The Early Ayn Rand

Michael spread the fur blanket on the floor. They sat silently. Joan's head leaned on Kareyev's shoulder. He ran his fingers through her hair, tenderly, removing pine needles from her tangled curls. She noticed anxiously Michael's dark eyes that were watching Kareyev fixedly. Michael removed her boots, rubbed her feet in woolen socks damp with snow. She watched Kareyev's eyes following Michael's movements silently, his eyebrows drawn tightly in a dark frown.

"Let's go now," she said suddenly.

"We can't, Joan. We have plenty of time."

"I hate it here."

"You've gone through many things you've hated, Frances," said Michael. "You've been brave. It's the end, now. Think of what's awaiting us."

"What's awaiting us," said Kareyev slowly, "is for two — only."

“Yes," said Michael. "Only. And I hope the third one steps aside as bravely as he has been behaving."

"I hope he does," said Kareyev.

"It's too cold here," Joan complained.

"I'll make a fire, Frances."

"Don't. They may notice the smoke."

"Let me hold you close, Joan. You'll be warmer."

Commandant Kareyev drew her into his arms.

"Take your hands off her," said Michael slowly.

"What?"

"I said, take your hands off her."

Commandant Kareyev did. He put Joan aside gently and rose to his feet. So did Michael.

Joan stood between them, her eyes dark, scornful.

"Keep quiet!" she ordered. "Both of you seem to forget where we are — and when."

"We may as well settle this now, once and for all," said Kareyev. "He forgets that he has no more rights to you."

"And you, Commandant," said Michael, "forget that you never had any."

"I bought her from you in exchange for the next fifty years of your life."

"She wasn't for sale."

"I wouldn't stand in a woman's way after she had asked me to get out."

"I wish you would remember that."

Commandant Kareyev turned to Joan. He said very gently:

"It's been a game, Joan, and a bad one. I know the truth, but you must tell it to him. You've been too cruel with him."

"Oh, please! please..." she begged, backing away from him. "Don't. Not now. Not here."

"Right here, Frances," said Michael. "Now."

She stood straight, facing them. She raised her head high. Her eyes and her voice were clear. It was not her apology. It was the proud, defiant verdict of her sublime right.

"I love — one of you. No matter what I've done, don't you understand that there is a love beyond all justice?"

"Which one?" asked Michael.

"We want a proof, Joan," said Kareyev. "One beyond doubt."

A hand knocked at the door.

"In the name of the law... open this door!"

Michael leaped to the window. His gun flashed. He fired.

Shots answered from outside, the bark of several rifles.

Michael dropped his gun. His hand grasped the edge of the window. He pulled himself up to his full height, shuddered, and fell backwards, his arms swinging in a wide circle over his head.

Joan's cry did not sound like a woman's voice. She threw herself over his body, tearing his jacket, fumbling for his heart, blood running over her fingers.

"Come here!" she screamed to Kareyev. "Help him!"

Kareyev was pressed to the door, trying to hold it against furious blows, his gun in a crack of the wall, shooting blindly at those outside.

"Come here!" she cried. "Help him! Come here!"

He obeyed. Michael's head fell limply over his arm. He tore the jacket, felt a faint beating under his fingers, looked at the little hole in the chest that spurted a dark stream with each beat.

"He's all right, Joan. Just fainted. The wound isn't serious."

She looked at the sticky red that thickened into a web between her fingers. She pulled her collar open, tore a piece of her dress, pressed it to the wound.

She did not hear the door crash into splinters under the butts of rifles. She did not see the two soldiers who jumped in through the window, nor the two others who stood at the door.

“Hands up!" said the soldier who entered first. "You're under arrest."

Commandant Kareyev rose slowly and raised his arms. Joan looked up indifferently.

The soldiers wore shaggy sheepskin coats that smelled of sweat; the long fur of their big caps stuck to their wet foreheads; their boots left tracks of snow on the floor.

"And that, citizens," said their leader, "is how all counterrevolutionaries get their white necks twisted."

His stomach bulged over his cartridge belt. He spread his heavy, square boots wide apart. He pushed his fur cap at the back of his head, scratched his neck, and laughed. He had a wide grin and short teeth.

"Pretty smart, aren't you, citizens?" The cartridge belt shook under his stomach. "But the hand of the proletarian republic is long, and has good sharp claws."

"What are the orders from those who sent you?" Commandant Kareyev asked slowly.

"Not so fast, citizen. Why the hurry? You'll have plenty of time to find out."

"Let's go," said Joan, rising. "This man here is wounded. Take him to a doctor."

"He won't need one."

"Their horses are here, behind the house," a soldier reported, entering.