But fate was against them; their opportunity came to them unsought, and they passed it by unknowing. How should they know, poor souls, to whom even a word of ordinary greeting from their jailers was denied, and to whom no echo of news ever penetrated, how should they know, that at the very moment, as they were praying passionately for some means of communication with their Emperor, he himself stood before them, and that had they but put out their hands they could have touched him?
It was the cruel irony of fate; the bitter obligation of destiny.
As the guards threw open the massive casemate doors in silence, most of the inmates did not so much as raise their heads or change their attitudes. Why should they? It was only another of those many interruptions in their day's vacuity, in which the jailer played the part of inspector with maddening sameness. What call had they to look more often on his hated face than was needful?
Scarce a word passed between the Tsar and Tsarina, or their suite; the pall of absolute silence which enfolds great Petropavlovsk in the dark mantle of submission, had descended also upon them, and so held them captive as to kill any outward expression of inward emotion. Sometimes it was the "Judas" only that was lifted, and then the Tsarina would turn away her eyes and refuse to look, standing apart with anxiety and sadness written on her pale face; and when this happened, Olga would separate herself from Ivor, and waiting silently by her Royal mistress, watch her every motion with the sympathy of comprehension.
And so the weary task dragged on its heavy chain; there remained but one more cell, and then this horrible nightmare of duty, this travesty of inspection, would be over, and they might hurry away from out this gloom and depression, and seek once more the brilliant sunshine, the gaily-thronged streets, where at least the grim spectres of despair and desperation, if they stalked among the careless mummers, were out-balanced by the laughter and jesting of the merry-makers.
At length they reached the last casemate of all, and as the door was unbolted and thrown open, the Emperor and Patouchki stepped across the threshold. Seated on the iron pallet, his arms thrown out across the table, was an old man, whose head was white with the snows of many winters. He neither moved nor spoke as those without came towards him; his hands were waxen in colour, nerveless, and attenuated; the blue dressing-gown hung loosely upon his emaciated form; his face was hidden on his arm. Something in the intense stillness and rigidity of the attitude, in the absolute rest that had fallen upon him, startled the beholders with a vague sense of fear.