Knight Without Armour

Throughout the summer he went on making his reports, attending meetings, arguing with Axelstein, and cultivating friendship with the boy Alexis. There was something very pure and winsome about the latter—the power of his single burning ideal gave him an air of otherworldliness, even in his most natural and boyish moments. His hatred of the entire governmental system was terrible in its sheer simplicity; it was the system he was pledged against; mere individuals, so far as they were obeying orders, roused in him only friendliness and pity. The Cossack guards who had slashed the crowd with their whips were to him as much victims as the crowd itself, and even the Emperor, he was ready to admit, was probably a quite harmless and decent fellow personally. The real enemy was the framework of society from top to bottom, and in attacking that enemy, it might and probably would happen that the innocent would have to suffer. Thus he justified assassinations of prominent officials; as human beings they were guiltless and to be pitied, but as cogs in the detested machine there could be no mercy for them.

About midnight one October evening A.J. was reading in his sitting-room and thinking of going to bed when the porter tapped at his door with the message that a young man wished to see him. Such late visits were against police regulations, but the chance of a good tip had doubtless weighed more powerfully in the balance. A.J. nodded, and the porter immediately ushered in Maronin, who had been standing behind him in the shadow of the landing.

As soon as the door had closed and the two were alone together A.J. could see that something was wrong. The boy’s face was milky pale and his eyes stared fixedly; he was also holding his hand against his chest in a rather peculiar way. “What on earth’s the matter?” A.J. enquired, and for answer Alexis could do nothing but remove his hand and allow a sudden stream of blood to spurt out and stain the carpet.

A.J., in astonished alarm, helped him into the bedroom and laid him on the bed, discovering then that he had been shot in the chest and was still bleeding profusely. The boy did not speak at first; he seemed to have no strength to do anything but smile. When, however, A.J. had tended him a little and had given him brandy, he began to stammer out what had happened. He had, it seemed, fulfilled a secret task given him by revolutionary headquarters. He had shot Daniloff, Minister of the Interior. He had done it by seeking an interview and firing point-blank across the minister’s own study-table. Daniloff, however, had been quick enough to draw a revolver and fire back at his assailant as the latter escaped through a window. A ladder had been placed in readiness by an accomplice, and Alexis had been descending by it when Daniloff’s bullet had struck him in the chest. He had hurried down, unheeding, and had mingled—successfully, he believed—with the crowds leaving a theatre. He had been in great pain by then, and knew that he dare not let himself be taken to a hospital because in such a place his wound would instantly betray him. The only plan he had been able to think of had been a flight to his friend’s apartment, and though that was over a mile from Daniloff’s house, he had walked there, despite his agony, and even in the porter’s office had managed to make his request with-out seeming to arouse suspicion. Now, in his friend’s bedroom, he could only gasp out his story and plead not to be turned away.

There was no question of that, A.J. assured him; no question of that. “You shall stay here, Alexis, till you are well again, but I must go out and find a doctor—I have done all I can myself, I’m afraid.”

The boy shook his head. “No, no, you can’t get a doctor—he’ll ask questions—it’s impossible. But I have a friend—a medical student—I will give you his address—to-morrow you shall fetch him to me—he will take out the bullet—and say nothing…”

“Tell me where he lives and I will fetch him now.”

“No, no—the police would stop you—they will be all everywhere to-night—because of Daniloff.” He added: “I am sorry to be such a bother to you—I wish I could have thought of some other way. If only I had taken better aim I might have killed him instantly.”

“Don’t talk,” A.J. commanded, huskily. “Try to be quiet—then in the morning I will fetch your friend.”

“Yes. I shall be all right when the bullet is taken out.”

“Yes—yes. Don’t talk any more.”

He held the boy in his arms, that boy with the face of an angel, that boy who had just shot a government minister in cold blood; he held him in his arms until past one in the morning, and then, very quietly and apparently with a gradual diminution of pain, the end came.