed down in torrents, making the road and pathway slippery with slime and mud.
The night had just closed in; yet, notwithstanding the inclemency and boisterousness of the weather, and the difficulties of the road, persons were still wandering abroad on various avocations, when a figure closely muffled in a large cloak, (apparently to shield himself from the tempest), issued from a side door of the palace of the Count Erintoff. He walked hastily along, keeping on the darker sides of the streets, as if to avoid recognition, and paused not till he reached the hotel where Ivan had taken up his abode. He remained concealed beneath the shelter of a porch, on the opposite side of the street, into which no gleam of light penetrated; though a lamp, burning in the doorway of the hotel, enabled him to command a distinct view of all who might enter, or depart. Thrusting his hand in his bosom, he thus muttered to himself:
“Ah! most trusty weapon, thou art not likely to fail me, if my arm proves true. Far better is the silent and sharp dagger to do such a deed, than the noisy and treacherous pistol, which has often failed a better man than myself, on a like occasion; yet, I did well to bring my noisy friend, in case, by any chance, the first should fail to strike home. – Ah! some one approaches.”
Groff, for it was he, drew farther back into the shade, to prevent himself from being seen by the stranger who was about to pass. At that moment, a person with a light and active step, completely shielded from the weather, walked quickly by, so that Groff could catch a glance of his features. He had not long to remain after this on his watch, when a figure appeared at the door of the hotel, whom he guessed must be his intended victim; for having cast a look at the dark and clouded sky, the person issued forth in the direction Groff expected him to take. The ruffian accordingly emerged from his hiding-place, and stealthily followed, at a short distance, the steps of his hoped for prey.
It was impossible to distinguish the figures of anybody, on such a night, wrapped up as all were who ventured abroad; but Groff felt that he could not be mistaken, both from seeing his intended victim issue from the hotel in which Ivan resided, and from the direction he was taking.
The person walked rapidly along, threading the intricate and obscure streets, without hesitation; every now and then, however, drawing his cloak closer around him, and casting a hurried look behind, as if to observe if he was followed. On these occasions, Groff contrived to shrink under the shade of some buttress, or projecting wall. Owing to his being perfectly well acquainted with the streets, and knowing each turning the person would probably take, he was enabled, successfully to dodge his footsteps, till he had arrived in the neighbourhood of the mansion previously described, in the garden of which the meetings of the conspirators were held. The man there stopped, and looked cautiously around, retracing his steps for a short distance, as if to assure himself that he had not been followed; throwing a scrutinising glance, as he lifted his hand to shade his eyes, down two or three narrow lanes, which there turned off from that along which he had passed. He seemed, however, satisfied, and was about to pass on.
“Now is my time,” thought Groff, who had hidden beneath a dark arch way, “I will now rush forward, and strike him, to make sure, and save myself a long and disagreeable watch; but he looks as if prepared for danger, and I may find a warmer reception than I wish, or he may cry out and give the alarm, before I have time to escape.”
While Groff was thus debating with himself, the person again walked on, unconscious of the danger he had so narrowly just escaped; and the assassin, fearful of being discovered after his evident wariness, if he pursued him further, concealed himself carefully under an arch, let into a wall, which had at one time served as an entrance to the garden behind it; but, for some reason, the inner part was now blocked up with stones, leaving, however, a recess sufficiently deep for a person to hide within it.
“Here I will await his return,” muttered Groff; “he has never yet failed to pass this way, and I have well marked his figure, so that I should know him if there was but a glimpse of light. I wish I had followed him to find out where he goes to, for there may be some secret worth knowing in that. It is an odd place for a person to come to so constantly, and I should make a fine thing of it, if I discovered any hidden plot, which the Count could reveal to the Emperor; it would bring him into high favour, and I, his follower, would benefit by it. I might easily manage to get rid of the youth in some other place, and if I slay him now, I lose my opportunity. But no! one scheme is but a chance, while his death will give me a certainty of reward.”
Having thus made up his mind, Groff remained in concealment for two or three hours, till he began almost to fear that his victim had escaped, by passing some other way. He watched with breathless expectation – anxiously looking forth from his place of shelter. The rain still fell in torrents, and flashes of lightning now and then darted from the heavens. One flash, brighter than the others, almost blinded him, as he grasped his dagger firmly in his hand; but he was no coward, though but a common ruffian, and he did not tremble. He again drew back, and listened attentively. Footsteps approached, he could not be mistaken; he heard the light and quick step advancing – nearer and nearer it came – he feared to breathe lest the sound might reach his victim’s ears – he more firmly clutched his dagger. With one foot advanced – his arm raised ready to strike, he stood pressing his body against the wall; he could distinguish the very breathing of him who was approaching. The figure filled the archway – the assassin sprang from his lair, his dagger’s point towards the breast of his victim. The lightning flashed brightly in forked streaks from the sky and played round the blue steel, but it failed to bring heaven’s vengeance, as it glanced before the eyes of the doomed one. He started back, but, alas, too late! the sharp point pierced his bosom. Too firmly was the assassin’s arm nerved; deep – deep, he drove his murderous weapon home; his whole force was in the thrust. Loud rolling peals of thunder reverberated through the heavens, as the work of blood was doing, and drowned the dying groan of the murdered man. Heavily he fell, struck down by the force of the blow. No sigh escaped his breast; but the foul midnight murderer was not content; drawing the reeking steel from the wound, his teeth grinding with fury, his eyes starting from his head, he plunged it again, and again, to the very hilt, into the bosom of the fallen man, the warm blood spouting from each fresh wound, and dyeing his hands. He stooped down, tearing aside the cloak and vest, seeking with eager haste, to feel the bosom of him whom he had slain, to find if perchance it yet palpitated with life; but well and truly had he done his work; a deep deadly wound had pierced that heart, which, but a few moments before, had beat with confidence – true patriotism – high hopes and aspirations; inflicted by his foul hand.
For a moment, a gleam of satisfaction passed through the murderer’s bosom that his work was accomplished, and his reward gained; but an instant afterwards, and oh! for ten thousand worlds would none have exchanged the most wretched poverty for the feelings which possessed him. It was his first cold, deliberate, mercenary shedding of blood; he felt himself to be an accursed wretch on the earth.
He could not fly, a fascination chained him to the spot; his fingers were clammy with blood, thick clotted to his dagger’s handle. He sought for a pool that he had stepped in near the spot; he tried to wash away the damning stains, but he knew that to be impossible.
In the exciting moment of the murder, he had been thoughtless of the blood which flowed over him, but he now observed that he was covered with it. The rain again fell in torrents, he stood exposed to its fury, to let it wash away the stain. It revived him; his thoughts again returned to their accustomed channel. The recollection of the money, for which he had done the deed, recurred to him; avarice seized his heart, and he remembered that, perchance, the murdered man might have gold about him.
He now neither trembled nor hesitated, as he felt about the body of his victim. With joy he clutched a purse, by the size and weight of which he knew it must contain gold; he felt in the breast, he drew from thence a packet of letters; a thought struck him that they might be of use to his master; he also possessed himself of watch and jewels. He was satisfied: no regret, no compunction for the deed oppressed him. His callous indifference had returned; an idea then occurred to him – horrid – diabolical. He searched around, to find some large stones, and with all his force he dashed one on the head