(excerpt from ...)

NORTH OF THE MOON (Chapter 7, page 109)

Nervous and agitated, Kondraty Ryleyev was hugging his comrades. "A Miracle!" He laughed, his eyes shining with feverish brilliance. "Imagine, they say there were eighty people killed, yet not one of our members was killed or even wounded!"
     Stupefied, Alexander thought: These doomed men--for surely they knew they were doomed--are rejoicing over their failure? Somehow, in their twisted logic, they thought it was a glorious success. Fools! What were they doing now, idling at home? Why didn't they flee? There was still time! In the general confusion and cleanup surely they could slip across the border into Finland, where they would be safe from the tsar's wrath. But even as he thought this, he knew the answer, for he himself would have stayed behind. His was the generation that could forgive a friend's betrayal, could understand even a desertion, but to leave their country--why, that was moral degradation!
     Unable to listen any longer, he slipped out and rushed back to his flat.
     He stayed in bed the entire following day, at times shivering with an imaginary chill, then burning with fever. He was confused and yes, for shame of it, relieved in being free and safe.
     Toward evening he rose, ate sparingly, and sitting by the fireplace, drank several glasses of cognac. The crackling fire, the warmth from the liquor, finally calmed his nerves and he dozed.
     A loud knock at the door startled him.
     He watched as his manservant opened the door. There on the threshold stood Alexander Shulgin, the St. Petersburg chief of police.
     "Prince Alexander Dolovin! By the order of His Imperial Majesty Tsar Nicholas, you are under arrest!"