Michael Strogoff
Jules Verne

Part 4 out of 7

It was evident that Russians and Tartars were fighting in
the streets of the town. Was this a time to seek refuge there?
Would he not run a risk of being taken prisoner? Should he succeed
in escaping from Kolyvan, as he had escaped from Omsk? He hesitated
and stopped a moment. Would it not be better to try, even on foot,
to reach some small town, and there procure a horse at any price?
This was the only thing to be done; and Michael, leaving the Obi,
went forward to the right of Kolyvan.

The firing had now increased in violence. Flames soon sprang
up on the left of the town. Fire was devouring one entire
quarter of Kolyvan.

Michael was running across the steppe endeavoring to gain the covert
of some trees when a detachment of Tartar cavalry appeared on the right.
He dared not continue in that direction. The horsemen advanced rapidly,
and it would have been difficult to escape them.

Suddenly, in a thick clump of trees, he saw an isolated house,
which it would be possible to reach before he was perceived.
Michael had no choice but to run there, hide himself and ask
or take something to recruit his strength, for he was exhausted
with hunger and fatigue.

He accordingly ran on towards this house, still about half
a verst distant. As he approached, he could see that it
was a telegraph office. Two wires left it in westerly and
easterly directions, and a third went towards Kolyvan.

It was to be supposed that under the circumstances this station
was abandoned; but even if it was, Michael could take refuge there,
and wait till nightfall, if necessary, to again set out across
the steppe covered with Tartar scouts.

He ran up to the door and pushed it open.

A single person was in the room whence the telegraphic messages
were dispatched. This was a clerk, calm, phlegmatic, indifferent to
all that was passing outside. Faithful to his post, he waited behind
his little wicket until the public claimed his services.

Michael ran up to him, and in a voice broken by fatigue,
"What do you know?" he asked.

"Nothing," answered the clerk, smiling.

"Are the Russians and Tartars engaged?"

"They say so."

"But who are the victors?"

"I don't know."

Such calmness, such indifference, in the midst of these terrible events,
was scarcely credible.

"And is not the wire cut?" said Michael.

"It is cut between Kolyvan and Krasnoiarsk, but it is still working
between Kolyvan and the Russian frontier."

"For the government?"

"For the government, when it thinks proper. For the public,
when they pay. Ten copecks a word, whenever you like, sir!"

Michael was about to reply to this strange clerk that he had no
message to send, that he only implored a little bread and water,
when the door of the house was again thrown open.

Thinking that it was invaded by Tartars, Michael made ready to leap
out of the window, when two men only entered the room who had nothing
of the Tartar soldier about them. One of them held a dispatch,
written in pencil, in his hand, and, passing the other, he hurried
up to the wicket of the imperturbable clerk.

In these two men Michael recognized with astonishment,
which everyone will understand, two personages of whom he was not
thinking at all, and whom he had never expected to see again.
They were the two reporters, Harry Blount and Alcide Jolivet,
no longer traveling companions, but rivals, enemies, now that they
were working on the field of battle.

They had left Ichim only a few hours after the departure of
Michael Strogoff, and they had arrived at Kolyvan before him,
by following the same road, in consequence of his losing three days
on the banks of the Irtych. And now, after being both present
at the engagement between the Russians and Tartars before the town,
they had left just as the struggle broke out in the streets, and ran
to the telegraph office, so as to send off their rival dispatches
to Europe, and forestall each other in their report of events.

Michael stood aside in the shadow, and without being seen
himself he could see and hear all that was going on.
He would now hear interesting news, and would find out whether
or not he could enter Kolyvan.

Blount, having distanced his companion, took possession of
the wicket, whilst Alcide Jolivet, contrary to his usual habit,
stamped with impatience.

"Ten copecks a word," said the clerk.

Blount deposited a pile of roubles on the shelf, whilst his rival
looked on with a sort of stupefaction.

"Good," said the clerk. And with the greatest coolness
in the world he began to telegraph the following dispatch:
"Daily Telegraph, London.

"From Kolyvan, Government of Omsk, Siberia, 6th August.

"Engagement between Russian and Tartar troops."

The reading was in a distinct voice, so that Michael heard
all that the English correspondent was sending to his paper.

"Russians repulsed with great loss. Tartars entered Kolyvan to-day."
These words ended the dispatch.

"My turn now," cried Alcide Jolivet, anxious to send off his dispatch,
addressed to his cousin.

But that was not Blount's idea, who did not intend to give
up the wicket, but have it in his power to send off the news
just as the events occurred. He would therefore not make way
for his companion.

"But you have finished!" exclaimed Jolivet.

"I have not finished," returned Harry Blount quietly.

And he proceeded to write some sentences, which he handed in to the clerk,
who read out in his calm voice: "John Gilpin was a citizen of credit
and renown; a train-band captain eke was he of famous London town."

Harry Blount was telegraphing some verses learned in his childhood,
in order to employ the time, and not give up his place to his rival.
It would perhaps cost his paper some thousands of roubles, but it
would be the first informed. France could wait.

Jolivet's fury may be imagined, though under any other
circumstances he would have thought it fair warfare.
He even endeavored to force the clerk to take his dispatch
in preference to that of his rival.

"It is that gentleman's right," answered the clerk coolly,
pointing to Blount, and smiling in the most amiable manner.
And he continued faithfully to transmit to the Daily Telegraph
the well-known verses of Cowper.

Whilst he was working Blount walked to the window and, his field
glass to his eyes, watched all that was going on in the neighborhood
of Kolyvan, so as to complete his information. In a few minutes
he resumed his place at the wicket, and added to his telegram:
"Two churches are in flames. The fire appears to gain on the right.
'John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, Though wedded we have been
these twice ten tedious years, yet we no holiday have seen.'"

Alcide Jolivet would have liked to strangle the honorable correspondent
of the Daily Telegraph.

He again interrupted the clerk, who, quite unmoved, merely replied:
"It is his right, sir, it is his right--at ten copecks a word."

And he telegraphed the following news, just brought him
by Blount: "Russian fugitives are escaping from the town.
'Away went Gilpin--who but he? His fame soon spread around:
He carries weight! he rides a race! 'Tis for a thousand pound!'"
And Blount turned round with a quizzical look at his rival.

Alcide Jolivet fumed.

In the meanwhile Harry Blount had returned to the window, but this
time his attention was diverted by the interest of the scene
before him. Therefore, when the clerk had finished telegraphing
the last lines dictated by Blount, Alcide Jolivet noiselessly
took his place at the wicket, and, just as his rival had done,
after quietly depositing a respectable pile of roubles on the shelf,
he delivered his dispatch, which the clerk read aloud:
"Madeleine Jolivet, 10, Faubourg Montmartre, Paris.

"From Kolyvan, Government of Omsk, Siberia, 6th August.

"Fugitives are escaping from the town. Russians defeated.
Fiercely pursued by the Tartar cavalry."

And as Harry Blount returned he heard Jolivet completing his telegram
by singing in a mocking tone:

"II est un petit homme, Tout habille de gris, Dans Paris!"

Imitating his rival, Alcide Jolivet had used a merry refrain of Beranger.

"Hallo!" said Harry Blount.

"Just so," answered Jolivet.

In the meantime the situation at Kolyvan was alarming in the extreme.
The battle was raging nearer, and the firing was incessant.

At that moment the telegraph office shook to its foundations.
A shell had made a hole in the wall, and a cloud of dust
filled the office.

Alcide was just finishing writing his lines; but to stop, dart on
the shell, seize it in both hands, throw it out of the window,
and return to the wicket, was only the affair of a moment.

Five seconds later the shell burst outside. Continuing with
the greatest possible coolness, Alcide wrote: "A six-inch
shell has just blown up the wall of the telegraph office.
Expecting a few more of the same size."

Michael Strogoff had no doubt that the Russians were driven
out of Kolyvan. His last resource was to set out across
the southern steppe.

Just then renewed firing broke out close to the telegraph house,
and a perfect shower of bullets smashed all the glass in the windows.
Harry Blount fell to the ground wounded in the shoulder.

Jolivet even at such a moment, was about to add this postscript
to his dispatch: "Harry Blount, correspondent of the Daily Telegraph,
has fallen at my side struck by--" when the imperturbable clerk
said calmly: "Sir, the wire has broken." And, leaving his wicket,
he quietly took his hat, brushed it round with his sleeve, and,
still smiling, disappeared through a little door which Michael
had not before perceived.

The house was surrounded by Tartar soldiers, and neither Michael
nor the reporters could effect their retreat.

Alcide Jolivet, his useless dispatch in his hand, had run
to Blount, stretched on the ground, and had bravely lifted
him on his shoulders, with the intention of flying with him.
He was too late!

Both were prisoners; and, at the same time, Michael, taken unawares
as he was about to leap from the window, fell into the hands
of the Tartars!




AT a day's march from Kolyvan, several versts beyond
the town of Diachinks, stretches a wide plain, planted here
and there with great trees, principally pines and cedars.
This part of the steppe is usually occupied during the warm
season by Siberian shepherds, and their numerous flocks.
But now it might have been searched in vain for one of its
nomad inhabitants. Not that the plain was deserted.
It presented a most animated appearance.

There stood the Tartar tents; there Feofar-Khan, the terrible
Emir of Bokhara, was encamped; and there on the following day,
the 7th of August, were brought the prisoners taken at Kolyvan
after the annihilation of the Russian force, which had
vainly attempted to oppose the progress of the invaders.
Of the two thousand men who had engaged with the two columns
of the enemy, the bases of which rested on Tomsk and Omsk,
only a few hundred remained. Thus events were going badly,
and the imperial government appeared to have lost its power beyond
the frontiers of the Ural--for a time at least, for the Russians could
not fail eventually to defeat the savage hordes of the invaders.
But in the meantime the invasion had reached the center
of Siberia, and it was spreading through the revolted
country both to the eastern, and the western provinces.
If the troops of the Amoor and the province of Takutsk did not arrive
in time to occupy it, Irkutsk, the capital of Asiatic Russia,
being insufficiently garrisoned, would fall into the hands
of the Tartars, and the Grand Duke, brother of the Emperor,
would be sacrificed to the vengeance of Ivan Ogareff.

What had become of Michael Strogoff? Had he broken down under
the weight of so many trials? Did he consider himself conquered
by the series of disasters which, since the adventure of Ichim,
had increased in magnitude? Did he think his cause lost? that his
mission had failed? that his orders could no longer be obeyed?

Michael was one of those men who never give in while life exists.
He was yet alive; he still had the imperial letter safe; his disguise
had been undiscovered. He was included amongst the numerous
prisoners whom the Tartars were dragging with them like cattle;
but by approaching Tomsk he was at the same time drawing nearer
to Irkutsk. Besides, he was still in front of Ivan Ogareff.

"I will get there!" he repeated to himself.

Since the affair of Kolyvan all the powers of his mind were
concentrated on one object--to become free! How should he escape
from the Emir's soldiers?

Feofar's camp presented a magnificent spectacle.

Numberless tents, of skin, felt, or silk, glistened in the rays
of the sun. The lofty plumes which surmounted their conical
tops waved amidst banners, flags, and pennons of every color.
The richest of these tents belonged to the Seides and Khodjas,
who are the principal personages of the khanat.
A special pavilion, ornamented with a horse's tail issuing
from a sheaf of red and white sticks artistically interlaced,
indicated the high rank of these Tartar chiefs.
Then in the distance rose several thousand of the Turcoman tents,
called "karaoy," which had been carried on the backs of camels.

The camp contained at least a hundred and fifty thousand soldiers,
as many foot as horse soldiers, collected under the name
of Alamanes. Amongst them, and as the principal types
of Turkestan, would have been directly remarked the Tadjiks,
from their regular features, white skin, tall forms, and black
eyes and hair; they formed the bulk of the Tartar army,
and of them the khanats of Khokhand and Koundouge had furnished
a contingent nearly equal to that of Bokhara. With the Tadjiks
were mingled specimens of different races who either reside
in Turkestan or whose native countries border on it.
There were Usbecks, red-bearded, small in stature,
similar to those who had pursued Michael. Here were Kirghiz,
with flat faces like the Kalmucks, dressed in coats of mail:
some carried the lance, bows, and arrows of Asiatic manufacture;
some the saber, a matchlock gun, and the "tschakane," a little
short-handled ax, the wounds from which invariably prove fatal.
There were Mongols--of middle height, with black hair plaited
into pigtails, which hung down their back; round faces,
swarthy complexions, lively deep-set eyes, scanty beards--
dressed in blue nankeen trimmed with black plush, sword-belts of
leather with silver buckles, coats gayly braided, and silk
caps edged with fur and three ribbons fluttering behind.
Brown-skinned Afghans, too, might have been seen.
Arabs, having the primitive type of the beautiful Semitic races;
and Turcomans, with eyes which looked as if they had lost
the pupil,--all enrolled under the Emir's flag, the flag
of incendiaries and devastators.

Among these free soldiers were a certain number of slave soldiers,
principally Persians, commanded by officers of the same nation,
and they were certainly not the least esteemed of Feofar-Khan's army.

If to this list are added the Jews, who acted as servants,
their robes confined with a cord, and wearing on their heads instead
of the turban, which is forbidden them, little caps of dark cloth;
if with these groups are mingled some hundreds of "kalenders," a sort
of religious mendicants, clothed in rags, covered by a leopard skin,
some idea may be formed of the enormous agglomerations of different
tribes included under the general denomination of the Tartar army.

Nothing could be more romantic than this picture, in delineating
which the most skillful artist would have exhausted all the colors
of his palette.

Feofar's tent overlooked the others. Draped in large folds
of a brilliant silk looped with golden cords and tassels,
surmounted by tall plumes which waved in the wind like fans,
it occupied the center of a wide clearing, sheltered by a grove
of magnificent birch and pine trees. Before this tent, on a japanned
table inlaid with precious stones, was placed the sacred book of
the Koran, its pages being of thin gold-leaf delicately engraved.
Above floated the Tartar flag, quartered with the Emir's arms.

In a semicircle round the clearing stood the tents of the great
functionaries of Bokhara. There resided the chief of the stables,
who has the right to follow the Emir on horseback even into the court
of his palace; the grand falconer; the "housch-begui," bearer of
the royal seal; the "toptschi-baschi," grand master of the artillery;
the "khodja," chief of the council, who receives the prince's kiss,
and may present himself before him with his girdle untied;
the "scheikh-oul-islam," chief of the Ulemas, representing the priests;
the "cazi-askev," who, in the Emir's absence settles all disputes
raised among the soldiers; and lastly, the chief of the astrologers,
whose great business is to consult the stars every time the Khan
thinks of changing his quarters.

When the prisoners were brought into the camp, the Emir was in his tent.
He did not show himself. This was fortunate, no doubt. A sign,
a word from him might have been the signal for some bloody execution.
But he intrenched himself in that isolation which constitutes
in part the majesty of Eastern kings. He who does not show himself
is admired, and, above all, feared.

As to the prisoners, they were to be penned up in some enclosure,
where, ill-treated, poorly fed, and exposed to all the inclemencies
of the weather, they would await Feofar's pleasure.

The most docile and patient of them all was undoubtedly
Michael Strogoff. He allowed himself to be led, for they were
leading him where he wished to go, and under conditions of safety
which free he could not have found on the road from Kolyvan
to Tomsk. To escape before reaching that town was to risk
again falling into the hands of the scouts, who were scouring
the steppe. The most eastern line occupied by the Tartar
columns was not situated beyond the eighty-fifth meridian,
which passes through Tomsk. This meridian once passed,
Michael considered that he should be beyond the hostile zones,
that he could traverse Genisci without danger, and gain
Krasnoiarsk before Feofar-Khan had invaded the province.

"Once at Tomsk," he repeated to himself, to repress some feelings
of impatience which he could not entirely master, "in a few minutes
I should be beyond the outposts; and twelve hours gained on Feofar,
twelve hours on Ogareff, that surely would be enough to give me
a start of them to Irkutsk."

The thing that Michael dreaded more than everything else was
the presence of Ivan Ogareff in the Tartar camp. Besides the danger
of being recognized, he felt, by a sort of instinct, that this
was the traitor whom it was especially necessary to precede.
He understood, too, that the union of Ogareff's troops with those
of Feofar would complete the invading army, and that the junction
once effected, the army would march en masse on the capital
of Eastern Siberia. All his apprehensions came from this quarter,
and he dreaded every instant to hear some flourish of trumpets,
announcing the arrival of the lieutenant of the Emir.

To this was added the thought of his mother, of Nadia,--
the one a prisoner at Omsk; the other dragged on board
the Irtych boats, and no doubt a captive, as Marfa Strogoff was.
He could do nothing for them. Should he ever see them again?
At this question, to which he dared not reply, his heart
sank very low.

At the same time with Michael Strogoff and so many other prisoners
Harry Blount and Alcide Jolivet had also been taken to the Tartar camp.
Their former traveling companion, captured like them at the telegraph
office, knew that they were penned up with him in the enclosure,
guarded by numerous sentinels, but he did not wish to accost them.
It mattered little to him, at this time especially, what they might think
of him since the affair at Ichim. Besides, he desired to be alone,
that he might act alone, if necessary. He therefore held himself aloof
from his former acquaintances.

From the moment that Harry Blount had fallen by his side, Jolivet had
not ceased his attentions to him. During the journey from Kolyvan
to the camp--that is to say, for several hours--Blount, by leaning on his
companion's arm, had been enabled to follow the rest of the prisoners.
He tried to make known that he was a British subject; but it had no effect
on the barbarians, who only replied by prods with a lance or sword.
The correspondent of the Daily Telegraph was, therefore, obliged to submit
to the common lot, resolving to protest later, and obtain satisfaction
for such treatment. But the journey was not the less disagreeable to him,
for his wound caused him much pain, and without Alcide Jolivet's
assistance he might never have reached the camp.

Jolivet, whose practical philosophy never abandoned him, had physically
and morally strengthened his companion by every means in his power.
His first care, when they found themselves definitely established
in the enclosure, was to examine Blount's wound. Having managed
carefully to draw off his coat, he found that the shoulder had been
only grazed by the shot.

"This is nothing," he said. "A mere scratch! After two or three
dressings you will be all to rights."

"But these dressings?" asked Blount.

"I will make them for you myself."

"Then you are something of a doctor?"

"All Frenchmen are something of doctors."

And on this affirmation Alcide, tearing his handkerchief,
made lint of one piece, bandages of the other, took some water
from a well dug in the middle of the enclosure, bathed the wound,
and skillfully placed the wet rag on Harry Blount's shoulder.

"I treat you with water," he said. "This liquid is the most efficacious
sedative known for the treatment of wounds, and is the most employed now.
Doctors have taken six thousand years to discover that! Yes, six thousand
years in round numbers!"

"I thank you, M. Jolivet," answered Harry, stretching himself on a bed
of dry leaves, which his companion had arranged for him in the shade
of a birch tree.

"Bah! it's nothing! You would do as much for me."

"I am not quite so sure," said Blount candidly.

"Nonsense, stupid! All English are generous."

"Doubtless; but the French?"

"Well, the French--they are brutes, if you like!
But what redeems them is that they are French. Say nothing
more about that, or rather, say nothing more at all.
Rest is absolutely necessary for you."

But Harry Blount had no wish to be silent. If the wound, in prudence,
required rest, the correspondent of the Daily Telegraph was not a man
to indulge himself.

"M. Jolivet," he asked, "do you think that our last dispatches
have been able to pass the Russian frontier?"

"Why not?" answered Alcide. "By this time you may be sure
that my beloved cousin knows all about the affair at Kolyvan."

"How many copies does your cousin work off of her dispatches?"
asked Blount, for the first time putting his question direct
to his companion.

"Well," answered Alcide, laughing, "my cousin is a very discreet person,
who does not like to be talked about, and who would be in despair if she
troubled the sleep of which you are in need."

"I don't wish to sleep," replied the Englishman. "What will your cousin
think of the affairs of Russia?"

"That they seem for the time in a bad way. But, bah! the
Muscovite government is powerful; it cannot be really uneasy
at an invasion of barbarians."

"Too much ambition has lost the greatest empires," answered Blount,
who was not exempt from a certain English jealousy with regard
to Russian pretensions in Central Asia.

"Oh, do not let us talk politics," cried Jolivet. "It is forbidden
by the faculty. Nothing can be worse for wounds in the shoulder--
unless it was to put you to sleep."

"Let us, then, talk of what we ought to do," replied Blount.
"M. Jolivet, I have no intention at all of remaining a prisoner
to these Tartars for an indefinite time."

"Nor I, either, by Jove!"

"We will escape on the first opportunity?"

"Yes, if there is no other way of regaining our liberty."

"Do you know of any other?" asked Blount, looking at his companion.

"Certainly. We are not belligerents; we are neutral, and we
will claim our freedom."

"From that brute of a Feofar-Khan?"

"No; he would not understand," answered Jolivet; "but from
his lieutenant, Ivan Ogareff."

"He is a villain."

" No doubt; but the villain is a Russian. He knows that it does not do
to trifle with the rights of men, and he has no interest to retain us;
on the contrary. But to ask a favor of that gentleman does not quite
suit my taste."

"But that gentleman is not in the camp, or at least I have not seen
him here," observed Blount.

"He will come. He will not fail to do that. He must join
the Emir. Siberia is cut in two now, and very certainly Feofar's
army is only waiting for him to advance on Irkutsk."

"And once free, what shall we do?"

"Once free, we will continue our campaign, and follow the Tartars,
until the time comes when we can make our way into the Russian camp.
We must not give up the game. No, indeed; we have only just begun.
You, friend, have already had the honor of being wounded in the service
of the Daily Telegraph, whilst I--I have as yet suffered nothing
in my cousin's service. Well, well! Good," murmured Alcide Jolivet;
"there he is asleep. A few hours' sleep and a few cold water compresses
are all that are required to set an Englishman on his legs again.
These fellows are made of cast iron."

And whilst Harry Blount rested, Alcide watched near him,
after having drawn out his note book, which he loaded with notes,
determined besides to share them with his companion, for the greater
satisfaction of the readers of the Daily Telegraph. Events had
united them one with the other. They were no longer jealous of
each other. So, then, the thing that Michael Strogoff dreaded above
everything was the most lively desire of the two correspondents.
Ivan Ogareff's arrival would evidently be of use to them.
Blount and Jolivet's interest was, therefore, contrary to
that of Michael. The latter well understood the situation,
and it was one reason, added to many others, which prevented
him from approaching his former traveling companions.
He therefore managed so as not to be seen by them.

Four days passed thus without the state of things being in
anywise altered. The prisoners heard no talk of the breaking
up of the Tartar camp. They were strictly guarded.
It would have been impossible for them to pass the cordon
of foot and horse soldiers, which watched them night and day.
As to the food which was given them it was barely sufficient.
Twice in the twenty-four hours they were thrown a piece
of the intestines of goats grilled on the coals, or a few
bits of that cheese called "kroute," made of sour ewe's milk,
and which, soaked in mare's milk, forms the Kirghiz dish,
commonly called "koumyss." And this was all.
It may be added that the weather had become detestable.
There were considerable atmospheric commotions, bringing squalls
mingled with rain. The unfortunate prisoners, destitute
of shelter, had to bear all the inclemencies of the weather,
nor was there the slightest alleviation to their misery.
Several wounded women and children died, and the prisoners were
themselves compelled to dig graves for the bodies of those whom
their jailers would not even take the trouble to bury.

During this trying period Alcide Jolivet and Michael Strogoff worked hard,
each in the portions of the enclosure in which they found themselves.
Healthy and vigorous, they suffered less than so many others,
and could better endure the hardships to which they were exposed.
By their advice, and the assistance they rendered, they were of the
greatest possible use to their suffering and despairing fellow-captives.

Was this state of things to last? Would Feofar-Khan, satisfied
with his first success, wait some time before marching
on Irkutsk? Such, it was to be feared, would be the case.
But it was not so. The event so much wished for by Jolivet
and Blount, so much dreaded by Michael, occurred on the morning
of the 12th of August.

On that day the trumpets sounded, the drums beat, the cannon roared.
A huge cloud of dust swept along the road from Kolyvan. Ivan Ogareff,
followed by several thousand men, made his entry into the Tartar camp.


IVAN OGAREFF was bringing up the main body of the army of
the Emir. The cavalry and infantry now under him had formed part
of the column which had taken Omsk. Ogareff, not having been
able to reduce the high town, in which, it must be remembered,
the governor and garrison had sought refuge, had decided to pass on,
not wishing to delay operations which ought to lead to the conquest
of Eastern Siberia. He therefore left a garrison in Omsk, and,
reinforcing himself en route with the conquerors of Kolyvan,
joined Feofar's army.

Ivan Ogareff's soldiers halted at the outposts of the camp.
They received no orders to bivouac. Their chief's plan,
doubtless, was not to halt there, but to press on and reach
Tomsk in the shortest possible time, it being an important town,
naturally intended to become the center of future operations.

Besides his soldiers, Ogareff was bringing a convoy
of Russian and Siberian prisoners, captured either at Omsk
or Kolyvan. These unhappy creatures were not led to
the enclosure--already too crowded--but were forced to remain
at the outposts without shelter, almost without nourishment.
What fate was Feofar-Khan reserving for these unfortunates?
Would he imprison them in Tomsk, or would some bloody execution,
familiar to the Tartar chiefs, remove them when they were found
too inconvenient? This was the secret of the capricious Emir.

This army had not come from Omsk and Kolyvan without bringing in its
train the usual crowd of beggars, freebooters, pedlars, and gypsies,
which compose the rear-guard of an army on the march.

All these people lived on the country traversed, and left
little of anything behind them. There was, therefore,
a necessity for pushing forward, if only to secure provisions
for the troops. The whole region between Ichim and the Obi,
now completely devastated, no longer offered any resources.
The Tartars left a desert behind them.

Conspicuous among the gypsies who had hastened from the western provinces
was the Tsigane troop, which had accompanied Michael Strogoff as far
as Perm. Sangarre was there. This fierce spy, the tool of Ivan Ogareff,
had not deserted her master. Ogareff had traveled rapidly to Ichim,
whilst Sangarre and her band had proceeded to Omsk by the southern part
of the province.

It may be easily understood how useful this woman was
to Ogareff. With her gypsy-band she could penetrate anywhere.
Ivan Ogareff was kept acquainted with all that was going on in
the very heart of the invaded provinces. There were a hundred eyes,
a hundred ears, open in his service. Besides, he paid liberally
for this espionage, from which he derived so much advantage.

Once Sangarre, being implicated in a very serious affair, had been
saved by the Russian officer. She never forgot what she owed him,
and had devoted herself to his service body and soul.

When Ivan Ogareff entered on the path of treason,
he saw at once how he might turn this woman to account.
Whatever order he might give her, Sangarre would execute it.
An inexplicable instinct, more powerful still than that of gratitude,
had urged her to make herself the slave of the traitor
to whom she had been attached since the very beginning of his
exile in Siberia.

Confidante and accomplice, Sangarre, without country, without family,
had been delighted to put her vagabond life to the service of the invaders
thrown by Ogareff on Siberia. To the wonderful cunning natural to her
race she added a wild energy, which knew neither forgiveness nor pity.
She was a savage worthy to share the wigwam of an Apache or the hut
of an Andaman.

Since her arrival at Omsk, where she had rejoined him with
her Tsiganes, Sangarre had not again left Ogareff. The circumstance
that Michael and Marfa Strogoff had met was known to her.
She knew and shared Ogareff's fears concerning the journey
of a courier of the Czar. Having Marfa Strogoff in her power,
she would have been the woman to torture her with all the refinement
of a RedSkin in order to wrest her secret from her. But the hour
had not yet come in which Ogareff wished the old Siberian to speak.
Sangarre had to wait, and she waited, without losing sight
of her whom she was watching, observing her slightest gestures,
her slightest words, endeavoring to catch the word "son" escaping
from her lips, but as yet always baffled by Marfa's taciturnity.

At the first flourish of the trumpets several officers of high rank,
followed by a brilliant escort of Usbeck horsemen, moved to the front
of the camp to receive Ivan Ogareff. Arrived in his presence,
they paid him the greatest respect, and invited him to accompany them
to Feofar-Khan's tent.

Imperturbable as usual, Ogareff replied coldly to the deference paid
to him. He was plainly dressed; but, from a sort of impudent bravado,
he still wore the uniform of a Russian officer.

As he was about to enter the camp, Sangarre, passing among
the officers approached and remained motionless before him.
"Nothing?" asked Ogareff.


"Have patience."

"Is the time approaching when you will force the old woman to speak?"

"It is approaching, Sangarre."

"When will the old woman speak?"

"When we reach Tomsk."

"And we shall be there--"

"In three days."

A strange gleam shot from Sangarre's great black eyes, and she
retired with a calm step. Ogareff pressed his spurs into his
horse's flanks, and, followed by his staff of Tartar officers,
rode towards the Emir's tent.

Feofar-Khan was expecting his lieutenant. The council,
composed of the bearer of the royal seal, the khodja,
and some high officers, had taken their places in the tent.
Ivan Ogareff dismounted and entered.

Feofar-Khan was a man of forty, tall, rather pale, of a fierce
countenance, and evil eyes. A curly black beard flowed over his chest.
With his war costume, coat of mail of gold and silver, cross-belt and
scabbard glistening with precious stones, boots with golden spurs,
helmet ornamented with an aigrette of brilliant diamonds, Feofar presented
an aspect rather strange than imposing for a Tartar Sardana-palus,
an undisputed sovereign, who directs at his pleasure the life and fortune
of his subjects.

When Ivan Ogareff appeared, the great dignitaries remained seated
on their gold-embroidered cushions; but Feofar rose from a rich
divan which occupied the back part of the tent, the ground being
hidden under the thick velvet-pile of a Bokharian carpet.

The Emir approached Ogareff and gave him a kiss, the meaning of which
he could not mistake. This kiss made the lieutenant chief of the council,
and placed him temporarily above the khodja.

Then Feofar spoke. "I have no need to question you," said he;
"speak, Ivan. You will find here ears very ready to listen to you."

"Takhsir," answered Ogareff, "this is what I have to make
known to you." He spoke in the Tartar language, giving to his
phrases the emphatic turn which distinguishes the languages of
the Orientals. "Takhsir, this is not the time for unnecessary words.
What I have done at the head of your troops, you know.
The lines of the Ichim and the Irtych are now in our power; and the
Turcoman horsemen can bathe their horses in the now Tartar waters.
The Kirghiz hordes rose at the voice of Feofar-Khan. You can
now push your troops towards the east, and where the sun rises,
or towards the west, where he sets."

"And if I march with the sun?" asked the Emir, without his countenance
betraying any of his thoughts.

"To march with the sun," answered Ogareff, "is to throw yourself
towards Europe; it is to conquer rapidly the Siberian provinces
of Tobolsk as far as the Ural Mountains."

"And if I go to meet this luminary of the heavens?"

"It is to subdue to the Tartar dominion, with Irkutsk, the richest
countries of Central Asia."

"But the armies of the Sultan of St. Petersburg?" said Feofar-Khan,
designating the Emperor of Russia by this strange title.

"You have nothing to fear from them," replied Ivan Ogareff.
"The invasion has been sudden; and before the Russian army can
succor them, Irkutsk or Tobolsk will have fallen into your power.
The Czar's troops have been overwhelmed at Kolyvan, as they
will be everywhere where yours meet them."

"And what advice does your devotion to the Tartar cause suggest?"
asked the Emir, after a few moments' silence.

"My advice," answered Ivan Ogareff quickly, "is to march to meet the sun.
It is to give the grass of the eastern steppes to the Turcoman horses
to consume. It is to take Irkutsk, the capital of the eastern provinces,
and with it a hostage, the possession of whom is worth a whole country.
In the place of the Czar, the Grand Duke his brother must fall
into your hands."

This was the great result aimed at by Ivan Ogareff. To listen
to him, one would have taken him for one of the cruel
descendants of Stephan Razine, the celebrated pirate
who ravaged Southern Russia in the eighteenth century.
To seize the Grand Duke, murder him pitilessly, would fully
satisfy his hatred. Besides, with the capture of Irkutsk,
all Eastern Siberia would pass to the Tartars.

"It shall be thus, Ivan," replied Feofar.

"What are your orders, Takhsir?"

"To-day our headquarters shall be removed to Tomsk."

Ogareff bowed, and, followed by the housch-begui, he retired
to execute the Emir's orders.

As he was about to mount his horse, to return to the outposts,
a tumult broke out at some distance, in the part of the camp reserved
for the prisoners. Shouts were heard, and two or three shots fired.
Perhaps it was an attempt at revolt or escape, which must
be summarily suppressed.

Ivan Ogareff and the housch-begui walked forward and almost
immediately two men, whom the soldiers had not been able to keep
back appeared before them.

The housch-begui, without more information, made a sign which
was an order for death, and the heads of the two prisoners
would have rolled on the ground had not Ogareff uttered
a few words which arrested the sword already raised aloft.
The Russian had perceived that these prisoners were strangers,
and he ordered them to be brought to him.

They were Harry Blount and Alcide jolivet.

On Ogareff's arrival in the camp, they had demanded to be
conducted to his presence. The soldiers had refused.
In consequence, a struggle, an attempt at flight, shots fired
which happily missed the two correspondents, but their execution
would not have been long delayed, if it had not been for
the intervention of the Emir's lieutenant.

The latter observed the prisoners for some moments, they being absolutely
unknown to him. They had been present at that scene in the post-house
at Ichim, in which Michael Strogoff had been struck by Ogareff;
but the brutal traveler had paid no attention to the persons then
collected in the common room.

Blount and Jolivet, on the contrary, recognized him at once,
and the latter said in a low voice, "Hullo! It seems that Colonel Ogareff
and the rude personage of Ichim are one!" Then he added in his
companion's ear, "Explain our affair, Blount. You will do me a service.
This Russian colonel in the midst of a Tartar camp disgusts me;
and although, thanks to him, my head is still on my shoulders,
my eyes would exhibit my feelings were I to attempt to look him
in the face."

So saying, Alcide Jolivet assumed a look of complete
and haughty indifference.

Whether or not Ivan Ogareff perceived that the prisoner's
attitude was insulting towards him, he did not let it appear.
"Who are you, gentlemen?" he asked in Russian, in a cold tone,
but free from its usual rudeness.

"Two correspondents of English and French newspapers,"
replied Blount laconically.

"You have, doubtless, papers which will establish your identity?"

"Here are letters which accredit us in Russia, from the English
and French chancellor's office."

Ivan Ogareff took the letters which Blount held out, and read
them attentively. "You ask," said he, "authorization to follow
our military operations in Siberia?"

"We ask to be free, that is all," answered the English
correspondent dryly.

"You are so, gentlemen," answered Ogareff; "I am curious to read
your articles in the Daily Telegraph."

"Sir," replied Blount, with the most imperturbable coolness,
"it is sixpence a number, including postage." And thereupon
he returned to his companion, who appeared to approve completely
of his replies.

Ivan Ogareff, without frowning, mounted his horse, and going to the head
of his escort, soon disappeared in a cloud of dust.

"Well, Jolivet, what do you think of Colonel Ivan Ogareff,
general-in-chief of the Tartar troops?" asked Blount.

"I think, my dear friend," replied Alcide, smiling, "that the housch-begui
made a very graceful gesture when he gave the order for our heads
to be cut off."

Whatever was the motive which led Ogareff to act thus in regard
to the two correspondents, they were free and could rove at their
pleasure over the scene of war. Their intention was not to leave it.
The sort of antipathy which formerly they had entertained for each
other had given place to a sincere friendship. Circumstances having
brought them together, they no longer thought of separating.
The petty questions of rivalry were forever extinguished.
Harry Blount could never forget what he owed his companion,
who, on the other hand, never tried to remind him of it.
This friendship too assisted the reporting operations, and was
thus to the advantage of their readers.

"And now," asked Blount, "what shall we do with our liberty?"

"Take advantage of it, of course," replied Alcide, "and go quietly
to Tomsk to see what is going on there."

"Until the time--very near, I hope--when we may rejoin
some Russian regiment?"

"As you say, my dear Blount, it won't do to Tartarise ourselves
too much. The best side is that of the most civilized army,
and it is evident that the people of Central Asia will have
everything to lose and absolutely nothing to gain from
this invasion, while the Russians will soon repulse them.
It is only a matter of time."

The arrival of Ivan Ogareff, which had given Jolivet and Blount their
liberty, was to Michael Strogoff, on the contrary, a serious danger.
Should chance bring the Czar's courier into Ogareff's presence, the latter
could not fail to recognize in him the traveler whom he had so brutally
treated at the Ichim post-house, and although Michael had not replied
to the insult as he would have done under any other circumstances,
attention would be drawn to him, and at once the accomplishment of his
plans would be rendered more difficult.

This was the unpleasant side of the business. A favorable
result of his arrival, however, was the order which was given
to raise the camp that very day, and remove the headquarters
to Tomsk. This was the accomplishment of Michael's most
fervent desire. His intention, as has been said, was to reach
Tomsk concealed amongst the other prisoners; that is to say,
without any risk of falling into the hands of the scouts
who swarmed about the approaches to this important town.
However, in consequence of the arrival of Ivan Ogareff,
he questioned whether it would not be better to give up his
first plan and attempt to escape during the journey.

Michael would, no doubt, have kept to the latter plan had he not learnt
that Feofar-Khan and Ogareff had already set out for the town with
some thousands of horsemen. "I will wait, then," said he to himself;
"at least, unless some exceptional opportunity for escape occurs.
The adverse chances are numerous on this side of Tomsk, while beyond
I shall in a few hours have passed the most advanced Tartar posts
to the east. Still three days of patience, and may God aid me!"

It was indeed a journey of three days which the prisoners, under the guard
of a numerous detachment of Tartars, were to make across the steppe.
A hundred and fifty versts lay between the camp and the town--
an easy march for the Emir's soldiers, who wanted for nothing,
but a wretched journey for these people, enfeebled by privations.
More than one corpse would show the road they had traversed.

It was two o'clock in the afternoon, on the 12th of August,
under a hot sun and cloudless sky, that the toptschi-baschi
gave the order to start.

Alcide and Blount, having bought horses, had already taken the road
to Tomsk, where events were to reunite the principal personages
of this story.

Amongst the prisoners brought by Ivan Ogareff to the Tartar camp
was an old woman, whose taciturnity seemed to keep her apart from
all those who shared her fate. Not a murmur issued from her lips.
She was like a statue of grief. This woman was more strictly
guarded than anyone else, and, without her appearing to notice,
was constantly watched by the Tsigane Sangarre. Notwithstanding her
age she was compelled to follow the convoy of prisoners on foot,
without any alleviation of her suffering.

However, a kind Providence had placed near her a courageous,
kind-hearted being to comfort and assist her. Amongst her companions
in misfortune a young girl, remarkable for beauty and taciturnity,
seemed to have given herself the task of watching over her.
No words had been exchanged between the two captives, but the girl
was always at the old woman's side when help was useful.
At first the mute assistance of the stranger was accepted with
some mistrust. Gradually, however, the young girl's clear glance,
her reserve, and the mysterious sympathy which draws together
those who are in misfortune, thawed Marfa Strogoff's coldness.

Nadia--for it was she--was thus able, without knowing it, to render
to the mother those attentions which she had herself received
from the son. Her instinctive kindness had doubly inspired her.
In devoting herself to her service, Nadia secured to her youth
and beauty the protection afforded by the age of the old prisoner.

On the crowd of unhappy people, embittered by sufferings,
this silent pair--one seeming to be the grandmother, the other
the grand-daughter--imposed a sort of respect.

After being carried off by the Tartar scouts on the Irtych, Nadia had been
taken to Omsk. Kept prisoner in the town, she shared the fate of all
those captured by Ivan Ogareff, and consequently that of Marfa Strogoff.

If Nadia had been less energetic, she would have succumbed to this
double blow. The interruption to her journey, the death of Michael,
made her both desperate and excited. Divided, perhaps forever,
from her father, after so many happy efforts had brought her
near him, and, to crown her grief, separated from the intrepid
companion whom God seemed to have placed in her way to lead her.
The image of Michael Strogoff, struck before her eyes with
a lance and disappearing beneath the waters of the Irtych,
never left her thoughts.

Could such a man have died thus? For whom was God reserving His
miracles if this good man, whom a noble object was urging onwards,
had been allowed to perish so miserably? Then anger would
prevail over grief. The scene of the affront so strangely borne
by her companion at the Ichim relay returned to her memory.
Her blood boiled at the recollection.

"Who will avenge him who can no longer avenge himself?" she said.

And in her heart, she cried, "May it be I!" If before his death
Michael had confided his secret to her, woman, aye girl though
she was, she might have been able to carry to a successful
conclusion the interrupted task of that brother whom God had
so soon taken from her.

Absorbed in these thoughts, it can be understood how Nadia
could remain insensible to the miseries even of her captivity.
Thus chance had united her to Marfa Strogoff without her having
the least suspicion of who she was. How could she imagine that
this old woman, a prisoner like herself, was the mother of him,
whom she only knew as the merchant Nicholas Korpanoff? And on
the other hand, how could Marfa guess that a bond of gratitude
connected this young stranger with her son?

The thing that first struck Nadia in Marfa Strogoff was
the similarity in the way in which each bore her hard fate.
This stoicism of the old woman under the daily hardships,
this contempt of bodily suffering, could only be caused by a moral
grief equal to her own. So Nadia thought; and she was not mistaken.
It was an instinctive sympathy for that part of her misery
which Marfa did not show which first drew Nadia towards her.
This way of bearing her sorrow went to the proud heart of
the young girl. She did not offer her services; she gave them.
Marfa had neither to refuse nor accept them. In the difficult
parts of the journey, the girl was there to support her.
When the provisions were given out, the old woman would not
have moved, but Nadia shared her small portion with her; and thus
this painful journey was performed. Thanks to her companion,
Marfa was able to follow the soldiers who guarded the prisoners
without being fastened to a saddle-bow, as were many other
unfortunate wretches, and thus dragged along this road of sorrow.

"May God reward you, my daughter, for what you have done for my old age!"
said Marfa Strogoff once, and for some time these were the only words
exchanged between the two unfortunate beings.

During these few days, which to them appeared like centuries,
it would seem that the old woman and the girl would have been led
to speak of their situation. But Marfa Strogoff, from a caution
which may be easily understood, never spoke about herself except
with the greatest brevity. She never made the smallest allusion
to her son, nor to the unfortunate meeting.

Nadia also, if not completely silent, spoke little. However, one day
her heart overflowed, and she told all the events which had occurred
from her departure from Wladimir to the death of Nicholas Korpanoff.

All that her young companion told intensely interested
the old Siberian. "Nicholas Korpanoff!" said she.
"Tell me again about this Nicholas. I know only one man,
one alone, in whom such conduct would not have astonished me.
Nicholas Korpanoff! Was that really his name? Are you sure
of it, my daughter?"

"Why should he have deceived me in this," replied Nadia,
"when he deceived me in no other way?"

Moved, however, by a kind of presentiment, Marfa Strogoff put
questions upon questions to Nadia.

"You told me he was fearless, my daughter. You have proved
that he has been so?" asked she.

"Yes, fearless indeed!" replied Nadia.

"It was just what my son would have done," said Marfa to herself.

Then she resumed, "Did you not say that nothing stopped him,
nor astonished him; that he was so gentle in his strength that you
had a sister as well as a brother in him, and he watched over you
like a mother?"

"Yes, yes," said Nadia. "Brother, sister, mother--he has been
all to me!"

"And defended you like a lion?"

"A lion indeed!" replied Nadia. "A lion, a hero!"

"My son, my son!" thought the old Siberian. "But you said, however,
that he bore a terrible insult at that post-house in Ichim?"

"He did bear it," answered Nadia, looking down.

"He bore it!" murmured Marfa, shuddering.

"Mother, mother," cried Nadia, "do not blame him! He had a secret.
A secret of which God alone is as yet the judge!"

"And," said Marfa, raising her head and looking at Nadia as though
she would read the depths of her heart, "in that hour of humiliation
did you not despise this Nicholas Korpanoff?"

"I admired without understanding him," replied the girl.
"I never felt him more worthy of respect."

The old woman was silent for a minute.

"Was he tall?" she asked.

"Very tall."

"And very handsome? Come, speak, my daughter."

"He was very handsome," replied Nadia, blushing.

"It was my son! I tell you it was my son!" exclaimed the
old woman, embracing Nadia.

"Your son!" said Nadia amazed, "your son!"

"Come," said Marfa; "let us get to the bottom of this, my child.
Your companion, your friend, your protector had a mother.
Did he never speak to you of his mother?"

"Of his mother?" said Nadia. "He spoke to me of his mother as I
spoke to him of my father--often, always. He adored her."

"Nadia, Nadia, you have just told me about my own son,"
said the old woman.

And she added impetuously, "Was he not going to see this mother,
whom you say he loved, in Omsk?"

"No," answered Nadia, "no, he was not."

"Not!" cried Marfa. "You dare to tell me not!"

"I say so: but it remains to me to tell you that from motives which
outweighed everything else, motives which I do not know, I understand
that Nicholas Korpanoff had to traverse the country completely in secret.
To him it was a question of life and death, and still more, a question
of duty and honor."

"Duty, indeed, imperious duty," said the old Siberian,
"of those who sacrifice everything, even the joy of giving
a kiss, perhaps the last, to his old mother. All that you do
not know, Nadia--all that I did not know myself--I now know.
You have made me understand everything. But the light which you
have thrown on the mysteries of my heart, I cannot return on yours.
Since my son has not told you his secret, I must keep it.
Forgive me, Nadia; I can never repay what you have done for me."

"Mother, I ask you nothing," replied Nadia.

All was thus explained to the old Siberian, all, even the conduct
of her son with regard to herself in the inn at Omsk. There was
no doubt that the young girl's companion was Michael Strogoff,
and that a secret mission in the invaded country obliged him
to conceal his quality of the Czar's courier.

"Ah, my brave boy!" thought Marfa. "No, I will not betray you,
and tortures shall not wrest from me the avowal that it was you
whom I saw at Omsk."

Marfa could with a word have paid Nadia for all her devotion to her.
She could have told her that her companion, Nicholas Korpanoff,
or rather Michael Strogoff, had not perished in the waters of the Irtych,
since it was some days after that incident that she had met him,
that she had spoken to him.

But she restrained herself, she was silent, and contented herself
with saying, "Hope, my child! Misfortune will not overwhelm you.
You will see your father again; I feel it; and perhaps he who gave
you the name of sister is not dead. God cannot have allowed your
brave companion to perish. Hope, my child, hope! Do as I do.
The mourning which I wear is not yet for my son."


SUCH were now the relative situations of Marfa Strogoff
and Nadia. All was understood by the old Siberian, and though the young
girl was ignorant that her much-regretted companion still lived,
she at least knew his relationship to her whom she had made her mother;
and she thanked God for having given her the joy of taking the place
of the son whom the prisoner had lost.

But what neither of them could know was that Michael, having been
captured at Kolyvan, was in the same convoy and was on his way
to Tomsk with them.

The prisoners brought by Ivan Ogareff had been added to those already kept
by the Emir in the Tartar camp. These unfortunate people, consisting
of Russians, Siberians, soldiers and civilians, numbered some thousands,
and formed a column which extended over several versts. Some among them
being considered dangerous were handcuffed and fastened to a long chain.
There were, too, women and children, many of the latter suspended
to the pommels of the saddles, while the former were dragged mercilessly
along the road on foot, or driven forward as if they were animals.
The horsemen compelled them to maintain a certain order, and there were
no laggards with the exception of those who fell never to rise again.

In consequence of this arrangement, Michael Strogoff,
marching in the first ranks of those who had left the Tartar camp--
that is to say, among the Kolyvan prisoners--was unable to mingle
with the prisoners who had arrived after him from Omsk. He had
therefore no suspicion that his mother and Nadia were present in
the convoy, nor did they suppose that he was among those in front.
This journey from the camp to Tomsk, performed under the lashes and
spear-points of the soldiers, proved fatal to many, and terrible to all.
The prisoners traveled across the steppe, over a road made
still more dusty by the passage of the Emir and his vanguard.
Orders had been given to march rapidly. The short halts were rare.
The hundred miles under a burning sky seemed interminable,
though they were performed as rapidly as possible.

The country, which extends from the right of the Obi to
the base of the spur detached from the Sayanok Mountains,
is very sterile. Only a few stunted and burnt-up shrubs
here and there break the monotony of the immense plain.
There was no cultivation, for there was no water; and it was water
that the prisoners, parched by their painful march, most needed.
To find a stream they must have diverged fifty versts eastward,
to the very foot of the mountains.

There flows the Tom, a little affluent of the Obi, which passes near
Tomsk before losing itself in one of the great northern arteries.
There water would have been abundant, the steppe less arid,
the heat less severe. But the strictest orders had been given
to the commanders of the convoy to reach Tomsk by the shortest way,
for the Emir was much afraid of being taken in the flank and cut
off by some Russian column descending from the northern provinces.

It is useless to dwell upon the sufferings of the unhappy prisoners.
Many hundreds fell on the steppe, where their bodies would lie
until winter, when the wolves would devour the remnants of their bones.

As Nadia helped the old Siberian, so in the same way did Michael
render to his more feeble companions in misfortune such services
as his situation allowed. He encouraged some, supported others,
going to and fro, until a prick from a soldier's lance obliged him
to résumé the place which had been assigned him in the ranks.

Why did he not endeavor to escape?

The reason was that he had now quite determined not to venture until
the steppe was safe for him. He was resolved in his idea of going
as far as Tomsk "at the Emir's expense," and indeed he was right.
As he observed the numerous detachments which scoured the plain
on the convoy's flanks, now to the south, now to the north,
it was evident that before he could have gone two versts
he must have been recaptured. The Tartar horsemen swarmed--
it actually appeared as if they sprang from the earth--like insects
which a thunderstorm brings to the surface of the ground.
Flight under these conditions would have been extremely difficult,
if not impossible. The soldiers of the escort displayed
excessive vigilance, for they would have paid for the slightest
carelessness with their heads.

At nightfall of the 15th of August, the convoy reached the little
village of Zabediero, thirty versts from Tomsk.

The prisoners' first movement would have been to rush into the river,
but they were not allowed to leave the ranks until the halt
had been organized. Although the current of the Tom was just
now like a torrent, it might have favored the flight of some
bold or desperate man, and the strictest measures of vigilance
were taken. Boats, requisitioned at Zabediero, were brought up
to the Tom and formed a line of obstacles impossible to pass.
As to the encampment on the outskirts of the village, it was
guarded by a cordon of sentinels.

Michael Strogoff, who now naturally thought of escape, saw,
after carefully surveying the situation, that under these
conditions it was perfectly impossible; so, not wishing
to compromise himself, he waited.

The prisoners were to encamp for the whole night on the banks
of the Tom, for the Emir had put off the entrance of his troops
into Tomsk. It had been decided that a military fete should mark
the inauguration of the Tartar headquarters in this important city.
Feofar-Khan already occupied the fortress, but the bulk of his army
bivouacked under its walls, waiting until the time came for them
to make a solemn entry.

Ivan Ogareff left the Emir at Tomsk, where both had arrived
the evening before, and returned to the camp at Zabediero. From here
he was to start the next day with the rear-guard of the Tartar army.
A house had been arranged for him in which to pass the night.
At sunrise horse and foot soldiers were to proceed to Tomsk,
where the Emir wished to receive them with the pomp usual
to Asiatic sovereigns. As soon as the halt was organized,
the prisoners, worn out with their three days' journey, and suffering
from burning thirst, could drink and take a little rest.
The sun had already set, when Nadia, supporting Marfa Strogoff,
reached the banks of the Tom. They had not till then been able
to get through those who crowded the banks, but at last they came
to drink in their turn.

The old woman bent over the clear stream, and Nadia, plunging in
her hand, carried it to Marfa's lips. Then she refreshed herself.
They found new life in these welcome waters. Suddenly Nadia started up;
an involuntary cry escaped her.

Michael Strogoff was there, a few steps from her. It was he.
The dying rays of the sun fell upon him.

At Nadia's cry Michael started. But he had sufficient command over
himself not to utter a word by which he might have been compromised.
And yet, when he saw Nadia, he also recognized his mother.

Feeling he could not long keep master of himself at this
unexpected meeting, he covered his eyes with his hands and
walked quickly away.

Nadia's impulse was to run after him, but the old Siberian murmured
in her ear, "Stay, my daughter!"

"It is he!" replied Nadia, choking with emotion. "He lives, mother!
It is he!"

"It is my son," answered Marfa, "it is Michael Strogoff,
and you see that I do not make a step towards him!
Imitate me, my daughter."

Michael had just experienced the most violent emotion which a man
can feel. His mother and Nadia were there!

The two prisoners who were always together in his heart,
God had brought them together in this common misfortune.
Did Nadia know who he was? Yes, for he had seen Marfa's gesture,
holding her back as she was about to rush towards him.
Marfa, then, had understood all, and kept his secret.

During that night, Michael was twenty times on the point
of looking for and joining his mother; but he knew that he must
resist the longing he felt to take her in his arms, and once
more press the hand of his young companion. The least imprudence
might be fatal. He had besides sworn not to see his mother.
Once at Tomsk, since he could not escape this very night,
he would set off without having even embraced the two beings
in whom all the happiness of his life was centered, and whom
he should leave exposed to so many perils.

Michael hoped that this fresh meeting at the Zabediero camp would
have no disastrous consequences either to his mother or to himself.
But he did not know that part of this scene, although it passed
so rapidly, had been observed by Sangarre, Ogareff's spy.

The Tsigane was there, a few paces off, on the bank, as usual,
watching the old Siberian woman. She had not caught sight
of Michael, for he disappeared before she had time to look around;
but the mother's gesture as she kept back Nadia had not escaped her,
and the look in Marfa's eyes told her all.

It was now beyond doubt that Marfa Strogoff's son, the Czar's courier,
was at this moment in Zabediero, among Ivan Ogareff's prisoners.
Sangarre did not know him, but she knew that he was there.
She did not then attempt to discover him, for it would have been
impossible in the dark and the immense crowd.

As for again watching Nadia and Marfa Strogoff, that was equally useless.
It was evident that the two women would keep on their guard, and it
would be impossible to overhear anything of a nature to compromise
the courier of the Czar. The Tsigane's first thought was to tell
Ivan Ogareff. She therefore immediately left the encampment.
A quarter of an hour after, she reached Zabediero, and was shown
into the house occupied by the Emir's lieutenant. Ogareff received
the Tsigane directly.

"What have you to tell me, Sangarre?" he asked.

"Marfa Strogoff's son is in the encampment."

"A prisoner?"

"A prisoner."

"Ah!" exclaimed Ogareff, "I shall know--"

"You will know nothing, Ivan," replied Tsigane; "for you do not
even know him by sight."

"But you know him; you have seen him, Sangarre?"

"I have not seen him; but his mother betrayed herself by a gesture,
which told me everything."

"Are you not mistaken?"

"I am not mistaken."

"You know the importance which I attach to the apprehension
of this courier," said Ivan Ogareff. "If the letter which he has
brought from Moscow reaches Irkutsk, if it is given to the Grand Duke,
the Grand Duke will be on his guard, and I shall not be able
to get at him. I must have that letter at any price.
Now you come to tell me that the bearer of this letter is in my power.
I repeat, Sangarre, are you not mistaken?"

Ogareff spoke with great animation. His emotion showed the extreme
importance he attached to the possession of this letter. Sangarre was not
at all put out by the urgency with which Ogareff repeated his question.
"I am not mistaken, Ivan," she said.

"But, Sangarre, there are thousands of prisoners; and you say
that you do not know Michael Strogoff."

"No," answered the Tsigane, with a look of savage joy, "I do not know him;
but his mother knows him. Ivan, we must make his mother speak."

"To-morrow she shall speak!" cried Ogareff. So saying,
he extended his hand to the Tsigane, who kissed it; for there
is nothing servile in this act of respect, it being usual among
the Northern races.

Sangarre returned to the camp. She found out Nadia and
Marfa Strogoff, and passed the night in watching them.
Although worn out with fatigue, the old woman and the girl
did not sleep. Their great anxiety kept them awake.
Michael was living, but a prisoner. Did Ogareff know him,
or would he not soon find him out? Nadia was occupied by
the one thought that he whom she had thought dead still lived.
But Marfa saw further into the future: and, although she did
not care what became of herself, she had every reason to fear
for her son.

Sangarre, under cover of the night, had crept near the two women,
and remained there several hours listening. She heard nothing.
From an instinctive feeling of prudence not a word was exchanged between
Nadia and Marfa Strogoff. The next day, the 16th of August, about ten
in the morning, trumpet-calls resounded throughout the encampment.
The Tartar soldiers were almost immediately under arms.

Ivan Ogareff arrived, surrounded by a large staff of Tartar officers.
His face was more clouded than usual, and his knitted brow gave signs
of latent wrath which was waiting for an occasion to break forth.

Michael Strogoff, hidden in a group of prisoners, saw this man pass.
He had a presentiment that some catastrophe was imminent:
for Ivan Ogareff knew now that Marfa was the mother of Michael Strogoff.

Ogareff dismounted, and his escort cleared a large circle round him.
Just then Sangarre approached him, and said, "I have no news."

Ivan Ogareff's only reply was to give an order to one of his officers.
Then the ranks of prisoners were brutally hurried up by the soldiers.
The unfortunate people, driven on with whips, or pushed on with lances,
arranged themselves round the camp. A strong guard of soldiers drawn
up behind, rendered escape impossible.

Silence then ensued, and, on a sign from Ivan Ogareff, Sangarre advanced
towards the group, in the midst of which stood Marfa.

The old Siberian saw her, and knew what was going to happen.
A scornful smile passed over her face. Then leaning towards Nadia,
she said in a low tone, "You know me no longer, my daughter.
Whatever may happen, and however hard this trial may be, not a word,
not a sign. It concerns him, and not me."

At that moment Sangarre, having regarded her for an instant,
put her hand on her shoulder.

"What do you want with me?" said Marfa.

"Come!" replied Sangarre, and pushing the old Siberian before her,
she took her to Ivan Ogareff, in the middle of the cleared ground.
Michael cast down his eyes that their angry flashings might not appear.

Marfa, standing before Ivan Ogareff, drew herself up, crossed her arms
on her breast, and waited.

"You are Marfa Strogoff?" asked Ogareff.

"Yes," replied the old Siberian calmly.

"Do you retract what you said to me when, three days ago,
I interrogated you at Omsk?"


"Then you do not know that your son, Michael Strogoff,
courier of the Czar, has passed through Omsk?"

"I do not know it."

"And the man in whom you thought you recognized your son,
was not he your son?"

"He was not my son."

"And since then you have not seen him amongst the prisoners?"


"If he were pointed out, would you recognize him?"


On this reply, which showed such determined resolution,
a murmur was heard amongst the crowd.

Ogareff could not restrain a threatening gesture.

"Listen," said he to Marfa, "your son is here, and you shall
immediately point him out to me."


"All these men, taken at Omsk and Kolyvan, will defile before you;
and if you do not show me Michael Strogoff, you shall receive
as many blows of the knout as men shall have passed before you."

Ivan Ogareff saw that, whatever might be his threats,
whatever might be the tortures to which he submitted her,
the indomitable Siberian would not speak. To discover the courier
of the Czar, he counted, then, not on her, but on Michael himself.
He did not believe it possible that, when mother and son were in each
other's presence, some involuntary movement would not betray him.
Of course, had he wished to seize the imperial letter,
he would simply have given orders to search all the prisoners;
but Michael might have destroyed the letter, having learnt
its contents; and if he were not recognized, if he were to
reach Irkutsk, all Ivan Ogareff's plans would be baffled.
It was thus not only the letter which the traitor must have,
but the bearer himself.

Nadia had heard all, and she now knew who was Michael Strogoff,
and why he had wished to cross, without being recognized,
the invaded provinces of Siberia.

On an order from Ivan Ogareff the prisoners defiled, one by one,
past Marfa, who remained immovable as a statue, and whose face
expressed only perfect indifference.

Her son was among the last. When in his turn he passed before
his mother, Nadia shut her eyes that she might not see him.
Michael was to all appearance unmoved, but the palm of his hand
bled under his nails, which were pressed into them.

Ivan Ogareff was baffled by mother and son.

Sangarre, close to him, said one word, "The knout!"

"Yes," cried Ogareff, who could no longer restrain himself;
"the knout for this wretched old woman--the knout to the death!"

A Tartar soldier bearing this terrible instrument of torture
approached Marfa. The knout is composed of a certain number of leathern
thongs, at the end of which are attached pieces of twisted iron wire.
It is reckoned that a sentence to one hundred and twenty blows of this
whip is equivalent to a sentence of death.

Marfa knew it, but she knew also that no torture would make her speak.
She was sacrificing her life.

Marfa, seized by two soldiers, was forced on her knees
on the ground. Her dress torn off left her back bare.
A saber was placed before her breast, at a few inches' distance only.
Directly she bent beneath her suffering, her breast would
be pierced by the sharp steel.

The Tartar drew himself up. He waited. "Begin!" said Ogareff. The whip
whistled in the air.

But before it fell a powerful hand stopped the Tartar's arm.
Michael was there. He had leapt forward at this horrible scene.
If at the relay at Ichim he had restrained himself when Ogareff's whip
had struck him, here before his mother, who was about to be struck,
he could not do so. Ivan Ogareff had succeeded.

"Michael Strogoff!" cried he. Then advancing, "Ah, the man of Ichim?"

"Himself!" said Michael. And raising the knout he struck Ogareff
a sharp blow across the face. "Blow for blow!" said he.

"Well repaid!" cried a voice concealed by the tumult.

Twenty soldiers threw themselves on Michael, and in another instant
he would have been slain.

But Ogareff, who on being struck had uttered a cry of rage and pain,
stopped them. "This man is reserved for the Emir's judgment,"
said he. "Search him!"

The letter with the imperial arms was found in Michael's bosom;
he had not had time to destroy it; it was handed to Ogareff.

The voice which had pronounced the words, "Well repaid!"
was that of no other than Alcide Jolivet. "Par-dieu!" said
he to Blount, "they are rough, these people.
Acknowledge that we owe our traveling companion a good turn.
Korpanoff or Strogoff is worthy of it. Oh, that was fine
retaliation for the little affair at Ichim."

"Yes, retaliation truly," replied Blount; "but Strogoff is a dead man.
I suspect that, for his own interest at all events, it would have been
better had he not possessed quite so lively a recollection of the event."

"And let his mother perish under the knout?"

"Do you think that either she or his sister will be a bit better
off from this outbreak of his?"

"I do not know or think anything except that I should have done
much the same in his position," replied Alcide. "What a scar
the Colonel has received! Bah! one must boil over sometimes.
We should have had water in our veins instead of blood had it been
incumbent on us to be always and everywhere unmoved to wrath."

"A neat little incident for our journals," observed Blount,
"if only Ivan Ogareff would let us know the contents of that letter."

Ivan Ogareff, when he had stanched the blood which was trickling
down his face, had broken the seal. He read and re-read
the letter deliberately, as if he was determined to discover
everything it contained.

Then having ordered that Michael, carefully bound and guarded,
should be carried on to Tomsk with the other prisoners, he took
command of the troops at Zabediero, and, amid the deafening
noise of drums and trumpets, he marched towards the town
where the Emir awaited him.


TOMSK, founded in 1604, nearly in the heart of the Siberian provinces,
is one of the most important towns in Asiatic Russia. Tobolsk, situated
above the sixtieth parallel; Irkutsk, built beyond the hundredth meridian--
have seen Tomsk increase at their expense.

And yet Tomsk, as has been said, is not the capital of this
important province. It is at Omsk that the Governor-General
of the province and the official world reside. But Tomsk
is the most considerable town of that territory. The country
being rich, the town is so likewise, for it is in the center
of fruitful mines. In the luxury of its houses, its arrangements,
and its equipages, it might rival the greatest European capitals.
It is a city of millionaires, enriched by the spade and pickax,
and though it has not the honor of being the residence of the
Czar's representative, it can boast of including in the first
rank of its notables the chief of the merchants of the town,
the principal grantees of the imperial government's mines.

But the millionaires were fled now, and except for the crouching poor,
the town stood empty to the hordes of Feofar-Khan. At four o'clock the
Emir made his entry into the square, greeted by a flourish of trumpets,
the rolling sound of the big drums, salvoes of artillery and musketry.

Feofar mounted his favorite horse, which carried on its head
an aigrette of diamonds. The Emir still wore his uniform.
He was accompanied by a numerous staff, and beside him walked
the Khans of Khokhand and Koundouge and the grand dignitaries
of the Khanats.

At the same moment appeared on the terrace the chief
of Feofar's wives, the queen, if this title may be given
to the sultana of the states of Bokhara. But, queen or slave,
this woman of Persian origin was wonderfully beautiful.
Contrary to the Mahometan custom, and no doubt by some
caprice of the Emir, she had her face uncovered. Her hair,
divided into four plaits, fell over her dazzling white shoulders,
scarcely concealed by a veil of silk worked in gold, which fell
from the back of a cap studded with gems of the highest value.
Under her blue-silk petticoat, fell the "zirdjameh" of
silken gauze, and above the sash lay the "pirahn." But from
the head to the little feet, such was the profusion of jewels--
gold beads strung on silver threads, chaplets of turquoises,
"firouzehs" from the celebrated mines of Elbourz,
necklaces of cornelians, agates, emeralds, opals, and sapphires--
that her dress seemed to be literally made of precious stones.
The thousands of diamonds which sparkled on her neck, arms, hands,
at her waist, and at her feet might have been valued at almost
countless millions of roubles.

The Emir and the Khans dismounted, as did the dignitaries
who escorted them. All entered a magnificent tent erected
on the center of the first terrace. Before the tent, as usual,
the Koran was laid.

Feofar's lieutenant did not make them wait, and before five
o'clock the trumpets announced his arrival. Ivan Ogareff--
the Scarred Cheek, as he was already nick-named--wearing the
uniform of a Tartar officer, dismounted before the Emir's tent.
He was accompanied by a party of soldiers from the camp
at Zabediero, who ranged up at the sides of the square,
in the middle of which a place for the sports was reserved.
A large scar could be distinctly seen cut obliquely across
the traitor's face.

Ogareff presented his principal officers to the Emir, who,
without departing from the coldness which composed the main
part of his dignity, received them in a way which satisfied
them that they stood well in the good graces of their chief.

At least so thought Harry Blount and Alcide Jolivet, the two
inseparables, now associated together in the chase after news.
After leaving Zabediero, they had proceeded rapidly to Tomsk. The plan
they had agreed upon was to leave the Tartars as soon as possible,
and to join a Russian regiment, and, if they could, to go
with them to Irkutsk. All that they had seen of the invasion,
its burnings, its pillages, its murders, had perfectly sickened them,
and they longed to be among the ranks of the Siberian army.
Jolivet had told his companion that he could not leave Tomsk without
making a sketch of the triumphal entry of the Tartar troops,
if it was only to satisfy his cousin's curiosity; but the same
evening they both intended to take the road to Irkutsk, and being
well mounted hoped to distance the Emir's scouts.

Alcide and Blount mingled therefore in the crowd, so as to lose no
detail of a festival which ought to supply them with a hundred good
lines for an article. They admired the magnificence of Feofar-Khan,
his wives, his officers, his guards, and all the Eastern pomp,
of which the ceremonies of Europe can give not the least idea.
But they turned away with disgust when Ivan Ogareff presented
himself before the Emir, and waited with some impatience for
the amusements to begin.

"You see, my dear Blount," said Alcide, "we have come too soon,
like honest citizens who like to get their money's worth.
All this is before the curtain rises, it would have been better
to arrive only for the ballet."

"What ballet?" asked Blount.

"The compulsory ballet, to be sure. But see, the curtain is going
to rise." Alcide Jolivet spoke as if he had been at the Opera,
and taking his glass from its case, he prepared, with the air
of a connoisseur, "to examine the first act of Feofar's company."

A painful ceremony was to precede the sports. In fact,
the triumph of the vanquisher could not be complete without
the public humiliation of the vanquished. This was why several
hundreds of prisoners were brought under the soldiers' whips.
They were destined to march past Feofar-Khan and his allies
before being crammed with their companions into the prisons
in the town.

In the first ranks of these prisoners figured Michael Strogoff.
As Ogareff had ordered, he was specially guarded by a file of soldiers.
His mother and Nadia were there also.

The old Siberian, although energetic enough when her own safety
was in question, was frightfully pale. She expected some
terrible scene. It was not without reason that her son had been
brought before the Emir. She therefore trembled for him.
Ivan Ogareff was not a man to forgive having been struck
in public by the knout, and his vengeance would be merciless.
Some frightful punishment familiar to the barbarians of
Central Asia would, no doubt, be inflicted on Michael. Ogareff had
protected him against the soldiers because he well knew what would
happen by reserving him for the justice of the Emir.

The mother and son had not been able to speak together since
the terrible scene in the camp at Zabediero. They had been
pitilessly kept apart--a bitter aggravation of their misery,
for it would have been some consolation to have been together
during these days of captivity. Marfa longed to ask her son's
pardon for the harm she had unintentionally done him, for she
reproached herself with not having commanded her maternal feelings.
If she had restrained herself in that post-house at Omsk,
when she found herself face to face with him, Michael would
have passed unrecognized, and all these misfortunes would
have been avoided.

Michael, on his side, thought that if his mother was there,
if Ogareff had brought her with him, it was to make her suffer
with the sight of his own punishment, or perhaps some frightful
death was reserved for her also.

As to Nadia, she only asked herself how she could save
them both, how come to the aid of son and mother.
As yet she could only wonder, but she felt instinctively that she
must above everything avoid drawing attention upon herself,
that she must conceal herself, make herself insignificant.
Perhaps she might at least gnaw through the meshes which
imprisoned the lion. At any rate if any opportunity was given
her she would seize upon it, and sacrifice herself, if need be,
for the son of Marfa Strogoff.

In the meantime the greater part of the prisoners were passing before
the Emir, and as they passed each was obliged to prostrate himself,
with his forehead in the dust, in token of servitude. Slavery begins
by humiliation. When the unfortunate people were too slow in bending,
the rough guards threw them violently to the ground.

Alcide Jolivet and his companion could not witness such a sight
without feeling indignant.

"It is cowardly--let us go," said Alcide.

"No," answered Blount; "we must see it all."

"See it all!--ah!" cried Alcide, suddenly, grasping his companion's arm.

"What is the matter with you?" asked the latter.

"Look, Blount; it is she!"

"What she?"

"The sister of our traveling companion--alone, and a prisoner!
We must save her."

"Calm yourself," replied Blount coolly. "Any interference on our part
in behalf of the young girl would be worse than useless."

Alcide Jolivet, who had been about to rush forward, stopped, and Nadia--
who had not perceived them, her features being half hidden by her hair--
passed in her turn before the Emir without attracting his attention.

However, after Nadia came Marfa Strogoff; and as she did not throw
herself quickly in the dust, the guards brutally pushed her.
She fell.

Her son struggled so violently that the soldiers who were guarding
him could scarcely hold him back. But the old woman rose,
and they were about to drag her on, when Ogareff interposed,
saying, "Let that woman stay!"

As to Nadia, she happily regained the crowd of prisoners.
Ivan Ogareff had taken no notice of her.

Michael was then led before the Emir, and there he remained standing,
without casting down his eyes.

"Your forehead to the ground!" cried Ogareff.

"No!" answered Michael.

Two soldiers endeavored to make him bend, but they were themselves
laid on the ground by a buffet from the young man's fist.

Ogareff approached Michael. "You shall die!" he said.

"I can die," answered Michael fiercely; "but your traitor's face, Ivan,
will not the less carry forever the infamous brand of the knout."

At this reply Ivan Ogareff became perfectly livid.

"Who is this prisoner?" asked the Emir, in a tone of voice terrible
from its very calmness.

"A Russian spy," answered Ogareff. In asserting that Michael was a spy
he knew that the sentence pronounced against him would be terrible.

The Emir made a sign at which all the crowd bent low their heads.
Then he pointed with his hand to the Koran, which was brought him.
He opened the sacred book and placed his finger on one of its pages.

It was chance, or rather, according to the ideas of
these Orientals, God Himself who was about to decide the fate
of Michael Strogoff. The people of Central Asia give the name
of "fal" to this practice. After having interpreted the sense
of the verse touched by the judge's finger, they apply the sentence
whatever it may be.

The Emir had let his finger rest on the page of the Koran. The chief
of the Ulemas then approached, and read in a loud voice a verse
which ended with these words, "And he will no more see the things
of this earth."

"Russian spy!" exclaimed Feofar-Kahn in a voice trembling with fury,
"you have come to see what is going on in the Tartar camp.
Then look while you may."


MICHAEL was held before the Emir's throne, at the foot
of the terrace, his hands bound behind his back.
His mother overcome at last by mental and physical torture,
had sunk to the ground, daring neither to look nor listen.

"Look while you may," exclaimed Feofar-Kahn, stretching his arm
towards Michael in a threatening manner. Doubtless Ivan Ogareff,
being well acquainted with Tartar customs, had taken in the full meaning
of these words, for his lips curled for an instant in a cruel smile;
he then took his place by Feofar-Khan.

A trumpet call was heard. This was the signal for the amusements
to begin. "Here comes the ballet," said Alcide to Blount;
"but, contrary to our customs, these barbarians give it
before the drama."

Michael had been commanded to look at everything. He looked.
A troop of dancers poured into the open space before the Emir's tent.
Different Tartar instruments, the "doutare," a long-handled guitar,
the "kobize," a kind of violoncello, the "tschibyzga," a long
reed flute; wind instruments, tom-toms, tambourines, united with
the deep voices of the singers, formed a strange harmony.
Added to this were the strains of an aerial orchestra, composed of
a dozen kites, which, fastened by strings to their centers,
resounded in the breeze like AEolian harps.

Then the dancers began. The performers were all of Persian origin;
they were no longer slaves, but exercised their profession at liberty.
Formerly they figured officially in the ceremonies at the court
of Teheran, but since the accession of the reigning family,
banished or treated with contempt, they had been compelled to seek
their fortune elsewhere. They wore the national costume, and were
adorned with a profusion of jewels. Little triangles of gold,
studded with jewels, glittered in their ears. Circles of silver,
marked with black, surrounded their necks and legs.

These performers gracefully executed various dances, sometimes alone,
sometimes in groups. Their faces were uncovered, but from time
to time they threw a light veil over their heads, and a gauze
cloud passed over their bright eyes as smoke over a starry sky.
Some of these Persians wore leathern belts embroidered
with pearls, from which hung little triangular bags.
From these bags, embroidered with golden filigree, they drew
long narrow bands of scarlet silk, on which were braided verses
of the Koran. These bands, which they held between them,
formed a belt under which the other dancers darted; and, as they
passed each verse, following the precept it contained, they either
prostrated themselves on the earth or lightly bounded upwards,
as though to take a place among the houris of Mohammed's heaven.

But what was remarkable, and what struck Alcide,
was that the Persians appeared rather indolent than fiery.
Their passion had deserted them, and, by the kind of dances
as well as by their execution, they recalled rather the calm
and self-possessed nauch girls of India than the impassioned
dancers of Egypt.

When this was over, a stern voice was heard saying:

"Look while you may!"

The man who repeated the Emir's words--a tall spare Tartar--
was he who carried out the sentences of Feofar-Khan against offenders.
He had taken his place behind Michael, holding in his hand a broad
curved saber, one of those Damascene blades which are forged
by the celebrated armorers of Karschi or Hissar.

Behind him guards were carrying a tripod supporting a chafing-dish
filled with live coals. No smoke arose from this, but a light
vapor surrounded it, due to the incineration of a certain aromatic
and resinous substance which he had thrown on the surface.

The Persians were succeeded by another party of dancers,
whom Michael recognized. The journalists also appeared to
recognize them, for Blount said to his companion, "These are
the Tsiganes of Nijni-Novgorod."

"No doubt of it," cried Alcide. "Their eyes, I imagine,
bring more money to these spies than their legs."

In putting them down as agents in the Emir's service, Alcide Jolivet was,
by all accounts, not mistaken.

In the first rank of the Tsiganes, Sangarre appeared,
superb in her strange and picturesque costume, which set off
still further her remarkable beauty.

Sangarre did not dance, but she stood as a statue in the midst
of the performers, whose style of dancing was a combination
of that of all those countries through which their race
had passed--Turkey, Bohemia, Egypt, Italy, and Spain. They were
enlivened by the sound of cymbals, which clashed on their arms,
and by the hollow sounds of the "daires"--a sort of tambourine
played with the fingers.

Sangarre, holding one of those daires, which she played between
her hands, encouraged this troupe of veritable corybantes.
A young Tsigane, of about fifteen years of age, then advanced.
He held in his hand a "doutare," strings of which he made
to vibrate by a simple movement of the nails. He sung.
During the singing of each couplet, of very peculiar rhythm,
a dancer took her position by him and remained there immovable,


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