The Project Gutenberg Etext of Michael Strogoff, by Jules Verne
#10 in our series by Jules Verne


Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check
the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!!

Please take a look at the important information in this header.
We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an
electronic path open for the next readers.  Do not remove this.


**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**

*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations*

Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and
further information is included below.  We need your donations.


Michael Strogoff

by Jules Verne

August, 1999  [Etext #1842]


The Project Gutenberg Etext of Michael Strogoff, by Jules Verne
*****This file should be named strgf10.txt or strgf10.zip******

Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, strgf11.txt
VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, strgf10a.txt


This etext was prepared by Judy Boss, Omaha, NE

Project Gutenberg Etexts are usually created from multiple editions,
all of which are in the Public Domain in the United States, unless a
copyright notice is included.  Therefore, we do NOT keep these books
in compliance with any particular paper edition, usually otherwise.


We are now trying to release all our books one month in advance
of the official release dates, for time for better editing.

Please note:  neither this list nor its contents are final till
midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.
The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at
Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month.  A
preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment
and editing by those who wish to do so.  To be sure you have an
up to date first edition [xxxxx10x.xxx] please check file sizes
in the first week of the next month.  Since our ftp program has
a bug in it that scrambles the date [tried to fix and failed] a
look at the file size will have to do, but we will try to see a
new copy has at least one byte more or less.


Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)

We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work.  The
fifty hours is one conservative estimate for how long it we take
to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc.  This
projected audience is one hundred million readers.  If our value
per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2
million dollars per hour this year as we release thirty-two text
files per month, or 384 more Etexts in 1998 for a total of 1500+
If these reach just 10% of the computerized population, then the
total should reach over 150 billion Etexts given away.

The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext
Files by the December 31, 2001.  [10,000 x 100,000,000=Trillion]
This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
which is only 10% of the present number of computer users.  2001
should have at least twice as many computer users as that, so it
will require us reaching less than 5% of the users in 2001.


We need your donations more than ever!


All donations should be made to "Project Gutenberg/CMU": and are
tax deductible to the extent allowable by law.  (CMU = Carnegie-
Mellon University).

For these and other matters, please mail to:

Project Gutenberg
P. O. Box  2782
Champaign, IL 61825

When all other email fails try our Executive Director:
Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com>

We would prefer to send you this information by email
(Internet, Bitnet, Compuserve, ATTMAIL or MCImail).

******
If you have an FTP program (or emulator), please
FTP directly to the Project Gutenberg archives:
[Mac users, do NOT point and click. . .type]

ftp uiarchive.cso.uiuc.edu
login:  anonymous
password:  your@login
cd etext/etext90 through /etext96
or cd etext/articles [get suggest gut for more information]
dir [to see files]
get or mget [to get files. . .set bin for zip files]
GET INDEX?00.GUT
for a list of books
and
GET NEW GUT for general information
and
MGET GUT* for newsletters.

**Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor**
(Three Pages)


***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START***
Why is this "Small Print!" statement here?  You know: lawyers.
They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from
someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
fault.  So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement
disclaims most of our liability to you.  It also tells you how
you can distribute copies of this etext if you want to.

*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT
By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept
this "Small Print!" statement.  If you do not, you can receive
a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by
sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person
you got it from.  If you received this etext on a physical
medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.

ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS
This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-
tm etexts, is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor
Michael S. Hart through the Project Gutenberg Association at
Carnegie-Mellon University (the "Project").  Among other
things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright
on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and
distribute it in the United States without permission and
without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules, set forth
below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext
under the Project's "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.

To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable
efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain
works.  Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any
medium they may be on may contain "Defects".  Among other
things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged
disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer
codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES
But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,
[1] the Project (and any other party you may receive this
etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including
legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR
UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE
OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.

If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of
receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)
you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that
time to the person you received it from.  If you received it
on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and
such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement
copy.  If you received it electronically, such person may
choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to
receive it electronically.

THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS".  NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS
TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A
PARTICULAR PURPOSE.

Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or
the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the
above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you
may have other legal rights.

INDEMNITY
You will indemnify and hold the Project, its directors,
officers, members and agents harmless from all liability, cost
and expense, including legal fees, that arise directly or
indirectly from any of the following that you do or cause:
[1] distribution of this etext, [2] alteration, modification,
or addition to the etext, or [3] any Defect.

DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"
You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by
disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this
"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,
or:

[1]  Only give exact copies of it.  Among other things, this
     requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the
     etext or this "small print!" statement.  You may however,
     if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable
     binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,
     including any form resulting from conversion by word pro-
     cessing or hypertext software, but only so long as
     *EITHER*:

     [*]  The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and
          does *not* contain characters other than those
          intended by the author of the work, although tilde
          (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may
          be used to convey punctuation intended by the
          author, and additional characters may be used to
          indicate hypertext links; OR

     [*]  The etext may be readily converted by the reader at
          no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent
          form by the program that displays the etext (as is
          the case, for instance, with most word processors);
          OR

     [*]  You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
          no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the
          etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC
          or other equivalent proprietary form).

[2]  Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this
     "Small Print!" statement.

[3]  Pay a trademark license fee to the Project of 20% of the
     net profits you derive calculated using the method you
     already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  If you
     don't derive profits, no royalty is due.  Royalties are
     payable to "Project Gutenberg Association/Carnegie-Mellon
     University" within the 60 days following each
     date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare)
     your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return.

WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?
The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time,
scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty
free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution
you can think of.  Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg
Association / Carnegie-Mellon University".

*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END*





This etext was prepared by Judy Boss, Omaha, NE





Michael Strogoff

or

The Courier of the Czar

by Jules Verne



Michael Strogoff

BOOK I

CHAPTER I
A FETE AT THE NEW PALACE

SIRE, a fresh dispatch."

"Whence?"

"From Tomsk?"

"Is the wire cut beyond that city?"

"Yes, sire, since yesterday."

"Telegraph hourly to Tomsk, General, and
keep me informed of all that occurs."

"Sire, it shall be done," answered General Kissoff.

These words were exchanged about two hours after mid-
night, at the moment when the fete given at the New Palace
was at the height of its splendor.

During the whole evening the bands of the Preobra-
jensky and Paulowsky regiments had played without cessa-
tion polkas, mazurkas, schottisches, and waltzes from among
the choicest of their repertoires. Innumerable couples of
dancers whirled through the magnificent saloons of the pal-
ace, which stood at a few paces only from the "old house
of stones" -- in former days the scene of so many terrible
dramas, the echoes of whose walls were this night awakened
by the gay strains of the musicians.

The grand-chamberlain of the court, was, besides, well
seconded in his arduous and delicate duties. The grand-
dukes and their aides-de-camp, the chamberlains-in-waiting
and other officers of the palace, presided personally in the
arrangement of the dances. The grand duchesses, covered
with diamonds, the ladies-in-waiting in their most exquisite
costumes, set the example to the wives of the military and
civil dignitaries of the ancient "city of white stone." When,
therefore, the signal for the "polonaise" resounded through
the saloons, and the guests of all ranks took part in that
measured promenade, which on occasions of this kind has
all the importance of a national dance, the mingled costumes,
the sweeping robes adorned with lace, and uniforms covered
with orders, presented a scene of dazzling splendor, lighted
by hundreds of lusters multiplied tenfold by the numerous
mirrors adorning the walls.

The grand saloon, the finest of all those contained in the
New Palace, formed to this procession of exalted person-
ages and splendidly dressed women a frame worthy of the
magnificence they displayed. The rich ceiling, with its gild-
ing already softened by the touch of time, appeared as if
glittering with stars. The embroidered drapery of the cur-
tains and doors, falling in gorgeous folds, assumed rich and
varied hues, broken by the shadows of the heavy masses of
damask.

Through the panes of the vast semicircular bay-windows
the light, with which the saloons were filled, shone forth
with the brilliancy of a conflagration, vividly illuminating
the gloom in which for some hours the palace had been
shrouded. The attention of those of the guests not taking
part in the dancing was attracted by the contrast. Resting
in the recesses of the windows, they could discern, standing
out dimly in the darkness, the vague outlines of the count-
less towers, domes, and spires which adorn the ancient city.
Below the sculptured balconies were visible numerous sen-
tries, pacing silently up and down, their rifles carried hori-
zontally on the shoulder, and the spikes of their helmets
glittering like flames in the glare of light issuing from the
palace. The steps also of the patrols could be heard beat-
ing time on the stones beneath with even more regularity
than the feet of the dancers on the floor of the saloon.
From time to time the watchword was repeated from post to
post, and occasionally the notes of a trumpet, mingling with
the strains of the orchestra, penetrated into their midst. Still
farther down, in front of the facade, dark masses obscured
the rays of light which proceeded from the windows of the
New Palace. These were boats descending the course of a
river, whose waters, faintly illumined by a few lamps,
washed the lower portion of the terraces.

The principal personage who has been mentioned, the
giver of the fete, and to whom General Kissoff had been
speaking in that tone of respect with which sovereigns alone
are usually addressed, wore the simple uniform of an officer
of chasseurs of the guard. This was not affectation on his
part, but the custom of a man who cared little for dress, his
contrasting strongly with the gorgeous costumes amid which
he moved, encircled by his escort of Georgians, Cossacks,
and Circassians -- a brilliant band, splendidly clad in the glit-
tering uniforms of the Caucasus.

This personage, of lofty stature, affable demeanor, and
physiognomy calm, though bearing traces of anxiety, moved
from group to group, seldom speaking, and appearing to
pay but little attention either to the merriment of the younger
guests or the graver remarks of the exalted dignitaries or
members of the diplomatic corps who represented at the
Russian court the principal governments of Europe. Two
or three of these astute politicians -- physiognomists by vir-
tue of their profession -- failed not to detect on the counte-
nance of their host symptoms of disquietude, the source of
which eluded their penetration; but none ventured to inter-
rogate him on the subject.

It was evidently the intention of the officer of chasseurs
that his own anxieties should in no way cast a shade over
the festivities; and, as he was a personage whom almost
the population of a world in itself was wont to obey, the
gayety of the ball was not for a moment checked.

Nevertheless, General Kissoff waited until the officer to
whom he had just communicated the dispatch forwarded
from Tomsk should give him permission to withdraw; but
the latter still remained silent. He had taken the telegram,
he had read it carefully, and his visage became even more
clouded than before. Involuntarily he sought the hilt of
his sword, and then passed his hand for an instant before his
eyes, as though, dazzled by the brilliancy of the light, he
wished to shade them, the better to see into the recesses of
his own mind.

"We are, then," he continued, after having drawn Gen-
eral Kissoff aside towards a window, "since yesterday with-
out intelligence from the Grand Duke?"

"Without any, sire; and it is to be feared that in a
short time dispatches will no longer cross the Siberian
frontier."

"But have not the troops of the provinces of Amoor and
Irkutsk, as those also of the Trans-Balkan territory, received
orders to march immediately upon Irkutsk?"

"The orders were transmitted by the last telegram we
were able to send beyond Lake Baikal."

"And the governments of Yeniseisk, Omsk, Semipola-
tinsk, and Tobolsk -- are we still in direct communication
with them as before the insurrection?"

"Yes, sire; our dispatches have reached them, and we
are assured at the present moment that the Tartars have not
advanced beyond the Irtish and the Obi."

"And the traitor Ivan Ogareff, are there no tidings of
him?"

"None," replied General Kissoff.   "The head of the
police cannot state whether or not he has crossed the fron-
tier."

"Let a description of him be immediately dispatched to
Nijni-Novgorod, Perm, Ekaterenburg, Kasirnov, Tioumen,
Ishim, Omsk, Tomsk, and to all the telegraphic stations with
which communication is yet open."

"Your majesty's orders shall be instantly carried out."

"You will observe the strictest silence as to this."

The General, having made a sign of respectful assent,
bowing low, mingled with the crowd, and finally left the
apartments without his departure being remarked.

The officer remained absorbed in thought for a few mo-
ments, when, recovering himself, he went among the various
groups in the saloon, his countenance reassuming that calm
aspect which had for an instant been disturbed.

Nevertheless, the important occurrence which had occa-
sioned these rapidly exchanged words was not so unknown
as the officer of the chasseurs of the guard and General
Kissoff had possibly supposed. It was not spoken of of-
ficially, it is true, nor even officiously, since tongues were not
free; but a few exalted personages had been informed, more
or less exactly, of the events which had taken place beyond
the frontier. At any rate, that which was only slightly
known, that which was not matter of conversation even
between members of the corps diplomatique, two guests,
distinguished by no uniform, no decoration, at this reception
in the New Palace, discussed in a low voice, and with ap-
parently very correct information.

By what means, by the exercise of what acuteness had
these two ordinary mortals ascertained that which so many
persons of the highest rank and importance scarcely even
suspected? It is impossible to say. Had they the gifts of
foreknowledge and foresight? Did they possess a supple-
mentary sense, which enabled them to see beyond that lim-
ited horizon which bounds all human gaze? Had they ob-
tained a peculiar power of divining the most secret events?
Was it owing to the habit, now become a second nature,
of living on information, that their mental constitution had
thus become really transformed? It was difficult to escape
from this conclusion.

Of these two men, the one was English, the other French;
both were tall and thin, but the latter was sallow as are the
southern Provencals, while the former was ruddy like a
Lancashire gentleman. The Anglo-Norman, formal, cold,
grave, parsimonious of gestures and words, appeared only
to speak or gesticulate under the influence of a spring operat-
ing at regular intervals. The Gaul, on the contrary, lively
and petulant, expressed himself with lips, eyes, hands, all at
once, having twenty different ways of explaining his
thoughts, whereas his interlocutor seemed to have only one,
immutably stereotyped on his brain.

The strong contrast they presented would at once have
struck the most superficial observer; but a physiognomist,
regarding them closely, would have defined their particular
characteristics by saying, that if the Frenchman was "all
eyes," the Englishman was "all ears."

In fact, the visual apparatus of the one had been sin-
gularly perfected by practice. The sensibility of its retina
must have been as instantaneous as that of those conjurors
who recognize a card merely by a rapid movement in cutting
the pack or by the arrangement only of marks invisible to
others. The Frenchman indeed possessed in the highest de-
gree what may be called "the memory of the eye."

The Englishman, on the contrary, appeared especially
organized to listen and to hear. When his aural apparatus
had been once struck by the sound of a voice he could not
forget it, and after ten or even twenty years he would have
recognized it among a thousand. His ears, to be sure, had
not the power of moving as freely as those of animals who
are provided with large auditory flaps; but, since scientific
men know that human ears possess, in fact, a very limited
power of movement, we should not be far wrong in affirm-
ing that those of the said Englishman became erect, and
turned in all directions while endeavoring to gather in the
sounds, in a manner apparent only to the naturalist. It
must be observed that this perfection of sight and hearing
was of wonderful assistance to these two men in their voca-
tion, for the Englishman acted as correspondent of the
Daily Telegraph, and the Frenchman, as correspondent of
what newspaper, or of what newspapers, he did not say;
and when asked, he replied in a jocular manner that he cor-
responded with "his cousin Madeleine." This Frenchman,
however, neath his careless surface, was wonderfully
shrewd and sagacious.   Even while speaking at random,
perhaps the better to hide his desire to learn, he never forgot
himself. His loquacity even helped him to conceal his
thoughts, and he was perhaps even more discreet than his
confrere of the Daily Telegraph. Both were present at this
fete given at the New Palace on the night of the 15th of
July in their character of reporters.

It is needless to say that these two men were devoted to
their mission in the world -- that they delighted to throw
themselves in the track of the most unexpected intelligence
-- that nothing terrified or discouraged them from succeed-
ing -- that they possessed the imperturbable sang froid and
the genuine intrepidity of men of their calling. Enthusiastic
jockeys in this steeplechase, this hunt after information, they
leaped hedges, crossed rivers, sprang over fences, with the
ardor of pure-blooded racers, who will run "a good first"
or die!

Their journals did not restrict them with regard to money
-- the surest, the most rapid, the most perfect element of
information known to this day. It must also be added, to
their honor, that neither the one nor the other ever looked
over or listened at the walls of private life, and that they
only exercised their vocation when political or social inter-
ests were at stake. In a word, they made what has been
for some years called "the great political and military re-
ports."

It will be seen, in following them, that they had generally
an independent mode of viewing events, and, above all, their
consequences, each having his own way of observing and
appreciating.

The French correspondent was named Alcide Jolivet.
Harry Blount was the name of the Englishman. They
had just met for the first time at this fete in the New Palace,
of which they had been ordered to give an account in their
papers. The dissimilarity of their characters, added to a
certain amount of jealousy, which generally exists between
rivals in the same calling, might have rendered them but
little sympathetic. However, they did not avoid each other,
but endeavored rather to exchange with each other the chat
of the day. They were sportsmen, after all, hunting on the
same ground. That which one missed might be advan-
tageously secured by the other, and it was to their interest
to meet and converse.

This evening they were both on the look out; they felt,
in fact, that there was something in the air.

"Even should it be only a wildgoose chase," said Alcide
Jolivet to himself, "it may be worth powder and shot."

The two correspondents therefore began by cautiously
sounding each other.

"Really, my dear sir, this little fete is charming!" said
Alcide Jolivet pleasantly, thinking himself obliged to begin
the conversation with this eminently French phrase.

"I have telegraphed already, 'splendid!'" replied Harry
Blount calmly, employing the word specially devoted to ex-
pressing admiration by all subjects of the United Kingdom.

"Nevertheless," added Alcide Jolivet, "I felt compelled
to remark to my cousin --"

"Your cousin?" repeated Harry Blount in a tone of sur-
prise, interrupting his brother of the pen.

"Yes," returned Alcide Jolivet, "my cousin Madeleine.
It is with her that I correspond, and she likes to be quickly
and well informed, does my cousin. I therefore remarked
to her that, during this fete, a sort of cloud had appeared to
overshadow the sovereign's brow."

"To me, it seemed radiant," replied Harry Blount, who
perhaps, wished to conceal his real opinion on this topic.

"And, naturally, you made it 'radiant,' in the columns
of the Daily Telegraph."

"Exactly."

"Do you remember, Mr. Blount, what occurred at Zakret
in 1812?"

"I remember it as well as if I had been there, sir,"
replied the English correspondent.

"Then," continued Alcide Jolivet, "you know that, in
the middle of a fete given in his honor, it was announced
to the Emperor Alexander that Napoleon had just crossed
the Niemen with the vanguard of the French army.
Nevertheless the Emperor did not leave the fete, and not-
withstanding the extreme gravity of intelligence which
might cost him his empire, he did not allow himself to show
more uneasiness."

"Than our host exhibited when General Kissoff informed
him that the telegraphic wires had just been cut between the
frontier and the government of Irkutsk."

"Ah! you are aware of that?"

"I am!"

"As regards myself, it would be difficult to avoid know-
ing it, since my last telegram reached Udinsk," observed
Alcide Jolivet, with some satisfaction.

"And mine only as far as Krasnoiarsk," answered Harry
Blount, in a no less satisfied tone.

"Then you know also that orders have been sent to the
troops of Nikolaevsk?"

"I do, sir; and at the same time a telegram was sent
to the Cossacks of the government of Tobolsk to concentrate
their forces."

"Nothing can be more true, Mr. Blount; I was equally
well acquainted with these measures, and you may be sure
that my dear cousin shall know of them to-morrow."

"Exactly as the readers of the Daily Telegraph shall
know it also, M. Jolivet."

"Well, when one sees all that is going on. . . ."

"And when one hears all that is said. . . ."

"An interesting campaign to follow, Mr. Blount."

"I shall follow it, M. Jolivet!"

"Then it is possible that we shall find ourselves on
ground less safe, perhaps, than the floor of this ball-room."

"Less safe, certainly, but --"

"But much less slippery," added Alcide Jolivet, holding
up his companion, just as the latter, drawing back, was
about to lose his equilibrium.

Thereupon the two correspondents separated, pleased that
the one had not stolen a march on the other.

At that moment the doors of the rooms adjoining the
great reception saloon were thrown open, disclosing to view
several immense tables beautifully laid out, and groaning
under a profusion of valuable china and gold plate. On
the central table, reserved for the princes, princesses, and
members of the corps diplomatique, glittered an epergne
of inestimable price, brought from London, and around this
chef-d'oeuvre of chased gold reflected under the light of
the lusters a thousand pieces of most beautiful service
from the manufactories of Sevres.

The guests of the New Palace immediately began to
stream towards the supper-rooms.

At that moment. General Kissoff, who had just re-en-
tered, quickly approached the officer of chasseurs.

"Well?" asked the latter abruptly, as he had done the
former time.

"Telegrams pass Tomsk no longer, sire."

"A courier this moment!"

The officer left the hall and entered a large antechamber
adjoining. It was a cabinet with plain oak furniture,
situated in an angle of the New Palace. Several pictures,
amongst others some by Horace Vernet, hung on the wall.

The officer hastily opened a window, as if he felt the
want of air, and stepped out on a balcony to breathe the
pure atmosphere of a lovely July night. Beneath his eyes,
bathed in moonlight, lay a fortified inclosure, from which
rose two cathedrals, three palaces, and an arsenal. Around
this inclosure could be seen three distinct towns: Kitai-
Gorod, Beloi-Gorod, Zemlianai-Gorod -- European, Tartar,
and Chinese quarters of great extent, commanded by towers,
belfries, minarets, and the cupolas of three hundred
churches, with green domes, surmounted by the silver cross.
A little winding river, here and there reflected the rays of
the moon.

This river was the Moskowa; the town Moscow; the
fortified inclosure the Kremlin; and the officer of chasseurs
of the guard, who, with folded arms and thoughtful brow,
was listening dreamily to the sounds floating from the New
Palace over the old Muscovite city, was the Czar.


CHAPTER II
RUSSIANS AND TARTARS

THE Czar had not so suddenly left the ball-room of the
New Palace, when the fete he was giving to the civil and
military authorities and principal people of Moscow was at
the height of its brilliancy, without ample cause; for he
had just received information that serious events were tak-
ing place beyond the frontiers of the Ural. It had become
evident that a formidable rebellion threatened to wrest the
Siberian provinces from the Russian crown.

Asiatic Russia, or Siberia, covers a superficial area of
1,790,208 square miles, and contains nearly two millions of
inhabitants. Extending from the Ural Mountains, which
separate it from Russia in Europe, to the shores of the
Pacific Ocean, it is bounded on the south by Turkestan and
the Chinese Empire; on the north by the Arctic Ocean,
from the Sea of Kara to Behring's Straits. It is divided
into several governments or provinces, those of Tobolsk,
Yeniseisk, Irkutsk, Omsk, and Yakutsk; contains two dis-
tricts, Okhotsk and Kamtschatka; and possesses two coun-
tries, now under the Muscovite dominion -- that of the
Kirghiz and that of the Tshouktshes. This immense extent
of steppes, which includes more than one hundred and ten
degrees from west to east, is a land to which criminals and
political offenders are banished.

Two governor-generals represent the supreme authority
of the Czar over this vast country. The higher one resides
at Irkutsk, the far capital of Eastern Siberia. The River
Tchouna separates the two Siberias.

No rail yet furrows these wide plains, some of which
are in reality extremely fertile. No iron ways lead from
those precious mines which make the Siberian soil far richer
below than above its surface. The traveler journeys in sum-
mer in a kibick or telga; in winter, in a sledge.

An electric telegraph, with a single wire more than eight
thousand versts in length, alone affords communication be-
tween the western and eastern frontiers of Siberia. On
issuing from the Ural, it passes through Ekaterenburg,
Kasirnov, Tioumen, Ishim, Omsk, Elamsk, Kolyvan, Tomsk,
Krasnoiarsk, Nijni-Udinsk, Irkutsk, Verkne-Nertschink,
Strelink, Albazine, Blagowstenks, Radde, Orlomskaya,
Alexandrowskoe, and Nikolaevsk; and six roubles and nine-
teen copecks are paid for every word sent from one end
to the other. From Irkutsk there is a branch to Kiatka, on
the Mongolian frontier; and from thence, for thirty copecks
a word, the post conveys the dispatches to Pekin in a fort-
night.

It was this wire, extending from Ekaterenburg to Niko-
laevsk, which had been cut, first beyond Tomsk, and then
between Tomsk and Kolyvan.

This was why the Czar, to the communication made to
him for the second time by General Kissoff, had answered
by the words, "A courier this moment!"

The Czar remained motionless at the window for a few
moments, when the door was again opened. The chief of
police appeared on the threshold.

"Enter, General," said the Czar briefly, "and tell me
all you know of Ivan Ogareff."

"He is an extremely dangerous man, sire," replied the
chief of police.

"He ranked as colonel, did he not?"

"Yes, sire."

"Was he an intelligent officer?"

"Very intelligent, but a man whose spirit it was im-
possible to subdue; and possessing an ambition which stopped
at nothing, he became involved in secret intrigues, and was
degraded from his rank by his Highness the Grand Duke,
and exiled to Siberia."

"How long ago was that?"

"Two years since. Pardoned after six months of exile
by your majesty's favor, he returned to Russia."

"And since that time, has he not revisited Siberia?"

"Yes, sire; but he voluntarily returned there," replied
the chief of police, adding, and slightly lowering his voice,
"there was a time, sire, when NONE returned from Siberia."

"Well, whilst I live, Siberia is and shall be a country
whence men CAN return."

The Czar had the right to utter these words with some
pride, for often, by his clemency, he had shown that Rus-
sian justice knew how to pardon.

The head of the police did not reply to this observation,
but it was evident that he did not approve of such half-
measures. According to his idea, a man who had once
passed the Ural Mountains in charge of policemen, ought
never again to cross them. Now, it was not thus under the
new reign, and the chief of police sincerely deplored it.
What! no banishment for life for other crimes than those
against social order! What! political exiles returning from
Tobolsk, from Yakutsk, from Irkutsk! In truth, the chief
of police, accustomed to the despotic sentences of the ukase
which formerly never pardoned, could not understand this
mode of governing. But he was silent, waiting until the
Czar should interrogate him further. The questions were
not long in coming.

"Did not Ivan Ogareff," asked the Czar, "return to
Russia a second time, after that journey through the
Siberian provinces, the object of which remains unknown?"

"He did."

"And have the police lost trace of him since?"

"No, sire; for an offender only becomes really dangerous
from the day he has received his pardon."

The Czar frowned. Perhaps the chief of police feared
that he had gone rather too far, though the stubbornness
of his ideas was at least equal to the boundless devotion he
felt for his master. But the Czar, disdaining to reply to
these indirect reproaches cast on his policy, continued his
questions. "Where was Ogareff last heard of?"

"In the province of Perm."

"In what town?"

"At Perm itself."

"What was he doing?"

"He appeared unoccupied, and there was nothing sus-
picious in his conduct."

"Then he was not under the surveillance of the secret
police?"

"No, sire."

"When did he leave Perm?"

"About the month of March?"

"To go...?"

"Where, is unknown."

"And it is not known what has become of him?"

"No, sire; it is not known."

"Well, then, I myself know," answered the Czar. "I
have received anonymous communications which did not
pass through the police department; and, in the face of
events now taking place beyond the frontier, I have every
reason to believe that they are correct."

"Do you mean, sire," cried the chief of police, "that
Ivan Ogareff has a hand in this Tartar rebellion?"

"Indeed I do; and I will now tell you something which
you are ignorant of. After leaving Perm, Ivan Ogareff
crossed the Ural mountains, entered Siberia, and penetrated
the Kirghiz steppes, and there endeavored, not without suc-
cess, to foment rebellion amongst their nomadic population.
He then went so far south as free Turkestan; there, in the
provinces of Bokhara, Khokhand, and Koondooz, he found
chiefs willing to pour their Tartar hordes into Siberia, and
excite a general rising in Asiatic Russia. The storm has
been silently gathering, but it has at last burst like a thunder-
clap, and now all means of communication between Eastern
and Western Siberia have been stopped. Moreover, Ivan
Ogareff, thirsting for vengeance, aims at the life of my
brother!"

The Czar had become excited whilst speaking, and now
paced up and down with hurried steps. The chief of police
said nothing, but he thought to himself that, during the
time when the emperors of Russia never pardoned an exile,
schemes such as those of Ivan Ogareff could never have
been realized. Approaching the Czar, who had thrown
himself into an armchair, he asked, "Your majesty has of
course given orders so that this rebellion may be suppressed
as soon as possible?"

"Yes," answered the Czar. "The last telegram which
reached Nijni-Udinsk would set in motion the troops in the
governments of Yenisei, Irkutsk, Yakutsk, as well as those
in the provinces of the Amoor and Lake Baikal. At the
same time, the regiments from Perm and Nijni-Novgorod,
and the Cossacks from the frontier, are advancing by forced
marches towards the Ural Mountains; but some weeks must
pass before they can attack the Tartars."

"And your majesty's brother, his Highness the Grand
Duke, is now isolated in the government of Irkutsk, and
is no longer in direct communication with Moscow?"

"That is so."

"But by the last dispatches, he must know what measures
have been taken by your majesty, and what help he may
expect from the governments nearest Irkutsk?"

"He knows that," answered the Czar; "but what he
does not know is, that Ivan Ogareff, as well as being a
rebel, is also playing the part of a traitor, and that in him
he has a personal and bitter enemy. It is to the Grand
Duke that Ogareff owes his first disgrace; and what is more
serious is, that this man is not known to him. Ogareff's
plan, therefore, is to go to Irkutsk, and, under an assumed
name, offer his services to the Grand Duke. Then, after
gaining his confidence, when the Tartars have invested
Irkutsk, he will betray the town, and with it my brother,
whose life he seeks. This is what I have learned from my
secret intelligence; this is what the Grand Duke does not
know; and this is what he must know!"

"Well, sire, an intelligent, courageous courier . . ."

"I momentarily expect one."

"And it is to be hoped he will be expeditious," added
the chief of police; "for, allow me to add, sire, that Siberia
is a favorable land for rebellions."

"Do you mean to say. General, that the exiles would
make common cause with the rebels?" exclaimed the Czar.

"Excuse me, your majesty," stammered the chief of
police, for that was really the idea suggested to him by his
uneasy and suspicious mind.

"I believe in their patriotism," returned the Czar.

"There are other offenders besides political exiles in
Siberia," said the chief of police.

"The criminals? Oh, General, I give those up to you!
They are the vilest, I grant, of the human race. They
belong to no country. But the insurrection, or rather, the
rebellion, is not to oppose the emperor; it is raised against
Russia, against the country which the exiles have not lost
all hope of again seeing -- and which they will see again.
No, a Russian would never unite with a Tartar, to weaken,
were it only for an hour, the Muscovite power!"

The Czar was right in trusting to the patriotism of
those whom his policy kept, for a time, at a distance.
Clemency, which was the foundation of his justice, when
he could himself direct its effects, the modifications he had
adopted with regard to applications for the formerly ter-
rible ukases, warranted the belief that he was not mis-
taken. But even without this powerful element of success
in regard to the Tartar rebellion, circumstances were not
the less very serious; for it was to be feared that a large
part of the Kirghiz population would join the rebels.

The Kirghiz are divided into three hordes, the greater,
the lesser, and the middle, and number nearly four hundred
thousand "tents," or two million souls. Of the different
tribes some are independent and others recognize either
the sovereignty of Russia or that of the Khans of Khiva,
Khokhand, and Bokhara, the most formidable chiefs of
Turkestan. The middle horde, the richest, is also the larg-
est, and its encampments occupy all the space between the
rivers Sara Sou, Irtish, and the Upper Ishim, Lake Saisang
and Lake Aksakal. The greater horde, occupying the coun-
tries situated to the east of the middle one, extends as far
as the governments of Omsk and Tobolsk. Therefore, if
the Kirghiz population should rise, it would be the rebel-
lion of Asiatic Russia, and the first thing would be the
separation of Siberia, to the east of the Yenisei.

It is true that these Kirghiz, mere novices in the art of
war, are rather nocturnal thieves and plunderers of cara-
vans than regular soldiers. As M. Levchine says, "a firm
front or a square of good infantry could repel ten times the
number of Kirghiz; and a single cannon might destroy a
frightful number."

That may be; but to do this it is necessary for the square
of good infantry to reach the rebellious country, and the
cannon to leave the arsenals of the Russian provinces, per-
haps two or three thousand versts distant. Now, except by
the direct route from Ekaterenburg to Irkutsk, the often
marshy steppes are not easily practicable, and some weeks
must certainly pass before the Russian troops could reach
the Tartar hordes.

Omsk is the center of that military organization of West-
ern Siberia which is intended to overawe the Kirghiz popu-
lation. Here are the bounds, more than once infringed by
the half-subdued nomads, and there was every reason to be-
lieve that Omsk was already in danger. The line of military
stations, that is to say, those Cossack posts which are ranged
in echelon from Omsk to Semipolatinsk, must have been
broken in several places. Now, it was to be feared that the
"Grand Sultans," who govern the Kirghiz districts would
either voluntarily accept, or involuntarily submit to, the
dominion of Tartars, Mussulmen like themselves, and that
to the hate caused by slavery was not united the hate due to
the antagonism of the Greek and Mussulman religions.
For some time, indeed, the Tartars of Turkestan had en-
deavored, both by force and persuasion, to subdue the
Kirghiz hordes.

A few words only with respect to these Tartars. The
Tartars belong more especially to two distinct races, the
Caucasian and the Mongolian. The Caucasian race, which,
as Abel de Remusat says, "is regarded in Europe as the
type of beauty in our species, because all the nations in this
part of the world have sprung from it," includes also the
Turks and the Persians. The purely Mongolian race com-
prises the Mongols, Manchoux, and Thibetans.

The Tartars who now threatened the Russian Empire, be-
longed to the Caucasian race, and occupied Turkestan.
This immense country is divided into different states, gov-
erned by Khans, and hence termed Khanats. The principal
khanats are those of Bokhara, Khokhand, Koondooz, etc.
At this period, the most important and the most formidable
khanat was that of Bokhara. Russia had already been
several times at war with its chiefs, who, for their own in-
terests, had supported the independence of the Kirghiz
against the Muscovite dominion. The present chief,
Feofar-Khan, followed in the steps of his predecessors.

The khanat of Bokhara has a population of two million
five hundred thousand inhabitants, an army of sixty thou-
sand men, trebled in time of war, and thirty thousand horse-
men. It is a rich country, with varied animal, vegetable,
and mineral products, and has been increased by the acces-
sion of the territories of Balkh, Aukoi, and Meimaneh. It
possesses nineteen large towns. Bokhara, surrounded by a
wall measuring more than eight English miles, and flanked
with towers, a glorious city, made illustrious by Avicenna
and other learned men of the tenth century, is regarded as
the center of Mussulman science, and ranks among the
most celebrated cities of Central Asia. Samarcand, which
contains the tomb of Tamerlane and the famous palace
where the blue stone is kept on which each new khan must
seat himself on his accession, is defended by a very strong
citadel. Karschi, with its triple cordon, situated in an
oasis, surrounded by a marsh peopled with tortoises and
lizards, is almost impregnable, Is-chardjoui is defended
by a population of twenty thousand souls. Protected by its
mountains, and isolated by its steppes, the khanat of Bok-
hara is a most formidable state; and Russia would need a
large force to subdue it.

The fierce and ambitious Feofar now governed this corner
of Tartary. Relying on the other khans -- principally those
of Khokhand and Koondooz, cruel and rapacious warriors,
all ready to join an enterprise so dear to Tartar instincts --
aided by the chiefs who ruled all the hordes of Central Asia,
he had placed himself at the head of the rebellion of which
Ivan Ogareff was the instigator. This traitor, impelled by
insane ambition as much as by hate, had ordered the move-
ment so as to attack Siberia. Mad indeed he was, if he
hoped to rupture the Muscovite Empire. Acting under his
suggestion, the Emir -- which is the title taken by the khans
of Bokhara -- had poured his hordes over the Russian
frontier. He invaded the government of Semipolatinsk,
and the Cossacks, who were only in small force there, had
been obliged to retire before him. He had advanced farther
than Lake Balkhash, gaining over the Kirghiz population
on his way. Pillaging, ravaging, enrolling those who sub-
mitted, taking prisoners those who resisted, he marched
from one town to another, followed by those impedimenta
of Oriental sovereignty which may be called his household,
his wives and his slaves -- all with the cool audacity of a
modern Ghengis-Khan. It was impossible to ascertain
where he now was; how far his soldiers had marched be-
fore the news of the rebellion reached Moscow; or to what
part of Siberia the Russian troops had been forced to retire.
All communication was interrupted. Had the wire between
Kolyvan and Tomsk been cut by Tartar scouts, or had the
Emir himself arrived at the Yeniseisk provinces? Was all
the lower part of Western Siberia in a ferment? Had the
rebellion already spread to the eastern regions? No one
could say. The only agent which fears neither cold nor
heat, which can neither be stopped by the rigors of winter
nor the heat of summer, and which flies with the rapidity of
lightning -- the electric current -- was prevented from trav-
ersing the steppes, and it was no longer possible to warn
the Grand Duke, shut up in Irkutsk, of the danger threaten-
ing him from the treason of Ivan Ogareff.

A courier only could supply the place of the interrupted
current. It would take this man some time to traverse the
five thousand two hundred versts between Moscow and
Irkutsk. To pass the ranks of the rebels and invaders he
must display almost superhuman courage and intelligence.
But with a clear head and a firm heart much can be done.

"Shall I be able to find this head and heart?" thought
the Czar.


CHAPTER III
MICHAEL STROGOFF MEETS THE CZAR

THE door of the imperial cabinet was again opened and
General Kissoff was announced.

"The courier?" inquired the Czar eagerly.

"He is here, sire," replied General Kissoff.

"Have you found a fitting man?"

"I will answer for him to your majesty."

"Has he been in the service of the Palace?"

"Yes, sire."

"You know him?"

"Personally, and at various times he has fulfilled difficult
missions with success."

"Abroad?"

"In Siberia itself."

"Where does he come from?"

"From Omsk. He is a Siberian."

"Has he coolness, intelligence, courage?"

"Yes, sire; he has all the qualities necessary to succeed,
even where others might possibly fail."

"What is his age?"

"Thirty."

"Is he strong and vigorous?"

"Sire, he can bear cold, hunger, thirst, fatigue, to the
very last extremities."

"He must have a frame of iron."

"Sire, he has."

"And a heart?"

"A heart of gold."

"His name?"

"Michael Strogoff."

"Is he ready to set out?"

"He awaits your majesty's orders in the guard-room."

"Let him come in," said the Czar.

In a few moments Michael Strogoff, the courier, entered
the imperial library. He was a tall, vigorous, broad-shoul-
dered, deep-chested man. His powerful head possessed the
fine features of the Caucasian race. His well-knit frame
seemed built for the performance of feats of strength. It
would have been a difficult task to move such a man against
his will, for when his feet were once planted on the ground,
it was as if they had taken root. As he doffed his Mus-
covite cap, locks of thick curly hair fell over his broad,
massive forehead. When his ordinarily pale face became at
all flushed, it arose solely from a more rapid action of the
heart. His eyes, of a deep blue, looked with clear, frank,
firm gaze. The slightly-contracted eyebrows indicated lofty
heroism -- "the hero's cool courage," according to the defini-
tion of the physiologist. He possessed a fine nose, with
large nostrils; and a well-shaped mouth, with the slightly-
projecting lips which denote a generous and noble heart.

Michael Strogoff had the temperament of the man of
action, who does not bite his nails or scratch his head in
doubt and indecision. Sparing of gestures as of words, he
always stood motionless like a soldier before his superior;
but when he moved, his step showed a firmness, a freedom
of movement, which proved the confidence and vivacity of
his mind.

Michael Strogoff wore a handsome military uniform
something resembling that of a light-cavalry officer in the
field -- boots, spurs, half tightly-fitting trousers, brown
pelisse, trimmed with fur and ornamented with yellow braid.
On his breast glittered a cross and several medals.

Michael Strogoff belonged to the special corps of the
Czar's couriers, ranking as an officer among those picked
men. His most discernible characteristic -- particularly in
his walk, his face, in the whole man, and which the Czar
perceived at a glance -- was, that he was "a fulfiller of
orders." He therefore possessed one of the most service-
able qualities in Russia -- one which, as the celebrated novel-
ist Tourgueneff says, "will lead to the highest positions in
the Muscovite empire."

In short, if anyone could accomplish this journey from
Moscow to Irkutsk, across a rebellious country, surmount
obstacles, and brave perils of all sorts, Michael Strogoff was
the man.

A circumstance especially favorable to the success of
his plan was, that he was thoroughly acquainted with the
country which he was about to traverse, and understood its
different dialects -- not only from having traveled there be-
fore, but because he was of Siberian origin.

His father -- old Peter Strogoff, dead ten years since --
inhabited the town of Omsk, situated in the government
of the same name; and his mother, Marfa Strogoff, lived
there still. There, amid the wild steppes of the provinces
of Omsk and Tobolsk, had the famous huntsman brought
up his son Michael to endure hardship. Peter Strogoff was
a huntsman by profession. Summer and winter -- in the
burning heat, as well as when the cold was sometimes fifty
degrees below zero -- he scoured the frozen plains, the
thickets of birch and larch, the pine forests; setting traps;
watching for small game with his gun, and for large game
with the spear or knife. The large game was nothing less
than the Siberian bear, a formidable and ferocious animal,
in size equaling its fellow of the frozen seas. Peter
Strogoff had killed more than thirty-nine bears -- that is
to say, the fortieth had fallen under his blows; and, accord-
ing to Russian legends, most huntsmen who have been lucky
enough up to the thirty-ninth bear, have succumbed to the
fortieth.

Peter Strogoff had, however, passed the fatal number
without even a scratch. From that time, his son Michael,
aged eleven years, never failed to accompany him to the
hunt, carrying the ragatina or spear to aid his father, who
was armed only with the knife. When he was fourteen,
Michael Strogoff had killed his first bear, quite alone -- that
was nothing; but after stripping it he dragged the gigantic
animal's skin to his father's house, many versts distant, ex-
hibiting remarkable strength in a boy so young.

This style of life was of great benefit to him, and when
he arrived at manhood he could bear any amount of cold,
heat, hunger, thirst, or fatigue. Like the Yakout of the
northern countries, he was made of iron. He could go
four-and-twenty hours without eating, ten nights without
sleeping, and could make himself a shelter in the open
steppe where others would have been frozen to death.
Gifted with marvelous acuteness, guided by the instinct
of the Delaware of North America, over the white plain,
when every object is hidden in mist, or even in higher
latitudes, where the polar night is prolonged for many
days, he could find his way when others would have had
no idea whither to turn. All his father's secrets were
known to him. He had learnt to read almost imperceptible
signs -- the forms of icicles, the appearance of the small
branches of trees, mists rising far away in the horizon,
vague sounds in the air, distant reports, the flight of birds
through the foggy atmosphere, a thousand circumstances
which are so many words to those who can decipher them.
Moreover, tempered by snow like a Damascus blade in the
waters of Syria, he had a frame of iron, as General Kissoff
had said, and, what was no less true, a heart of gold.

The only sentiment of love felt by Michael Strogoff was
that which he entertained for his mother, the aged Marfa,
who could never be induced to leave the house of the
Strogoffs, at Omsk, on the banks of the Irtish, where the
old huntsman and she had lived so long together. When
her son left her, he went away with a full heart, but promis-
ing to come and see her whenever he could possibly do so;
and this promise he had always religiously kept.

When Michael was twenty, it was decided that he should
enter the personal service of the Emperor of Russia, in the
corps of the couriers of the Czar. The hardy, intelligent,
zealous, well-conducted young Siberian first distinguished
himself especially, in a journey to the Caucasus, through
the midst of a difficult country, ravaged by some restless
successors of Schamyl; then later, in an important mission
to Petropolowski, in Kamtschatka, the extreme limit of
Asiatic Russia. During these long journeys he displayed
such marvelous coolness, prudence, and courage, as to gain
him the approbation and protection of his chiefs, who
rapidly advanced him in his profession.

The furloughs which were his due after these distant
missions, he never failed to devote to his old mother. Hav-
ing been much employed in the south of the empire, he had
not seen old Marfa for three years -- three ages! -- the first
time in his life he had been so long absent from her. Now,
however, in a few days he would obtain his furlough, and he
had accordingly already made preparations for departure
for Omsk, when the events which have been related occurred.
Michael Strogoff was therefore introduced into the Czar's
presence in complete ignorance of what the emperor ex-
pected from him.

The Czar fixed a penetrating look upon him without
uttering a word, whilst Michael stood perfectly motionless.

The Czar, apparently satisfied with his scrutiny, motioned
to the chief of police to seat himself, and dictated in a low
voice a letter of not more than a few lines.

The letter penned, the Czar re-read it attentively, then
signed it, preceding his name with the words "Byt po
semou," which, signifying "So be it," constitutes the deci-
sive formula of the Russian emperors.

The letter was then placed in an envelope, which was
sealed with the imperial arms.

The Czar, rising, told Michael Strogoff to draw near.

Michael advanced a few steps, and then stood motionless,
ready to answer.

The Czar again looked him full in the face and their
eyes met. Then in an abrupt tone, "Thy name?" he asked.

"Michael Strogoff, sire."

"Thy rank?"

"Captain in the corps of couriers of the Czar."

"Thou dost know Siberia?"

"I am a Siberian."

"A native of?"

"Omsk, sire."

"Hast thou relations there?"

"Yes sire."

"What relations?"

"My old mother."

The Czar suspended his questions for a moment. Then,
pointing to the letter which he held in his hand, "Here is a
letter which I charge thee, Michael Strogoff, to deliver into
the hands of the Grand Duke, and to no other but him."

"I will deliver it, sire."

"The Grand Duke is at Irkutsk."

"I will go to Irkutsk."

"Thou wilt have to traverse a rebellious country, invaded
by Tartars, whose interest it will be to intercept this letter."

"I will traverse it."

"Above all, beware of the traitor, Ivan Ogareff, who
will perhaps meet thee on the way."

"I will beware of him."

"Wilt thou pass through Omsk?"

"Sire, that is my route."

"If thou dost see thy mother, there will be the risk of
being recognized. Thou must not see her!"

Michael Strogoff hesitated a moment.

"I will not see her," said he.

"Swear to me that nothing will make thee acknowledge
who thou art, nor whither thou art going."

"I swear it."

"Michael Strogoff," continued the Czar, giving the letter
to the young courier, "take this letter; on it depends the
safety of all Siberia, and perhaps the life of my brother the
Grand Duke."

"This letter shall be delivered to his Highness the Grand
Duke."

"Then thou wilt pass whatever happens?"

"I shall pass, or they shall kill me."

"I want thee to live."

"I shall live, and I shall pass," answered Michael
Strogoff.

The Czar appeared satisfied with Strogoff's calm and
simple answer.

"Go then, Michael Strogoff," said he, "go for God, for
Russia, for my brother, and for myself!"

The courier, having saluted his sovereign, immediately
left the imperial cabinet, and, in a few minutes, the New
Palace.

"You made a good choice there, General," said the Czar.

"I think so, sire," replied General Kissoff; "and your
majesty may be sure that Michael Strogoff will do all that
a man can do."

"He is indeed a man," said the Czar.


CHAPTER IV
FROM MOSCOW TO NIJNI-NOVGOROD

THE distance between Moscow and Irkutsk, about to be
traversed by Michael Strogoff, was three thousand four
hundred miles. Before the telegraph wire extended from
the Ural Mountains to the eastern frontier of Siberia, the
dispatch service was performed by couriers, those who trav-
eled the most rapidly taking eighteen days to get from
Moscow to Irkutsk. But this was the exception, and the
journey through Asiatic Russia usually occupied from four
to five weeks, even though every available means of trans-
port was placed at the disposal of the Czar's messengers.

Michael Strogoff was a man who feared neither frost nor
snow. He would have preferred traveling during the severe
winter season, in order that he might perform the whole
distance by sleighs. At that period of the year the diffi-
culties which all other means of locomotion present are
greatly diminished, the wide steppes being leveled by snow,
while there are no rivers to cross, but simply sheets of glass,
over which the sleigh glides rapidly and easily.

Perhaps certain natural phenomena are most to be feared
at that time, such as long-continuing and dense fogs, exces-
sive cold, fearfully heavy snow-storms, which sometimes
envelop whole caravans and cause their destruction. Hungry
wolves also roam over the plain in thousands. But it would
have been better for Michael Strogoff to face these risks;
for during the winter the Tartar invaders would have been
stationed in the towns, any movement of their troops would
have been impracticable, and he could consequently have
more easily performed his journey. But it was not in his
power to choose either weather or time. Whatever the cir-
cumstances, he must accept them and set out.

Such were the difficulties which Michael Strogoff boldly
confronted and prepared to encounter.

In the first place, he must not travel as a courier of the
Czar usually would. No one must even suspect what he
really was. Spies swarm in a rebellious country; let him
be recognized, and his mission would be in danger. Also,
while supplying him with a large sum of money, which was
sufficient for his journey, and would facilitate it in some
measure, General Kissoff had not given him any document
notifying that he was on the Emperor's service, which is the
Sesame par excellence. He contented himself with furnish-
ing him with a "podorojna."

This podorojna was made out in the name of Nicholas
Korpanoff, merchant, living at Irkutsk. It authorized
Nicholas Korpanoff to be accompanied by one or more per-
sons, and, moreover, it was, by special notification, made
available in the event of the Muscovite government forbid-
ding natives of any other countries to leave Russia.

The podorojna is simply a permission to take post-
horses; but Michael Strogoff was not to use it unless he
was sure that by so doing he would not excite suspicion
as to his mission, that is to say, whilst he was on European
territory. The consequence was that in Siberia, whilst
traversing the insurgent provinces, he would have no
power over the relays, either in the choice of horses in
preference to others, or in demanding conveyances for his
personal use; neither was Michael Strogoff to forget that
he was no longer a courier, but a plain merchant, Nicholas
Korpanoff, traveling from Moscow to Irkutsk, and, as such
exposed to all the impediments of an ordinary journey.

To pass unknown, more or less rapidly, but to pass some-
how, such were the directions he had received.

Thirty years previously, the escort of a traveler of rank
consisted of not less than two hundred mounted Cossacks,
two hundred foot-soldiers, twenty-five Baskir horsemen,
three hundred camels, four hundred horses, twenty-five
wagons, two portable boats, and two pieces of cannon. All
this was requisite for a journey in Siberia.

Michael Strogoff, however, had neither cannon, nor horse-
men, nor foot-soldiers, nor beasts of burden. He would
travel in a carriage or on horseback, when he could; on foot,
when he could not.

There would be no difficulty in getting over the first
thousand miles, the distance between Moscow and the Rus-
sian frontier. Railroads, post-carriages, steamboats, re-
lays of horses, were at everyone's disposal, and consequently
at the disposal of the courier of the Czar.

Accordingly, on the morning of the 16th of July, having
doffed his uniform, with a knapsack on his back, dressed in
the simple Russian costume -- tightly-fitting tunic, the tradi-
tional belt of the Moujik, wide trousers, gartered at the
knees, and high boots -- Michael Strogoff arrived at the sta-
tion in time for the first train. He carried no arms, openly
at least, but under his belt was hidden a revolver and in his
pocket, one of those large knives, resembling both a cutlass
and a yataghan, with which a Siberian hunter can so neatly
disembowel a bear, without injuring its precious fur.

A crowd of travelers had collected at the Moscow station.
The stations on the Russian railroads are much used as
places for meeting, not only by those who are about to pro-
ceed by the train, but by friends who come to see them off.
The station resembles, from the variety of characters as-
sembled, a small news exchange.

The train in which Michael took his place was to set him
down at Nijni-Novgorod. There terminated at that time,
the iron road which, uniting Moscow and St. Petersburg,
has since been continued to the Russian frontier. It was a
journey of under three hundred miles, and the train would
accomplish it in ten hours. Once arrived at Nijni-Nov-
gorod, Strogoff would either take the land route or the
steamer on the Volga, so as to reach the Ural Mountains as
soon as possible.

Michael Strogoff ensconced himself in his corner, like a
worthy citizen whose affairs go well with him, and who
endeavors to kill time by sleep. Nevertheless, as he was
not alone in his compartment, he slept with one eye open,
and listened with both his ears.

In fact, rumor of the rising of the Kirghiz hordes, and
of the Tartar invasion had transpired in some degree. The
occupants of the carriage, whom chance had made his trav-
eling companions, discussed the subject, though with that
caution which has become habitual among Russians, who
know that spies are ever on the watch for any treasonable
expressions which may be uttered.

These travelers, as well as the large number of persons
in the train, were merchants on their way to the celebrated
fair of Nijni-Novgorod; -- a very mixed assembly, composed
of Jews, Turks, Cossacks, Russians, Georgians, Kalmucks,
and others, but nearly all speaking the national tongue.

They discussed the pros and cons of the serious events
which were taking place beyond the Ural, and those mer-
chants seemed to fear lest the government should be led to
take certain restrictive measures, especially in the provinces
bordering on the frontier -- measures from which trade
would certainly suffer. They apparently thought only of the
struggle from the single point of view of their threatened
interests. The presence of a private soldier, clad in his uni-
form -- and the importance of a uniform in Russia is great
-- would have certainly been enough to restrain the mer-
chants' tongues. But in the compartment occupied by
Michael Strogoff, there was no one who seemed a military
man, and the Czar's courier was not the person to betray
himself. He listened, then.

"They say that caravan teas are up," remarked a Per-
sian, known by his cap of Astrakhan fur, and his ample
brown robe, worn threadbare by use.

"Oh, there's no fear of teas falling," answered an old
Jew of sullen aspect. "Those in the market at Nijni-
Novgorod will be easily cleared off by the West; but, un-
fortunately, it won't be the same with Bokhara carpets."

"What! are you expecting goods from Bokhara?" asked
the Persian.

"No, but from Samarcand, and that is even more ex-
posed. The idea of reckoning on the exports of a country
in which the khans are in a state of revolt from Khiva to
the Chinese frontier!"

"Well," replied the Persian, "if the carpets do not arrive,
the drafts will not arrive either, I suppose."

"And the profits, Father Abraham!" exclaimed the little
Jew, "do you reckon them as nothing?"

"You are right," said another; "goods from Central
Asia run a great risk in the market, and it will be the same
with the tallow and shawls from the East."

"Why, look out, little father," said a Russian traveler,
in a bantering tone; "you'll grease your shawls terribly if
you mix them up with your tallow."

"That amuses you," sharply answered the merchant, who
had little relish for that sort of joke.

"Well, if you tear your hair, or if you throw ashes on
your head," replied the traveler, "will that change the
course of events? No; no more than the course of the
Exchange."

"One can easily see that you are not a merchant," ob-
served the little Jew.

"Faith, no, worthy son of Abraham! I sell neither
hops, nor eider-down, nor honey, nor wax, nor hemp-seed,
nor salt meat, nor caviare, nor wood, nor wool, nor ribbons,
nor, hemp, nor flax, nor morocco, nor furs."

"But do you buy them?" asked the Persian, interrupt-
ing the traveler's list.

"As little as I can, and only for my own private use,"
answered the other, with a wink.

"He's a wag," said the Jew to the Persian.

"Or a spy," replied the other, lowering his voice. "We
had better take care, and not speak more than necessary.
The police are not over-particular in these times, and you
never can know with whom you are traveling."

In another corner of the compartment they were speaking
less of mercantile affairs, and more of the Tartar invasion
and its annoying consequences.

"All the horses in Siberia will be requisitioned," said
a traveler, "and communication between the different prov-
inces of Central Asia will become very difficult."

"Is it true," asked his neighbor, "that the Kirghiz of the
middle horde have joined the Tartars?"

"So it is said," answered the traveler, lowering his voice;
"but who can flatter themselves that they know anything
really of what is going on in this country?"

"I have heard speak of a concentration of troops on the
frontier. The Don Cossacks have already gathered along
the course of the Volga, and they are to be opposed to the
rebel Kirghiz."

"If the Kirghiz descend the Irtish, the route to Irkutsk
will not be safe," observed his neighbor. "Besides, yester-
day I wanted to send a telegram to Krasnoiarsk, and it
could not be forwarded. It's to be feared that before long
the Tartar columns will have isolated Eastern Siberia."

"In short, little father," continued the first speaker,
"these merchants have good reason for being uneasy about
their trade and transactions. After requisitioning the
horses, they will take the boats, carriages, every means of
transport, until presently no one will be allowed to take even
one step in all the empire."

"I'm much afraid that the Nijni-Novgorod fair won't
end as brilliantly as it has begun," responded the other,
shaking his head. "But the safety and integrity of the
Russian territory before everything. Business is business."

If in this compartment the subject of conversation varied
but little -- nor did it, indeed, in the other carriages of the
train -- in all it might have been observed that the talkers
used much circumspection. When they did happen to ven-
ture out of the region of facts, they never went so far as to
attempt to divine the intentions of the Muscovite govern-
ment, or even to criticize them.

This was especially remarked by a traveler in a carriage
at the front part of the train. This person -- evidently a
stranger -- made good use of his eyes, and asked numberless
questions, to which he received only evasive answers. Every
minute leaning out of the window, which he would keep
down, to the great disgust of his fellow-travelers, he lost
nothing of the views to the right. He inquired the names
of the most insignificant places, their position, what were
their commerce, their manufactures, the number of their
inhabitants, the average mortality, etc., and all this he wrote
down in a note-book, already full.

This was the correspondent Alcide Jolivet, and the reason
of his putting so many insignificant questions was, that
amongst the many answers he received, he hoped to find
some interesting fact "for his cousin." But, naturally
enough, he was taken for a spy, and not a word treating of
the events of the day was uttered in his hearing.

Finding, therefore, that he could learn nothing of the
Tartar invasion, he wrote in his book, "Travelers of great
discretion. Very close as to political matters."

Whilst Alcide Jolivet noted down his impressions thus
minutely, his confrere, in the same train, traveling for the
same object, was devoting himself to the same work of ob-
servation in another compartment. Neither of them had
seen each other that day at the Moscow station, and they
were each ignorant that the other had set out to visit the
scene of the war. Harry Blount, speaking little, but listen-
ing much, had not inspired his companions with the sus-
picions which Alcide Jolivet had aroused. He was not
taken for a spy, and therefore his neighbors, without con-
straint, gossiped in his presence, allowing themselves even
to go farther than their natural caution would in most cases
have allowed them. The correspondent of the Daily Tele-
graph had thus an opportunity of observing how much re-
cent events preoccupied the merchants of Nijni-Novgorod,
and to what a degree the commerce with Central Asia was
threatened in its transit.

He therefore noted in his book this perfectly correct ob-
servation, "My fellow-travelers extremely anxious. Noth-
ing is talked of but war, and they speak of it, with a freedom
which is astonishing, as having broken out between the
Volga and the Vistula."

The readers of the Daily Telegraph would not fail to be
as well informed as Alcide Jolivet's "cousin." But as
Harry Blount, seated at the left of the train, only saw one
part of the country, which was hilly, without giving him-
self the trouble of looking at the right side, which was com-
posed of wide plains, he added, with British assurance,
"Country mountainous between Moscow and Wladimir."

It was evident that the Russian government purposed
taking severe measures to guard against any serious
eventualities even in the interior of the empire. The rebel
lion had not crossed the Siberian frontier, but evil influences
might be feared in the Volga provinces, so near to the coun-
try of the Kirghiz.

The police had as yet found no traces of Ivan Ogareff.
It was not known whether the traitor, calling in the
foreigner to avenge his personal rancor, had rejoined
Feofar-Khan, or whether he was endeavoring to foment a
revolt in the government of Nijni-Novgorod, which at this
time of year contained a population of such diverse ele-
ments. Perhaps among the Persians, Armenians, or Kal-
mucks, who flocked to the great market, he had agents,
instructed to provoke a rising in the interior. All this was
possible, especially in such a country as Russia. In fact,
this vast empire, 4,000,000 square miles in extent, does
not possess the homogeneousness of the states of Western
Europe. The Russian territory in Europe and Asia
contains more than seventy millions of inhabitants. In
it thirty different languages are spoken. The Sclavonian
race predominates, no doubt, but there are besides Rus-
sians, Poles, Lithuanians, Courlanders. Add to these,
Finns, Laplanders, Esthonians, several other northern tribes
with unpronounceable names, the Permiaks, the Germans,
the Greeks, the Tartars, the Caucasian tribes, the Mongol,
Kalmuck, Samoid, Kamtschatkan, and Aleutian hordes, and
one may understand that the unity of so vast a state must
be difficult to maintain, and that it could only be the work
of time, aided by the wisdom of many successive rulers.

Be that as it may, Ivan Ogareff had hitherto managed
to escape all search, and very probably he might have
rejoined the Tartar army. But at every station where the
train stopped, inspectors came forward who scrutinized the
travelers and subjected them all to a minute examination,
as by order of the superintendent of police, these officials
were seeking Ivan Ogareff. The government, in fact, be-
lieved it to be certain that the traitor had not yet been able
to quit European Russia. If there appeared cause to sus-
pect any traveler, he was carried off to explain himself at
the police station, and in the meantime the train went on its
way, no person troubling himself about the unfortunate
one left behind.

With the Russian police, which is very arbitrary, it is
absolutely useless to argue. Military rank is conferred on
its employees, and they act in military fashion. How can
anyone, moreover, help obeying, unhesitatingly, orders
which emanate from a monarch who has the right to
employ this formula at the head of his ukase: "We, by
the grace of God, Emperor and Autocrat of all the Russias
of Moscow, Kiev, Wladimir, and Novgorod, Czar of Kasan
and Astrakhan, Czar of Poland, Czar of Siberia, Czar of
the Tauric Chersonese, Seignior of Pskov, Prince of
Smolensk, Lithuania, Volkynia, Podolia, and Finland,
Prince of Esthonia, Livonia, Courland, and of Semigallia,
of Bialystok, Karelia, Sougria, Perm, Viatka, Bulgaria,
and many other countries; Lord and Sovereign Prince of the
territory of Nijni-Novgorod, Tchemigoff, Riazan, Polotsk,
Rostov, Jaroslavl, Bielozersk, Oudoria, Obdoria, Kondinia,
Vitepsk, and of Mstislaf, Governor of the Hyperborean
Regions, Lord of the countries of Iveria, Kartalinia, Grou-
zinia, Kabardinia, and Armenia, Hereditary Lord and
Suzerain of the Scherkess princes, of those of the moun-
tains, and of others; heir of Norway, Duke of Schleswig-
Holstein, Stormarn, Dittmarsen, and Oldenburg."  A
powerful lord, in truth, is he whose arms are an eagle with
two heads, holding a scepter and a globe, surrounded by the
escutcheons of Novgorod, Wladimir, Kiev, Kasan, Astrak-
han, and of Siberia, and environed by the collar of the order
of St. Andrew, surmounted by a royal crown!

As to Michael Strogoff, his papers were in order, and he
was, consequently, free from all police supervision.

At the station of Wladimir the train stopped for several
minutes, which appeared sufficient to enable the correspon-
dent of the Daily Telegraph to take a twofold view, physical
and moral, and to form a complete estimate of this ancient
capital of Russia.

At the Wladimir station fresh travelers joined the train.
Among others, a young girl entered the compartment oc-
cupied by Michael Strogoff. A vacant place was found op-
posite the courier. The young girl took it, after placing by
her side a modest traveling-bag of red leather, which seemed
to constitute all her luggage. Then seating herself with
downcast eyes, not even glancing at the fellow-travelers
whom chance had given her, she prepared for a journey
which was still to last several hours.

Michael Strogoff could not help looking attentively at
his newly-arrived fellow-traveler. As she was so placed
as to travel with her back to the engine, he even offered
her his seat, which he might prefer to her own, but she
thanked him with a slight bend of her graceful neck.

The young girl appeared to be about sixteen or seven-
teen years of age. Her head, truly charming, was of the
purest Sclavonic type -- slightly severe, and likely in a few
summers to unfold into beauty rather than mere prettiness.
From beneath a sort of kerchief which she wore on her head
escaped in profusion light golden hair. Her eyes were
brown, soft, and expressive of much sweetness of temper.
The nose was straight, and attached to her pale and some-
what thin cheeks by delicately mobile nostrils. The lips
were finely cut, but it seemed as if they had long since for-
gotten how to smile.

The young traveler was tall and upright, as far as could
be judged of her figure from the very simple and ample
pelisse that covered her. Although she was still a very
young girl in the literal sense of the term, the development
of her high forehead and clearly-cut features gave the idea
that she was the possessor of great moral energy -- a point
which did not escape Michael Strogoff. Evidently this
young girl had already suffered in the past, and the future
doubtless did not present itself to her in glowing colors;
but she had surely known how to struggle still with the trials
of life. Her energy was evidently both prompt and per-
sistent, and her calmness unalterable, even under circum-
stances in which a man would be likely to give way or lose
his self-command.

Such was the impression which she produced at first sight.
Michael Strogoff, being himself of an energetic tempera-
ment, was naturally struck by the character of her physiog-
nomy, and, while taking care not to cause her annoyance
by a too persistent gaze, he observed his neighbor with no
small interest. The costume of the young traveler was
both extremely simple and appropriate. She was not rich
-- that could be easily seen; but not the slightest mark of
negligence was to be discerned in her dress. All her
luggage was contained in the leather bag which, for want
of room, she held on her lap.

She wore a long, dark pelisse, gracefully adjusted at the
neck by a blue tie. Under this pelisse, a short skirt, also
dark, fell over a robe which reached the ankles. Half-
boots of leather, thickly soled, as if chosen in anticipation
of a long journey, covered her small feet.

Michael Strogoff fancied that he recognized, by certain
details, the fashion of the costume of Livonia, and thought
his neighbor a native of the Baltic provinces.

But whither was this young girl going, alone, at an age
when the fostering care of a father, or the protection of a
brother, is considered a matter of necessity? Had she now
come, after an already long journey, from the provinces of
Western Russia? Was she merely going to Nijni-Nov-
gorod, or was the end of her travels beyond the eastern
frontiers of the empire?  Would some relation, some
friend, await her arrival by the train?  Or was it
not more probable, on the contrary, that she would
find herself as much isolated in the town as she was in this
compartment? It was probable.

In fact, the effect of habits contracted in solitude was
clearly manifested in the bearing of the young girl. The
manner in which she entered the carriage and prepared
herself for the journey, the slight disturbance she caused
among those around her, the care she took not to incom-
mode or give trouble to anyone, all showed that she was
accustomed to be alone, and to depend on herself only.

Michael Strogoff observed her with interest, but, himself
reserved, he sought no opportunity of accosting her. Once
only, when her neighbor -- the merchant who had jumbled
together so imprudently in his remarks tallow and shawls --
being asleep, and threatening her with his great head, which
was swaying from one shoulder to the other, Michael
Strogoff awoke him somewhat roughly, and made him un-
derstand that he must hold himself upright.

The merchant, rude enough by nature, grumbled some
words against "people who interfere with what does not
concern them," but Michael Strogoff cast on him a glance
so stern that the sleeper leant on the opposite side, and re-
lieved the young traveler from his unpleasant vicinity.

The latter looked at the young man for an instant, and
mute and modest thanks were in that look.

But a circumstance occurred which gave Strogoff a just
idea of the character of the maiden. Twelve versts before
arriving at Nijni-Novgorod, at a sharp curve of the iron
way, the train experienced a very violent shock. Then, for
a minute, it ran onto the slope of an embankment.

Travelers more or less shaken about, cries, confusion,
general disorder in the carriages -- such was the effect at
first produced. It was to be feared that some serious acci-
dent had happened. Consequently, even before the train had
stopped, the doors were opened, and the panic-stricken pas-
sengers thought only of getting out of the carriages.

Michael Strogoff thought instantly of the young girl;
but, while the passengers in her compartment were pre-
cipitating themselves outside, screaming and struggling,
she had remained quietly in her place, her face scarcely
changed by a slight pallor.

She waited -- Michael Strogoff waited also.

Both remained quiet.

"A determined nature!" thought Michael Strogoff.

However, all danger had quickly disappeared. A break-
age of the coupling of the luggage-van had first caused the
shock to, and then the stoppage of, the train, which in an-
other instant would have been thrown from the top of the
embankment into a bog. There was an hour's delay. At
last, the road being cleared, the train proceeded, and at
half-past eight in the evening arrived at the station of Nijni-
Novgorod.

Before anyone could get out of the carriages, the in-
spectors of police presented themselves at the doors and
examined the passengers.

Michael Strogoff showed his podorojna, made out in the
name of Nicholas Korpanoff. He had consequently no
difficulty. As to the other travelers in the compartment,
all bound for Nijni-Novgorod, their appearance, happily
for them, was in nowise suspicious.

The young girl in her turn, exhibited, not a passport,
since passports are no longer required in Russia, but a per-
mit indorsed with a private seal, and which seemed to be
of a special character. The inspector read the permit with
attention. Then, having attentively examined the person
whose description it contained:

"You are from Riga?" he said.

"Yes," replied the young girl.

"You are going to Irkutsk?"

"Yes."

"By what route?"

"By Perm."

"Good!" replied the inspector. "Take care to have
your permit vised, at the police station of Nijni-Novgorod."

The young girl bent her head in token of assent.

Hearing these questions and replies, Michael Strogoff
experienced a mingled sentiment both of surprise and pity.
What! this young girl, alone, journeying to that far-off
Siberia, and at a time when, to its ordinary dangers, were
added all the perils of an invaded country and one in a state
of insurrection! How would she reach it? What would
become of her?

The inspection ended, the doors of the carriages were
then opened, but, before Michael Strogoff could move to-
wards her, the young Livonian, who had been the first to
descend, had disappeared in the crowd which thronged the
platforms of the railway station.

CHAPTER V
THE TWO ANNOUNCEMENTS

NIJNI-NOVGOROD, Lower Novgorod, situate at the junc-
tion of the Volga and the Oka, is the chief town in the dis-
trict of the same name. It was here that Michael Strogoff
was obliged to leave the railway, which at the time did not
go beyond that town. Thus, as he advanced, his traveling
would become first less speedy and then less safe.

Nijni-Novgorod, the fixed population of which is only
from thirty to thirty-five thousand inhabitants, contained at
that time more than three hundred thousand; that is to
say, the population was increased tenfold. This addition
was in consequence of the celebrated fair, which was held
within the walls for three weeks. Formerly Makariew had
the benefit of this concourse of traders, but since 1817 the
fair had been removed to Nijni-Novgorod.

Even at the late hour at which Michael Strogoff left the
platform, there was still a large number of people in the two
towns, separated by the stream of the Volga, which com-
pose Nijni-Novgorod. The highest of these is built on a
steep rock. and defended by a fort called in Russia "kreml."

Michael Strogoff expected some trouble in finding a
hotel, or even an inn, to suit him. As he had not to start
immediately, for he was going to take a steamer, he was
compelled to look out for some lodging; but, before doing
so, he wished to know exactly the hour at which the steam-
boat would start. He went to the office of the company
whose boats plied between Nijni-Novgorod and Perm.
There, to his great annoyance, he found that no boat started
for Perm till the following day at twelve o'clock. Seven-
teen hours to wait! It was very vexatious to a man so
pressed for time. However, he never senselessly murmured.
Besides, the fact was that no other conveyance could take
him so quickly either to Perm or Kasan. It would be bet-
ter, then, to wait for the steamer, which would enable him
to regain lost time.

Here, then, was Michael Strogoff, strolling through the
town and quietly looking out for some inn in which to pass
the night.   However, he troubled himself little on this
score, and, but that hunger pressed him, he would probably
have wandered on till morning in the streets of Nijni-Nov-
gorod. He was looking for supper rather than a bed. But
he found both at the sign of the City of Constantinople.
There, the landlord offered him a fairly comfortable room,
with little furniture, it is true, but not without an image
of the Virgin, and a few saints framed in yellow gauze.

A goose filled with sour stuffing swimming in thick
cream, barley bread, some curds, powdered sugar mixed
with cinnamon, and a jug of kwass, the ordinary Russian
beer, were placed before him, and sufficed to satisfy his
hunger. He did justice to the meal, which was more than
could be said of his neighbor at table, who, having, in his
character of "old believer" of the sect of Raskalniks, made
the vow of abstinence, rejected the potatoes in front of him,
and carefully refrained from putting sugar in his tea.

His supper finished, Michael Strogoff, instead of going
up to his bedroom, again strolled out into the town. But,
although the long twilight yet lingered, the crowd was al-
ready dispersing, the streets were gradually becoming
empty, and at length everyone retired to his dwelling.

Why did not Michael Strogoff go quietly to bed, as would
have seemed more reasonable after a long railway journey?
Was he thinking of the young Livonian girl who had been
his traveling companion? Having nothing better to do,
he WAS thinking of her. Did he fear that, lost in this busy
city, she might be exposed to insult? He feared so, and
with good reason. Did he hope to meet her, and, if need
were, to afford her protection? No. To meet would be
difficult. As to protection -- what right had he --

"Alone," he said to himself, "alone, in the midst of these
wandering tribes! And yet the present dangers are noth-
ing compared to those she must undergo. Siberia! Irkutsk!
I am about to dare all risks for Russia, for the Czar, while
she is about to do so -- For whom? For what? She is
authorized to cross the frontier! The country beyond is in
revolt! The steppes are full of Tartar bands!"

Michael Strogoff stopped for an instant, and reflected.

"Without doubt," thought he, "she must have deter-
mined on undertaking her journey before the invasion.
Perhaps she is even now ignorant of what is happening.
But no, that cannot be; the merchants discussed before her
the disturbances in Siberia -- and she did not seem surprised.
She did not even ask an explanation.  She must have
known it then, and knowing it, is still resolute. Poor girl!
Her motive for the journey must be urgent indeed! But
though she may be brave -- and she certainly is so -- her
strength must fail her, and, to say nothing of dangers and
obstacles, she will be unable to endure the fatigue of such
a journey. Never can she reach Irkutsk!"

Indulging in such reflections, Michael Strogoff wandered
on as chance led him; being well acquainted with the town,
he knew that he could easily retrace his steps.

Having strolled on for about an hour, he seated himself
on a bench against the wall of a large wooden cottage,
which stood, with many others, on a vast open space. He
had scarcely been there five minutes when a hand was laid
heavily on his shoulder.

"What are you doing here?" roughly demanded a tall
and powerful man, who had approached unperceived.

"I am resting," replied Michael Strogoff.

"Do you mean to stay all night on the bench?"

"Yes, if I feel inclined to do so," answered Michael
Strogoff, in a tone somewhat too sharp for the simple mer-
chant he wished to personate.

"Come forward, then, so I can see you," said the man.

Michael Strogoff, remembering that, above all, prudence
was requisite, instinctively drew back. "It is not neces-
sary," he replied, and calmly stepped back ten paces.

The man seemed, as Michael observed him well, to have
the look of a Bohemian, such as are met at fairs, and with
whom contact, either physical or moral, is unpleasant.
Then, as he looked more attentively through the dusk, he
perceived, near the cottage, a large caravan, the usual travel-
ing dwelling of the Zingaris or gypsies, who swarm in
Russia wherever a few copecks can be obtained.

As the gypsy took two or three steps forward, and was
about to interrogate Michael Strogoff more closely, the
door of the cottage opened. He could just see a woman,
who spoke quickly in a language which Michael Strogoff
knew to be a mixture of Mongol and Siberian.

"Another spy! Let him alone, and come to supper.
The papluka is waiting for you."

Michael Strogoff could not help smiling at the epithet
bestowed on him, dreading spies as he did above all else.

In the same dialect, although his accent was very differ-
ent, the Bohemian replied in words which signify, "You
are right, Sangarre! Besides, we start to-morrow."

"To-morrow?" repeated the woman in surprise.

"Yes, Sangarre," replied the Bohemian; "to-morrow,
and the Father himself sends us -- where we are going!"

Thereupon the man and woman entered the cottage, and
carefully closed the door.

"Good!" said Michael Strogoff, to himself; "if these
gipsies do not wish to be understood when they speak be-
fore me, they had better use some other language."

From his Siberian origin, and because he had passed his
childhood in the Steppes, Michael Strogoff, it has been said,
understood almost all the languages in usage from Tartary
to the Sea of Ice. As to the exact signification of the
words he had heard, he did not trouble his head. For why
should it interest him?

It was already late when he thought of returning to his
inn to take some repose. He followed, as he did so, the
course of the Volga, whose waters were almost hidden un-
der the countless number of boats floating on its bosom.

An hour after, Michael Strogoff was sleeping soundly
on one of those Russian beds which always seem so hard
to strangers, and on the morrow, the 17th of July, he awoke
at break of day.

He had still five hours to pass in Nijni-Novgorod; it
seemed to him an age. How was he to spend the morning
unless in wandering, as he had done the evening before,
through the streets? By the time he had finished his break-
fast, strapped up his bag, had his podorojna inspected at
the police office, he would have nothing to do but start.
But he was not a man to lie in bed after the sun had risen;
so he rose, dressed himself, placed the letter with the im-
perial arms on it carefully at the bottom of its usual pocket
within the lining of his coat, over which he fastened his
belt; he then closed his bag and threw it over his shoulder.
This done, he had no wish to return to the City of Con-
stantinople, and intending to breakfast on the bank of the
Volga near the wharf, he settled his bill and left the inn.
By way of precaution, Michael Strogoff went first to the
office of the steam-packet company, and there made sure
that the Caucasus would start at the appointed hour. As
he did so, the thought for the first time struck him that,
since the young Livonian girl was going to Perm, it was
very possible that her intention was also to embark in the
Caucasus, in which case he should accompany her.

The town above with its kremlin, whose circumference
measures two versts, and which resembles that of Moscow,
was altogether abandoned. Even the governor did not re-
side there. But if the town above was like a city of the
dead, the town below, at all events, was alive.

Michael Strogoff, having crossed the Volga on a bridge
of boats, guarded by mounted Cossacks, reached the square
where the evening before he had fallen in with the gipsy
camp. This was somewhat outside the town, where the
fair of Nijni-Novgorod was held. In a vast plain rose
the temporary palace of the governor-general, where by
imperial orders that great functionary resided during the
whole of the fair, which, thanks to the people who com-
posed it, required an ever-watchful surveillance.

This plain was now covered with booths symmetrically
arranged in such a manner as to leave avenues broad enough
to allow the crowd to pass without a crush.

Each group of these booths, of all sizes and shapes,
formed a separate quarter particularly dedicated to some
special branch of commerce. There was the iron quarter,
the furriers' quarter, the woolen quarter, the quarter of the
wood merchants, the weavers' quarter, the dried fish quar-
ter, etc. Some booths were even built of fancy materials,
some of bricks of tea, others of masses of salt meat -- that
is to say, of samples of the goods which the owners thus
announced were there to the purchasers -- a singular, and
somewhat American, mode of advertisement.

In the avenues and long alleys there was already a large
assemblage of people -- the sun, which had risen at four
o'clock, being well above the horizon -- an extraordinary
mixture of Europeans and Asiatics, talking, wrangling,
haranguing, and bargaining. Everything which can be
bought or sold seemed to be heaped up in this square.
Furs, precious stones, silks, Cashmere shawls, Turkey car-
pets, weapons from the Caucasus, gauzes from Smyrna and
Ispahan. Tiflis armor, caravan teas. European bronzes,
Swiss clocks, velvets and silks from Lyons, English cottons,
harness, fruits, vegetables, minerals from the Ural, mala-
chite, lapis-lazuli, spices, perfumes, medicinal herbs, wood,
tar, rope, horn, pumpkins, water-melons, etc -- all the pro-
ducts of India, China, Persia, from the shores of the
Caspian and the Black Sea, from America and Europe, were
united at this corner of the globe.

It is scarcely possible truly to portray the moving mass
of human beings surging here and there, the excitement,
the confusion, the hubbub; demonstrative as were the na-
tives and the inferior classes, they were completely outdone
by their visitors.  There were merchants from Central
Asia, who had occupied a year in escorting their merchan-
dise across its vast plains, and who would not again see their
shops and counting-houses for another year to come. In
short, of such importance is this fair of Nijni-Novgorod,
that the sum total of its transactions amounts yearly to
nearly a hundred million dollars.

On one of the open spaces between the quarters of this
temporary city were numbers of mountebanks of every de-
scription; gypsies from the mountains, telling fortunes to
the credulous fools who are ever to be found in such as-
semblies; Zingaris or Tsiganes -- a name which the Russians
give to the gypsies who are the descendants of the ancient
Copts -- singing their wildest melodies and dancing their
most original dances; comedians of foreign theaters, acting
Shakespeare, adapted to the taste of spectators who crowded
to witness them. In the long avenues the bear showmen ac-
companied their four-footed dancers, menageries resounded
with the hoarse cries of animals under the influence of the
stinging whip or red-hot irons of the tamer; and, besides all
these numberless performers, in the middle of the central
square, surrounded by a circle four deep of enthusiastic
amateurs, was a band of "mariners of the Volga," sitting
on the ground, as on the deck of their vessel, imitating the
action of rowing, guided by the stick of the master of the
orchestra, the veritable helmsman of this imaginary vessel!
A whimsical and pleasing custom!

Suddenly, according to a time-honored observance in the
fair of Nijni-Novgorod, above the heads of the vast con-
course a flock of birds was allowed to escape from the cages
in which they had been brought to the spot. In return for
a few copecks charitably offered by some good people, the
bird-fanciers opened the prison doors of their captives, who
flew out in hundreds, uttering their joyous notes.

It should be mentioned that England and France, at all
events, were this year represented at the great fair of Nijni-
Novgorod by two of the most distinguished products of
modern civilization, Messrs. Harry Blount and Alcide
Jolivet. Jolivet, an optimist by nature, found everything
agreeable, and as by chance both lodging and food were
to his taste, he jotted down in his book some memoranda
particularly favorable to the town of Nijni-Novgorod.
Blount, on the contrary, having in vain hunted for a supper,
had been obliged to find a resting-place in the open air.
He therefore looked at it all from another point of view, and
was preparing an article of the most withering character
against a town in which the landlords of the inns refused
to receive travelers who only begged leave to be flayed,
"morally and physically."

Michael Strogoff, one hand in his pocket, the other hold-
ing his cherry-stemmed pipe, appeared the most indifferent
and least impatient of men; yet, from a certain contraction
of his eyebrows every now and then, a careful observer
would have seen that he was burning to be off.

For two hours he kept walking about the streets, only
to find himself invariably at the fair again. As he passed
among the groups of buyers and sellers he discovered that
those who came from countries on the confines of Asia
manifested great uneasiness.  Their trade was visibly
suffering. Another symptom also was marked. In Russia
military uniforms appear on every occasion. Soldiers are
wont to mix freely with the crowd, the police agents being
almost invariably aided by a number of Cossacks, who,
lance on shoulder, keep order in the crowd of three hundred
thousand strangers.  But on this occasion the soldiers,
Cossacks and the rest, did not put in an appearance at the
great market. Doubtless, a sudden order to move having
been foreseen, they were restricted to their barracks.

Moreover, while no soldiers were to be seen, it was not
so with their officers. Since the evening before, aides-de-
camp, leaving the governor's palace, galloped in every direc-
tion. An unusual movement was going forward which a
serious state of affairs could alone account for. There
were innumerable couriers on the roads both to Wladimir
and to the Ural Mountains. The exchange of telegraphic
dispatches with Moscow was incessant.

Michael Strogoff found himself in the central square
when the report spread that the head of police had been
summoned by a courier to the palace of the governor-gen-
eral. An important dispatch from Moscow, it was said,
was the cause of it.

"The fair is to be closed," said one.

"The regiment of Nijni-Novgorod has received the
route," declared another.

"They say that the Tartars menace Tomsk!"

"Here is the head of police!" was shouted on every side.
A loud clapping of hands was suddenly raised, which sub-
sided by degrees, and finally was succeeded by absolute
silence. The head of police arrived in the middle of the
central square, and it was seen by all that he held in his
hand a dispatch.

Then, in a loud voice, he read the following announce-
ments: "By order of the Governor of Nijni-Novgorod.

"1st. All Russian subjects are forbidden to quit the
province upon any pretext whatsoever.

"2nd. All strangers of Asiatic origin are commanded to
leave the province within twenty-four hours."


CHAPTER VI
BROTHER AND SISTER

HOWEVER disastrous these measures might be to private
interests, they were, under the circumstances, perfectly
justifiable.

"All Russian subjects are forbidden to leave the pro-
vince;" if Ivan Ogareff was still in the province, this would
at any rate prevent him, unless with the greatest difficulty,
from rejoining Feofar-Khan, and becoming a very formid-
able lieutenant to the Tartar chief.

"All foreigners of Asiatic origin are ordered to leave the
province in four-and-twenty hours;" this would send off
in a body all the traders from Central Asia, as well as the
bands of Bohemians, gipsies, etc., having more or less
sympathy with the Tartars. So many heads, so many
spies -- undoubtedly affairs required their expulsion.

It is easy to understand the effect produced by these two
thunder-claps bursting over a town like Nijni-Novgorod,
so densely crowded with visitors, and with a commerce so
greatly surpassing that of all other places in Russia. The
natives whom business called beyond the Siberian frontier
could not leave the province for a time at least. The tenor
of the first article of the order was express; it admitted of
no exception. All private interests must yield to the public
weal. As to the second article of the proclamation, the
order of expulsion which it contained admitted of no evas-
ion either. It only concerned foreigners of Asiatic origin,
but these could do nothing but pack up their merchandise
and go back the way they came. As to the mountebanks,
of which there were a considerable number, they had nearly
a thousand versts to go before they could reach the nearest
frontier. For them it was simply misery.

At first there rose against this unusual measure a murmur
of protestation, a cry of despair, but this was quickly sup-
pressed by the presence of the Cossacks and agents of police.
Immediately, what might be called the exodus from the
immense plain began. The awnings in front of the stalls
were folded up; the theaters were taken to pieces; the fires
were put out; the acrobats' ropes were lowered; the old
broken-winded horses of the traveling vans came back from
their sheds.  Agents and soldiers with whip or stick
stimulated the tardy ones, and made nothing of pulling
down the tents even before the poor Bohemians had left
them.

Under these energetic measures the square of Nijni-
Novgorod would, it was evident, be entirely evacuated be-
fore the evening, and to the tumult of the great fair would
succeed the silence of the desert.

It must again be repeated -- for it was a necessary aggra-
vation of these severe measures -- that to all those nomads
chiefly concerned in the order of expulsion even the steppes
of Siberia were forbidden, and they would be obliged to
hasten to the south of the Caspian Sea, either to Persia,
Turkey, or the plains of Turkestan. The post of the Ural,
and the mountains which form, as it were, a prolongation of
the river along the Russian frontier, they were not allowed
to pass. They were therefore under the necessity of
traveling six hundred miles before they could tread a free
soil.

Just as the reading of the proclamation by the head of
the police came to an end, an idea darted instinctively into
the mind of Michael Strogoff. "What a singular coin-
cidence," thought he, "between this proclamation expelling
all foreigners of Asiatic origin, and the words exchanged
last evening between those two gipsies of the Zingari race.
'The Father himself sends us where we wish to go,' that
old man said. But 'the Father' is the emperor! He is
never called anything else among the people. How could
those gipsies have foreseen the measure taken against them?
how could they have known it beforehand, and where do
they wish to go? Those are suspicious people, and it seems
to me that to them the government proclamation must be
more useful than injurious."

But these reflections were completely dispelled by another
which drove every other thought out of Michael's mind.
He forgot the Zingaris, their suspicious words, the strange
coincidence which resulted from the proclamation. The
remembrance of the young Livonian girl suddenly rushed
into his mind.  "Poor child!" he thought to himself.
"She cannot now cross the frontier."

In truth the young girl was from Riga; she was Livonian,
consequently Russian, and now could not leave Russian
territory! The permit which had been given her before
the new measures had been promulgated was no longer
available. All the routes to Siberia had just been pitilessly
closed to her, and, whatever the motive taking her to
Irkutsk, she was now forbidden to go there.

This thought greatly occupied Michael Strogoff. He
said to himself, vaguely at first, that, without neglecting
anything of what was due to his important mission, it would
perhaps be possible for him to be of some use to this brave
girl; and this idea pleased him. Knowing how serious were
the dangers which he, an energetic and vigorous man, would
have personally to encounter, he could not conceal from
himself how infinitely greater they would prove to a young
unprotected girl. As she was going to Irkutsk, she would
be obliged to follow the same road as himself, she would
have to pass through the bands of invaders, as he was about
to attempt doing himself. If, moreover, she had at her
disposal only the money necessary for a journey taken un-
der ordinary circumstances, how could she manage to ac-
complish it under conditions which made it not only perilous
but expensive?

"Well," said he, "if she takes the route to Perm, it is
nearly impossible but that I shall fall in with her. Then, I
will watch over her without her suspecting it; and as she
appears to me as anxious as myself to reach Irkutsk, she
will cause me no delay."

But one thought leads to another. Michael Strogoff had
till now thought only of doing a kind action; but now an-
other idea flashed into his brain; the question presented it-
self under quite a new aspect.

"The fact is," said he to himself, "that I have much
more need of her than she can have of me. Her presence
will be useful in drawing off suspicion from me. A man
traveling alone across the steppe, may be easily guessed to
be a courier of the Czar. If, on the contrary, this young
girl accompanies me, I shall appear, in the eyes of all, the
Nicholas Korpanoff of my podorojna.  Therefore, she
must accompany me. Therefore, I must find her again at
any cost. It is not probable that since yesterday evening
she has been able to get a carriage and leave Nijni-Nov-
gorod. I must look for her. And may God guide me!"

Michael left the great square of Nijni-Novgorod, where
the tumult produced by the carrying out of the prescribed
measures had now reached its height.  Recriminations
from the banished strangers, shouts from the agents and
Cossacks who were using them so brutally, together made
an indescribable uproar. The girl for whom he searched
could not be there. It was now nine o'clock in the morn-
ing. The steamboat did not start till twelve. Michael
Strogoff had therefore nearly two hours to employ in
searching for her whom he wished to make his traveling
companion.

He crossed the Volga again and hunted through the quar-
ters on the other side, where the crowd was much less con-
siderable. He entered the churches, the natural refuge for
all who weep, for all who suffer. Nowhere did he meet
with the young Livonian.

"And yet," he repeated, "she could not have left Nijni-
Novgorod yet. We'll have another look." He wandered
about thus for two hours. He went on without stopping,
feeling no fatigue, obeying a potent instinct which allowed
no room for thought. All was in vain.

It then occurred to him that perhaps the girl had not
heard of the order -- though this was improbable enough,
for such a thunder-clap could not have burst without being
heard by all. Evidently interested in knowing the smallest
news from Siberia, how could she be ignorant of the meas-
ures taken by the governor, measures which concerned her
so directly?

But, if she was ignorant of it, she would come in an hour
to the quay, and there some merciless agent would refuse
her a passage! At any cost, he must see her beforehand,
and enable her to avoid such a repulse.

But all his endeavors were in vain, and he at length al-
most despaired of finding her again. It was eleven o'clock,
and Michael thought of presenting his podorojna at the
office of the head of police. The proclamation evidently
did not concern him, since the emergency had been fore-
seen for him, but he wished to make sure that nothing would
hinder his departure from the town.

Michael then returned to the other side of the Volga, to
the quarter in which was the office of the head of police.
An immense crowd was collected there; for though all
foreigners were ordered to quit the province, they had not-
withstanding to go through certain forms before they could
depart.

Without this precaution, some Russian more or less im-
plicated in the Tartar movement would have been able, in
a disguise, to pass the frontier -- just those whom the or-
der wished to prevent going. The strangers were sent
away, but still had to gain permission to go.

Mountebanks, gypsies, Tsiganes, Zingaris, mingled with
merchants from Persia, Turkey, India, Turkestan, China,
filled the court and offices of the police station.

Everyone was in a hurry, for the means of transport
would be much sought after among this crowd of banished
people, and those who did not set about it soon ran a great
risk of not being able to leave the town in the prescribed
time, which would expose them to some brutal treatment
from the governor's agents.

Owing to the strength of his elbows Michael was able
to cross the court. But to get into the office and up to
the clerk's little window was a much more difficult business.
However, a word into an inspector's ear and a few
judiciously given roubles were powerful enough to gain
him a passage. The man, after taking him into the wait-
ing-room, went to call an upper clerk. Michael Strogoff
would not be long in making everything right with the police
and being free in his movements.

Whilst waiting, he looked about him, and what did he
see? There, fallen, rather than seated, on a bench, was
a girl, prey to a silent despair, although her face could
scarcely be seen, the profile alone being visible against the
wall. Michael Strogoff could not be mistaken. He in-
stantly recognized the young Livonian.

Not knowing the governor's orders, she had come to the
police office to get her pass signed. They had refused to
sign it. No doubt she was authorized to go to Irkutsk,
but the order was peremptory -- it annulled all previous au-
thorizations, and the routes to Siberia were closed to her.
Michael, delighted at having found her again, approached
the girl.

She looked up for a moment and her face brightened on
recognizing her traveling companion.   She instinctively
rose and, like a drowning man who clutches at a spar, she
was about to ask his help.

At that moment the agent touched Michael on the
shoulder, "The head of police will see you," he said.

"Good," returned Michael. And without saying a word
to her for whom he had been searching all day, without
reassuring her by even a gesture, which might compromise
either her or himself, he followed the man.

The young Livonian, seeing the only being to whom she
could look for help disappear, fell back again on her bench.

Three minutes had not passed before Michael Strogoff
reappeared, accompanied by the agent. In his hand he
held his podorojna, which threw open the roads to Siberia
for him. He again approached the young Livonian, and
holding out his hand: "Sister," said he.

She understood. She rose as if some sudden inspiration
prevented her from hesitating a moment.

"Sister," repeated Michael Strogoff, "we are authorized
to continue our journey to Irkutsk. Will you come with
me?"

"I will follow you, brother," replied the girl, putting her
hand into that of Michael Strogoff. And together they
left the police station.


CHAPTER VII
GOING DOWN THE VOLGA

A LITTLE before midday, the steamboat's bell drew to
the wharf on the Volga an unusually large concourse of
people, for not only were those about to embark who had
intended to go, but the many who were compelled to go
contrary to their wishes. The boilers of the Caucasus were
under full pressure; a slight smoke issued from its funnel,
whilst the end of the escape-pipe and the lids of the valves
were crowned with white vapor. It is needless to say that
the police kept a close watch over the departure of the
Caucasus, and showed themselves pitiless to those travelers
who did not satisfactorily answer their questions.

Numerous Cossacks came and went on the quay, ready
to assist the agents, but they had not to interfere, as no one
ventured to offer the slightest resistance to their orders.
Exactly at the hour the last clang of the bell sounded, the
powerful wheels of the steamboat began to beat the water,
and the Caucasus passed rapidly between the two towns of
which Nijni-Novgorod is composed.

Michael Strogoff and the young Livonian had taken a
passage on board the Caucasus. Their embarkation was
made without any difficulty. As is known, the podorojna,
drawn up in the name of Nicholas Korpanoff, authorized
this merchant to be accompanied on his journey to Siberia.
They appeared, therefore, to be a brother and sister travel-
ing under the protection of the imperial police. Both,
seated together at the stern, gazed at the receding town, so
disturbed by the governor's order. Michael had as yet said
nothing to the girl, he had not even questioned her. He
waited until she should speak to him, when that was neces-
sary. She had been anxious to leave that town, in which,
but for the providential intervention of this unexpected pro-
tector, she would have remained imprisoned. She said
nothing, but her looks spoke her thanks.

The Volga, the Rha of the ancients, the largest river in
all Europe, is almost three thousand miles in length. Its
waters, rather unwholesome in its upper part, are improved
at Nijni-Novgorod by those of the Oka, a rapid affluent,
issuing from the central provinces of Russia. The system
of Russian canals and rivers has been justly compared to a
gigantic tree whose branches spread over every part of the
empire. The Volga forms the trunk of this tree, and it
has for roots seventy mouths opening into the Caspian Sea.
It is navigable as far as Rjef, a town in the government of
Tver, that is, along the greater part of its course.

The steamboats plying between Perm and Nijni-Nov-
gorod rapidly perform the two hundred and fifty miles
which separate this town from the town of Kasan. It is
true that these boats have only to descend the Volga, which
adds nearly two miles of current per hour to their own
speed; but on arriving at the confluence of the Kama, a
little below Kasan, they are obliged to quit the Volga for
the smaller river, up which they ascend to Perm. Power-
ful as were her machines, the Caucasus could not thus, after
entering the Kama, make against the current more than
ten miles an hour. Including an hour's stoppage at Kasan,
the voyage from Nijni-Novgorod to Perm would take
from between sixty to sixty-two hours.

The steamer was very well arranged, and the passengers,
according to their condition or resources, occupied three
distinct classes on board. Michael Strogoff had taken care
to engage two first-class cabins, so that his young compan-
ion might retire into hers whenever she liked.

The Caucasus was loaded with passengers of every de-
scription. A number of Asiatic traders had thought it best
to leave Nijni-Novgorod immediately. In that part of the
steamer reserved for the first-class might be seen Armenians
in long robes and a sort of miter on their heads; Jews,
known by their conical caps; rich Chinese in their traditional
costume, a very wide blue, violet, or black robe; Turks,
wearing the national turban; Hindoos, with square caps,
and a simple string for a girdle, some of whom, hold in
their hands all the traffic of Central Asia; and, lastly, Tar-
tars, wearing boots, ornamented with many-colored braid,
and the breast a mass of embroidery. All these merchants
had been obliged to pile up their numerous bales and chests
in the hold and on the deck; and the transport of their bag-
gage would cost them dear, for, according to the regulations,
each person had only a right to twenty pounds' weight.

In the bows of the Caucasus were more numerous groups
of passengers, not only foreigners, but also Russians, who
were not forbidden by the order to go back to their towns
in the province. There were mujiks with caps on their
heads, and wearing checked shirts under their wide pelisses;
peasants of the Volga, with blue trousers stuffed into their
boots, rose-colored cotton shirts, drawn in by a cord, felt
caps; a few women, habited in flowery-patterned cotton
dresses, gay-colored aprons, and bright handkerchiefs on
their heads. These were principally third-class passengers,
who were, happily, not troubled by the prospect of a long
return voyage. The Caucasus passed numerous boats being
towed up the stream, carrying all sorts of merchandise to
Nijni-Novgorod. Then passed rafts of wood intermin-
ably long, and barges loaded to the gunwale, and nearly
sinking under water. A bootless voyage they were mak-
ing, since the fair had been abruptly broken up at its outset.

The waves caused by the steamer splashed on the banks,
covered with flocks of wild duck, who flew away uttering
deafening cries. A little farther, on the dry fields, bordered
with willows, and aspens, were scattered a few cows, sheep,
and herds of pigs. Fields, sown with thin buckwheat and
rye, stretched away to a background of half-cultivated hills,
offering no remarkable prospect. The pencil of an artist
in quest of the picturesque would have found nothing to
reproduce in this monotonous landscape.

The Caucasus had been steaming on for almost two
hours, when the young Livonian, addressing herself to
Michael, said, "Are you going to Irkutsk, brother?"

"Yes, sister," answered the young man.  "We are
going the same way. Consequently, where I go, you shall
go."

"To-morrow, brother, you shall know why I left the
shores of the Baltic to go beyond the Ural Mountains."

"I ask you nothing, sister."

"You shall know all," replied the girl, with a faint smile.
"A sister should hide nothing from her brother. But I
cannot to-day. Fatigue and sorrow have broken me."

"Will you go and rest in your cabin?" asked Michael
Strogoff.

"Yes -- yes; and to-morrow --"

"Come then --"

He hesitated to finish his sentence, as if he had wished to
end it by the name of his companion, of which he was still
ignorant.

"Nadia," said she, holding out her hand.

"Come, Nadia," answered Michael, "and make what
use you like of your brother Nicholas Korpanoff." And
he led the girl to the cabin engaged for her off the saloon.

Michael Strogoff returned on deck, and eager for any
news which might bear on his journey, he mingled in the
groups of passengers, though without taking any part in the
conversation. Should he by any chance be questioned, and
obliged to reply, he would announce himself as the merchant
Nicholas Korpanoff, going back to the frontier, for he did
not wish it to be suspected that a special permission au-
thorized him to travel to Siberia.

The foreigners in the steamer could evidently speak of
nothing but the occurrences of the day, of the order and its
consequences. These poor people, scarcely recovered from
the fatigue of a journey across Central Asia, found them-
selves obliged to return, and if they did not give loud vent
to their anger and despair, it was because they dared not.
Fear, mingled with respect, restrained them. It was pos-
sible that inspectors of police, charged with watching the
passengers, had secretly embarked on board the Caucasus,
and it was just as well to keep silence; expulsion, after all,
was a good deal preferable to imprisonment in a fortress.
Therefore the men were either silent, or spoke with so much
caution that it was scarcely possible to get any useful in-
formation.

Michael Strogoff thus could learn nothing here; but if
mouths were often shut at his approach -- for they did not
know him -- his ears were soon struck by the sound of one
voice, which cared little whether it was heard or not.

The man with the hearty voice spoke Russian, but with
a French accent; and another speaker answered him more
reservedly. "What," said the first, "are you on board this
boat, too, my dear fellow; you whom I met at the imperial
fete in Moscow, and just caught a glimpse of at Nijni-Nov-
gorod?"

"Yes, it's I," answered the second drily.

"Really, I didn't expect to be so closely followed."

"I am not following you sir; I am preceding you."

"Precede! precede! Let us march abreast, keeping step,
like two soldiers on parade, and for the time, at least, let
us agree, if you will, that one shall not pass the other."

"On the contrary, I shall pass you."

"We shall see that, when we are at the seat of war; but
till then, why, let us be traveling companions. Later, we
shall have both time and occasion to be rivals."

"Enemies."

"Enemies, if you like. There is a precision in your
words, my dear fellow, particularly agreeable to me. One
may always know what one has to look for, with you."

"What is the harm?"

"No harm at all. So, in my turn, I will ask your per-
mission to state our respective situations."

"State away."

"You are going to Perm -- like me?"

"Like you."

"And probably you will go from Perm to Ekaterenburg,
since that is the best and safest route by which to cross the
Ural Mountains?"

"Probably."

"Once past the frontier, we shall be in Siberia, that is
to say in the midst of the invasion."

"We shall be there."

"Well! then, and only then, will be the time to say, Each
for himself, and God for --"

"For me."

"For you, all by yourself! Very well! But since we
have a week of neutral days before us, and since it is very
certain that news will not shower down upon us on the
way, let us be friends until we become rivals again."

"Enemies."

"Yes; that's right, enemies. But till then, let us act to-
gether, and not try and ruin each other. All the same, I
promise you to keep to myself all that I can see --"

"And I, all that I can hear."

"Is that agreed?"

"It is agreed."

"Your hand?"

"Here it is." And the hand of the first speaker, that is
to say, five wide-open fingers, vigorously shook the two
fingers coolly extended by the other.

"By the bye," said the first, "I was able this morning to
telegraph the very words of the order to my cousin at
seventeen minutes past ten."

"And I sent it to the Daily Telegraph at thirteen minutes
past ten."

"Bravo, Mr. Blount!"

"Very good, M. Jolivet."

"I will try and match that!"

"It will be difficult."

"I can try, however."

So saying, the French correspondent familiarly saluted
the Englishman, who bowed stiffly. The governor's proc-
lamation did not concern these two news-hunters, as they
were neither Russians nor foreigners of Asiatic origin.
However, being urged by the same instinct, they had left
Nijni-Novgorod together. It was natural that they should
take the same means of transport, and that they should fol-
low the same route to the Siberian steppes. Traveling com-
panions, whether enemies or friends, they had a week to
pass together before "the hunt would be open." And then
success to the most expert! Alcide Jolivet had made the
first advances, and Harry Blount had accepted them though
he had done so coldly.

That very day at dinner the Frenchman open as ever and
even too loquacious, the Englishman still silent and grave,
were seen hobnobbing at the same table, drinking genuine
Cliquot, at six roubles the bottle, made from the fresh sap
of the birch-trees of the country. On hearing them
chatting away together, Michael Strogoff said to himself:
"Those are inquisitive and indiscreet fellows whom I shall
probably meet again on the way. It will be prudent for
me to keep them at a distance."

The young Livonian did not come to dinner. She was
asleep in her cabin, and Michael did not like to awaken her.
It was evening before she reappeared on the deck of the
Caucasus. The long twilight imparted a coolness to the
atmosphere eagerly enjoyed by the passengers after the
stifling heat of the day. As the evening advanced, the
greater number never even thought of going into the
saloon. Stretched on the benches, they inhaled with de-
light the slight breeze caused by the speed of the steamer.
At this time of year, and under this latitude, the sky scarcely
darkened between sunset and dawn, and left the steersman
light enough to guide his steamer among the numerous ves-
sels going up or down the Volga.

Between eleven and two, however, the moon being new,
it was almost dark. Nearly all the passengers were then
asleep on the deck, and the silence was disturbed only by
the noise of the paddles striking the water at regular in-
tervals.  Anxiety kept Michael Strogoff awake.  He
walked up and down, but always in the stern of the steamer.
Once, however, he happened to pass the engine-room. He
then found himself in the part reserved for second and
third-class passengers.

There, everyone was lying asleep, not only on the benches,
but also on the bales, packages, and even the deck itself.
Some care was necessary not to tread on the sleepers, who
were lying about everywhere. They were chiefly mujiks,
accustomed to hard couches, and quite satisfied with the
planks of the deck. But no doubt they would, all the same,
have soundly abused the clumsy fellow who roused them
with an accidental kick.

Michael Strogoff took care, therefore, not to disturb any-
one. By going thus to the end of the boat, he had no other
idea but that of striving against sleep by a rather longer
walk.   He reached the forward deck, and was already
climbing the forecastle ladder, when he heard someone
speaking near him. He stopped. The voices appeared to
come from a group of passengers enveloped in cloaks and
wraps. It was impossible to recognize them in the dark,
though it sometimes happened that, when the steamer's
chimney sent forth a plume of ruddy flames, the sparks
seemed to fall amongst the group as though thousands of
spangles had been suddenly illuminated.

Michael was about to step up the ladder, when a few
words reached his ear, uttered in that strange tongue which
he had heard during the night at the fair. Instinctively
he stopped to listen. Protected by the shadow of the fore-
castle, he could not be perceived himself. As to seeing the
passengers who were talking, that was impossible. He must
confine himself to listening.

The first words exchanged were of no importance -- to
him at least -- but they allowed him to recognize the voices
of the man and woman whom he had heard at Nijni-Nov-
gorod. This, of course, made him redouble his attention.
It was, indeed, not at all impossible that these same Tsiganes,
now banished, should be on board the Caucasus.

And it was well for him that he listened, for he dis-
tinctly heard this question and answer made in the Tartar
idiom: "It is said that a courier has set out from Moscow
for Irkutsk."

"It is so said, Sangarre; but either this courier will ar-
rive too late, or he will not arrive at all."

Michael Strogoff started involuntarily at this reply, which
concerned him so directly. He tried to see if the man and
woman who had just spoken were really those whom he
suspected, but he could not succeed.

In a few moments Michael Strogoff had regained the
stern of the vessel without having been perceived, and, tak-
ing a seat by himself, he buried his face in his hands. It
might have been supposed that he was asleep.

He was not asleep, however, and did not even think of
sleeping. He was reflecting, not without a lively appre-
hension: "Who is it knows of my departure, and who can
have any interest in knowing it?"


CHAPTER VIII
GOING UP THE KAMA

THE next day, the 18th of July, at twenty minutes to
seven in the morning, the Caucasus reached the Kasan quay,
seven versts from the town.

Kasan is situated at the confluence of the Volga and
Kasanka. It is an important chief town of the government,
and a Greek archbishopric, as well as the seat of a uni-
versity. The varied population preserves an Asiatic char-
acter. Although the town was so far from the landing-
place, a large crowd was collected on the quay. They had
come for news. The governor of the province had pub-
lished an order identical with that of Nijni-Novgorod.
Police officers and a few Cossacks kept order among the
crowd, and cleared the way both for the passengers who
were disembarking and also for those who were embarking
on board the Caucasus, minutely examining both classes of
travelers. The one were the Asiatics who were being ex-
pelled; the other, mujiks stopping at Kasan.

Michael Strogoff unconcernedly watched the bustle which
occurs at all quays on the arrival of a steam vessel. The
Caucasus would stay for an hour to renew her fuel. Michael
did not even think of landing. He was unwilling to leave
the young Livonian girl alone on board, as she had not yet
reappeared on deck.

The two journalists had risen at dawn, as all good hunts-
men should do. They went on shore and mingled with the
crowd, each keeping to his own peculiar mode of proceed-
ing; Harry Blount, sketching different types, or noting some
observation; Alcide Jolivet contenting himself with ask-
ing questions, confiding in his memory, which never failed
him.

There was a report along all the frontier that the insur-
rection and invasion had reached considerable proportions.
Communication between Siberia and the empire was al-
ready extremely difficult. All this Michael Strogoff heard
from the new arrivals. This information could not but
cause him great uneasiness, and increase his wish of being
beyond the Ural Mountains, so as to judge for himself of
the truth of these rumors, and enable him to guard against
any possible contingency.   He was thinking of seeking
more direct intelligence from some native of Kasan, when
his attention was suddenly diverted.

Among the passengers who were leaving the Caucasus,
Michael recognized the troop of Tsiganes who, the day
before, had appeared in the Nijni-Novgorod fair. There,
on the deck of the steamboat were the old Bohemian and
the woman. With them, and no doubt under their direc-
tion, landed about twenty dancers and singers, from fifteen
to twenty years of age, wrapped in old cloaks, which cov-
ered their spangled dresses. These dresses, just then glanc-
ing in the first rays of the sun, reminded Michael of the
curious appearance which he had observed during the night.
It must have been the glitter of those spangles in the bright
flames issuing from the steamboat's funnel which had at-
tracted his attention.

"Evidently," said Michael to himself, "this troop of
Tsiganes, after remaining below all day, crouched under
the forecastle during the night. Were these gipsies trying
to show themselves as little as possible? Such is not ac-
cording to the usual custom of their race."

Michael Strogoff no longer doubted that the expressions
he had heard, had proceeded from this tawny group, and
had been exchanged between the old gypsy and the woman
to whom he gave the Mongolian name of Sangarre.
Michael involuntarily moved towards the gangway, as the
Bohemian troop was leaving the steamboat.

The old Bohemian was there, in a humble attitude, little
conformable with the effrontery natural to his race. One
would have said that he was endeavoring rather to avoid
attention than to attract it. His battered hat, browned by
the suns of every clime, was pulled forward over his wrin-
kled face. His arched back was bent under an old cloak,
wrapped closely round him, notwithstanding the heat. It
would have been difficult, in this miserable dress, to judge
of either his size or face. Near him was the Tsigane, San-
garre, a woman about thirty years old. She was tall and
well made, with olive complexion, magnificent eyes, and
golden hair.

Many of the young dancers were remarkably pretty, all
possessing the clear-cut features of their race.   These
Tsiganes are generally very attractive, and more than one
of the great Russian nobles, who try to vie with the English
in eccentricity, has not hesitated to choose his wife from
among these gypsy girls. One of them was humming a
song of strange rhythm, which might be thus rendered:

          "Glitters brightly the gold
              In my raven locks streaming
           Rich coral around
              My graceful neck gleaming;
           Like a bird of the air,
              Through the wide world I roam."

The laughing girl continued her song, but Michael Stro-
goff ceased to listen.  It struck him just then that the
Tsigane, Sangarre, was regarding him with a peculiar gaze,
as if to fix his features indelibly in her memory.

It was but for a few moments, when Sangarre herself
followed the old man and his troop, who had already left
the vessel. "That's a bold gypsy," said Michael to him-
self. "Could she have recognized me as the man whom
she saw at Nijni-Novgorod? These confounded Tsiganes
have the eyes of a cat! They can see in the dark; and that
woman there might well know --"

Michael Strogoff was on the point of following Sangarre
and the gypsy band, but he stopped. "No," thought he,
"no unguarded proceedings. If I were to stop that old
fortune teller and his companions my incognito would run
a risk of being discovered. Besides, now they have landed,
before they can pass the frontier I shall be far beyond it.
They may take the route from Kasan to Ishim, but that
affords no resources to travelers. Besides a tarantass,
drawn by good Siberian horses, will always go faster than
a gypsy cart! Come, friend Korpanoff, be easy."

By this time the man and Sangarre had disappeared.

Kasan is justly called the "Gate of Asia" and consid-
ered as the center of Siberian and Bokharian commerce;
for two roads begin here and lead across the Ural Moun-
tains. Michael Strogoff had very judiciously chosen the
one by Perm and Ekaterenburg. It is the great stage road,
well supplied with relays kept at the expense of the govern-
ment, and is prolonged from Ishim to Irkutsk.

It is true that a second route -- the one of which Michael
had just spoken -- avoiding the slight detour by Perm, also
connects Kasan with Ishim. It is perhaps shorter than
the other, but this advantage is much diminished by the ab-
sence of post-houses, the bad roads, and lack of villages.
Michael Strogoff was right in the choice he had made, and
if, as appeared probable, the gipsies should follow the sec-
ond route from Kasan to Ishim, he had every chance of
arriving before them.

An hour afterwards the bell rang on board the Caucasus,
calling the new passengers, and recalling the former ones.
It was now seven o'clock in the morning. The requisite
fuel had been received on board. The whole vessel began
to vibrate from the effects of the steam. She was ready
to start.   Passengers going from Kasan to Perm were
crowding on the deck.

Michael noticed that of the two reporters Blount alone
had rejoined the steamer. Was Alcide Jolivet about to miss
his passage?

But just as the ropes were being cast off, Jolivet appeared,
tearing along. The steamer was already sheering off, the
gangway had been drawn onto the quay, but Alcide Jolivet
would not stick at such a little thing as that, so, with a
bound like a harlequin, he alighted on the deck of the
Caucasus almost in his rival's arms.

"I thought the Caucasus was going without you," said
the latter.

"Bah!" answered Jolivet, "I should soon have caught
you up again, by chartering a boat at my cousin's expense,
or by traveling post at twenty copecks a verst, and on horse-
back. What could I do? It was so long a way from the
quay to the telegraph office."

"Have you been to the telegraph office?" asked Harry
Blount, biting his lips.

"That's exactly where I have been!" answered Jolivet,
with his most amiable smile.

"And is it still working to Kolyvan?"

"That I don't know, but I can assure you, for instance,
that it is working from Kasan to Paris."

"You sent a dispatch to your cousin?"

"With enthusiasm."

"You had learnt then --?"

"Look here, little father, as the Russians say," replied
Alcide Jolivet, "I'm a good fellow, and I don't wish to
keep anything from you. The Tartars, and Feofar-Khan
at their head, have passed Semipolatinsk, and are descend-
ing the Irtish. Do what you like with that!"

What! such important news, and Harry Blount had not
known it; and his rival, who had probably learned it from
some inhabitant of Kasan, had already transmitted it to
Paris. The English paper was distanced! Harry Blount,
crossing his hands behind him, walked off and seated him-
self in the stern without uttering a word.

About ten o'clock in the morning, the young Livonian,
leaving her cabin, appeared on deck. Michael Strogoff
went forward and took her hand. "Look, sister!" said
he, leading her to the bows of the Caucasus.

The view was indeed well worth seeing. The Caucasus
had reached the confluence of the Volga and the Kama.
There she would leave the former river, after having
descended it for nearly three hundred miles, to ascend the
latter for a full three hundred.

The Kama was here very wide, and its wooded banks
lovely. A few white sails enlivened the sparkling water.
The horizon was closed by a line of hills covered with
aspens, alders, and sometimes large oaks.

But these beauties of nature could not distract the
thoughts of the young Livonian even for an instant. She
had left her hand in that of her companion, and turning to
him, "At what distance are we from Moscow?" she asked.

"Nine hundred versts," answered Michael.

"Nine hundred, out of seven thousand!" murmured the
girl.

The bell now announced the breakfast hour. Nadia fol-
lowed Michael Strogoff to the restaurant. She ate little,
and as a poor girl whose means are small would do. Michael
thought it best to content himself with the fare which sat-
isfied his companion; and in less than twenty minutes he
and Nadia returned on deck. There they seated themselves
in the stern, and without preamble, Nadia, lowering her
voice to be heard by him alone, began:

"Brother, I am the daughter of an exile. My name is
Nadia Fedor. My mother died at Riga scarcely a month
ago, and I am going to Irkutsk to rejoin my father and
share his exile."

"I, too, am going to Irkutsk," answered Michael," and
I shall thank Heaven if it enables me to give Nadia Fedor
safe and sound into her father's hands."

"Thank you, brother," replied Nadia.

Michael Strogoff then added that he had obtained a spe-
cial podorojna for Siberia, and that the Russian authori-
ties could in no way hinder his progress.

Nadia asked nothing more. She saw in this fortunate
meeting with Michael a means only of accelerating her
journey to her father.

"I had," said she, "a permit which authorized me to go
to Irkutsk, but the new order annulled that; and but for
you, brother, I should have been unable to leave the town,
in which, without doubt, I should have perished."

"And dared you, alone, Nadia," said Michael, "attempt
to cross the steppes of Siberia?"

"The Tartar invasion was not known when I left Riga.
It was only at Moscow that I learnt the news."

"And despite it, you continued your journey?"

"It was my duty."

The words showed the character of the brave girl.

She then spoke of her father, Wassili Fedor. He was
a much-esteemed physician at Riga. But his connection
with some secret society having been asserted, he received
orders to start for Irkutsk. The police who brought the
order conducted him without delay beyond the frontier.

Wassili Fedor had but time to embrace his sick wife
and his daughter, so soon to be left alone, when, shedding
bitter tears, he was led away. A year and a half after
her husband's departure, Madame Fedor died in the arms
of her daughter, who was thus left alone and almost penni-
less. Nadia Fedor then asked, and easily obtained from
the Russian government, an authorization to join her father
at Irkutsk. She wrote and told him she was starting. She
had barely enough money for this long journey, and yet
she did not hesitate to undertake it. She would do what she
could. God would do the rest.


CHAPTER IX
DAY AND NIGHT IN A TARANTASS

THE next day, the 19th of July, the Caucasus reached
Perm, the last place at which she touched on the Kama.

The government of which Perm is the capital is one of
the largest in the Russian Empire, and, extending over the
Ural Mountains, encroaches on Siberian territory. Marble
quarries, mines of salt, platina, gold, and coal are worked
here on a large scale. Although Perm, by its situation, has
become an important town, it is by no means attractive,
being extremely dirty, and without resources. This want
of comfort is of no consequence to those going to Siberia,
for they come from the more civilized districts, and are sup-
plied with all necessaries.

At Perm travelers from Siberia resell their vehicles, more
or less damaged by the long journey across the plains.
There, too, those passing from Europe to Asia purchase
carriages, or sleighs in the winter season.

Michael Strogoff had already sketched out his pro-
gramme. A vehicle carrying the mail usually runs across
the Ural Mountains, but this, of course, was discontinued.
Even if it had not been so, he would not have taken it, as
he wished to travel as fast as possible, without depending
on anyone. He wisely preferred to buy a carriage, and
journey by stages, stimulating the zeal of the postillions
by well-applied "na vodkou," or tips.

Unfortunately, in consequence of the measures taken
against foreigners of Asiatic origin, a large number of trav-
elers had already left Perm, and therefore conveyances
were extremely rare. Michael was obliged to content him-
self with what had been rejected by others. As to horses,
as long as the Czar's courier was not in Siberia, he could
exhibit his podorojna, and the postmasters would give him
the preference. But, once out of Europe, he had to de-
pend alone on the power of his roubles.

But to what sort of a vehicle should he harness his
horses? To a telga or to a tarantass? The telga is noth-
ing but an open four-wheeled cart, made entirely of wood,
the pieces fastened together by means of strong rope. Noth-
ing could be more primitive, nothing could be less comfort-
able; but, on the other hand, should any accident happen
on the way, nothing could be more easily repaired. There
is no want of firs on the Russian frontier, and axle-trees
grow naturally in forests. The post extraordinary, known
by the name of "perck-ladnoi," is carried by the telga, as
any road is good enough for it. It must be confessed that
sometimes the ropes which fasten the concern together
break, and whilst the hinder part remains stuck in some bog,
the fore-part arrives at the post-house on two wheels; but
this result is considered quite satisfactory.

Michael Strogoff would have been obliged to employ a
telga, if he had not been lucky enough to discover a taran-
tass.  It is to be hoped that the invention of Russian coach-
builders will devise some improvement in this last-named
vehicle. Springs are wanting in it as well as in the telga;
in the absence of iron, wood is not spared; but its four
wheels, with eight or nine feet between them, assure a cer-
tain equilibrium over the jolting rough roads. A splash-
board protects the travelers from the mud, and a strong
leathern hood, which may be pulled quite over the occupiers,
shelters them from the great heat and violent storms of the
summer. The tarantass is as solid and as easy to repair as
the telga, and is, moreover, less addicted to leaving its hinder
part in the middle of the road.

It was not without careful search that Michael managed
to discover this tarantass, and there was probably not a
second to be found in all Perm. He haggled long about the
price, for form's sake, to act up to his part as Nicholas
Korpanoff, a plain merchant of Irkutsk.

Nadia had followed her companion in his search after a
suitable vehicle. Although the object of each was different,
both were equally anxious to arrive at their goal. One
would have said the same will animated them both.

"Sister," said Michael, "I wish I could have found a
more comfortable conveyance for you."

"Do you say that to me, brother, when I would have
gone on foot, if need were, to rejoin my father?"

"I do not doubt your courage, Nadia, but there are
physical fatigues a woman may be unable to endure."

"I shall endure them, whatever they be," replied the
girl. "If you ever hear a complaint from me you may
leave me in the road, and continue your journey alone."

Half an hour later, the podorojna being presented by
Michael, three post-horses were harnessed to the tarantass.
These animals, covered with long hair, were very like long-
legged bears. They were small but spirited, being of
Siberian breed. The way in which the iemschik harnessed
them was thus: one, the largest, was secured between two
long shafts, on whose farther end was a hoop carrying tas-
sels and bells; the two others were simply fastened by ropes
to the steps of the tarantass. This was the complete har-
ness, with mere strings for reins.

Neither Michael Strogoff nor the young Livonian girl
had any baggage. The rapidity with which one wished to
make the journey, and the more than modest resources of
the other, prevented them from embarrassing themselves
with packages. It was a fortunate thing, under the cir-
cumstances, for the tarantass could not have carried both
baggage and travelers. It was only made for two persons,
without counting the iemschik, who kept his equilibrium on
his narrow seat in a marvelous manner.

The iemschik is changed at every relay. The man who
drove the tarantass during the first stage was, like his horses,
a Siberian, and no less shaggy than they; long hair, cut
square on the forehead, hat with a turned-up brim, red belt,
coat with crossed facings and buttons stamped with the
imperial cipher. The iemschik, on coming up with his
team, threw an inquisitive glance at the passengers of the
tarantass. No luggage! -- and had there been, where in the
world could he have stowed it? Rather shabby in appear-
ance too. He looked contemptuous.

"Crows," said he, without caring whether he was over-
heard or not; "crows, at six copecks a verst!"

"No, eagles!" said Michael, who understood the
iemschik's slang perfectly; "eagles, do you hear, at nine
copecks a verst, and a tip besides."

He was answered by a merry crack of the whip.

In the language of the Russian postillions the "crow"
is the stingy or poor traveler, who at the post-houses only
pays two or three copecks a verst for the horses. The
"eagle" is the traveler who does not mind expense, to
say nothing of liberal tips. Therefore the crow could not
claim to fly as rapidly as the imperial bird.

Nadia and Michael immediately took their places in the
tarantass. A small store of provisions was put in the box,
in case at any time they were delayed in reaching the post-
houses, which are very comfortably provided under direction
of the State. The hood was pulled up, as it was insupport-
ably hot, and at twelve o'clock the tarantass left Perm in
a cloud of dust.

The way in which the iemschik kept up the pace of his
team would have certainly astonished travelers who, being
neither Russians nor Siberians, were not accustomed to
this sort of thing. The leader, rather larger than the
others, kept to a steady long trot, perfectly regular,
whether up or down hill. The two other horses seemed
to know no other pace than the gallop, though they per-
formed many an eccentric curvette as they went along.
The iemschik, however, never touched them, only urging
them on by startling cracks of his whip. But what epithets
he lavished on them, including the names of all the saints
in the calendar, when they behaved like docile and con-
scientious animals! The string which served as reins would
have had no influence on the spirited beasts, but the words
"na pravo," to the right, "na levo," to the left, pronounced
in a guttural tone, were more effectual than either bridle or
snaffle.

And what amiable expressions! "Go on, my doves!"
the iemschik would say. "Go on, pretty swallows! Fly,
my little pigeons! Hold up, my cousin on the left! Gee
up, my little father on the right!"

But when the pace slackened, what insulting expressions,
instantly understood by the sensitive animals! "Go on,
you wretched snail! Confound you, you slug! I'll roast
you alive, you tortoise, you!"

Whether or not it was from this way of driving, which
requires the iemschiks to possess strong throats more than
muscular arms, the tarantass flew along at a rate of from
twelve to fourteen miles an hour. Michael Strogoff was
accustomed both to the sort of vehicle and the mode of trav-
eling. Neither jerks nor jolts incommoded him. He knew
that a Russian driver never even tries to avoid either stones,
ruts, bogs, fallen trees, or trenches, which may happen to
be in the road. He was used to all that. His companion
ran a risk of being hurt by the violent jolts of the tarantass,
but she would not complain.

For a little while Nadia did not speak. Then possessed
with the one thought, that of reaching her journey's end, "I
have calculated that there are three hundred versts between
Perm and Ekaterenburg, brother," said she. "Am I right?"

"You are quite right, Nadia," answered Michael; "and
when we have reached Ekaterenburg, we shall be at the foot
of the Ural Mountains on the opposite side."

"How long will it take to get across the mountains?"

"Forty-eight hours, for we shall travel day and night.
I say day and night, Nadia," added he, "for I cannot stop
even for a moment; I go on without rest to Irkutsk."

"I shall not delay you, brother; no, not even for an hour,
and we will travel day and night."

"Well then, Nadia, if the Tartar invasion has only left
the road open, we shall arrive in twenty days."

"You have made this journey before?" asked Nadia.

"Many times."

"During winter we should have gone more rapidly and
surely, should we not?"

"Yes, especially with more rapidity, but you would have
suffered much from the frost and snow."

"What matter! Winter is the friend of Russia."

"Yes, Nadia, but what a constitution anyone must have
to endure such friendship! I have often seen the tempera-
ture in the Siberian steppes fall to more than forty de-
grees below freezing point! I have felt, notwithstanding
my reindeer coat, my heart growing chill, my limbs stiffen-
ing, my feet freezing in triple woolen socks; I have seen
my sleigh horses covered with a coating of ice, their breath
congealed at their nostrils. I have seen the brandy in my
flask change into hard stone, on which not even my knife
could make an impression. But my sleigh flew like the
wind. Not an obstacle on the plain, white and level farther
than the eye could reach! No rivers to stop one! Hard
ice everywhere, the route open, the road sure! But at the
price of what suffering, Nadia, those alone could say, who
have never returned, but whose bodies have been covered up
by the snow storm."

"However, you have returned, brother," said Nadia.

"Yes, but I am a Siberian, and, when quite a child, I
used to follow my father to the chase, and so became inured
to these hardships. But when you said to me, Nadia, that
winter would not have stopped you, that you would have
gone alone, ready to struggle against the frightful Siberian
climate, I seemed to see you lost in the snow and falling,
never to rise again."

"How many times have you crossed the steppe in win-
ter?" asked the young Livonian.

"Three times, Nadia, when I was going to Omsk."

"And what were you going to do at Omsk?"

"See my mother, who was expecting me."

"And I am going to Irkutsk, where my father expects
me. I am taking him my mother's last words. That is as
much as to tell you, brother, that nothing would have pre-
vented me from setting out."

"You are a brave girl, Nadia," replied Michael. "God
Himself would have led you."

All day the tarantass was driven rapidly by the iemschiks,
who succeeded each other at every stage. The eagles of the
mountain would not have found their name dishonored by
these "eagles" of the highway. The high price paid for
each horse, and the tips dealt out so freely, recommended
the travelers in a special way. Perhaps the postmasters
thought it singular that, after the publication of the order,
a young man and his sister, evidently both Russians, could
travel freely across Siberia, which was closed to everyone
else, but their papers were all en regle and they had the
right to pass.

However, Michael Strogoff and Nadia were not the only
travelers on their way from Perm to Ekaterenburg. At the
first stages, the courier of the Czar had learnt that a carriage
preceded them, but, as there was no want of horses, he did
not trouble himself about that.

During the day, halts were made for food alone. At
the post-houses could be found lodging and provision. Be-
sides, if there was not an inn, the house of the Russian
peasant would have been no less hospitable. In the villages,
which are almost all alike, with their white-walled, green-
roofed chapels, the traveler might knock at any door, and it
would be opened to him. The moujik would come out,
smiling and extending his hand to his guest. He would
offer him bread and salt, the burning charcoal would be put
into the "samovar," and he would be made quite at home.
The family would turn out themselves rather than that he
should not have room. The stranger is the relation of all.
He is "one sent by God."

On arriving that evening Michael instinctively asked the
postmaster how many hours ago the carriage which pre-
ceded them had passed that stage.

"Two hours ago, little father," replied the postmaster.

"Is it a berlin?"

"No, a telga."

"How many travelers?"

"Two."

"And they are going fast?"

"Eagles!"

"Let them put the horses to as soon as possible."

Michael and Nadia, resolved not to stop even for an
hour, traveled all night. The weather continued fine,
though the atmosphere was heavy and becoming charged
with electricity. It was to be hoped that a storm would
not burst whilst they were among the mountains, for there
it would be terrible. Being accustomed to read atmospheric
signs, Michael Strogoff knew that a struggle of the elements
was approaching.

The night passed without incident. Notwithstanding the
jolting of the tarantass, Nadia was able to sleep for some
hours. The hood was partly raised so as to give as much
air as there was in the stifling atmosphere.

Michael kept awake all night, mistrusting the iemschiks,
who are apt to sleep at their posts. Not an hour was lost at
the relays, not an hour on the road.

The next day, the 20th of July, at about eight o'clock
in the morning, they caught the first glimpse of the Ural
Mountains in the east. This important chain which sep-
arates Russia from Siberia was still at a great distance, and
they could not hope to reach it until the end of the day.
The passage of the mountains must necessarily be performed
during the next night. The sky was cloudy all day, and the
temperature was therefore more bearable, but the weather
was very threatening.

It would perhaps have been more prudent not to have
ascended the mountains during the night, and Michael would
not have done so, had he been permitted to wait; but when,
at the last stage, the iemschik drew his attention to a peal
of thunder reverberating among the rocks, he merely said:

"Is a telga still before us?"

"Yes."

"How long is it in advance?"

"Nearly an hour."

"Forward, and a triple tip if we are at Ekaterenburg
to-morrow morning."


CHAPTER X
A STORM IN THE URAL MOUNTAINS

THE Ural Mountains extend in a length of over two thou-
sand miles between Europe and Asia. Whether they are
called the Urals, which is the Tartar, or the Poyas, which
is the Russian name, they are correctly so termed; for these
names signify "belt" in both languages. Rising on the
shores of the Arctic Sea, they reach the borders of the Cas-
pian. This was the barrier to be crossed by Michael
Strogoff before he could enter Siberian Russia. The moun-
tains could be crossed in one night, if no accident happened.
Unfortunately, thunder muttering in the distance announced
that a storm was at hand. The electric tension was such
that it could not be dispersed without a tremendous explo-
sion, which in the peculiar state of the atmosphere would
be very terrible.

Michael took care that his young companion should be
as well protected as possible. The hood, which might have
been easily blown away, was fastened more securely with
ropes, crossed above and at the back. The traces were
doubled, and, as an additional precaution, the nave-boxes
were stuffed with straw, as much to increase the strength of
the wheels as to lessen the jolting, unavoidable on a dark
night. Lastly, the fore and hinder parts, connected simply
by the axles to the body of the tarantass, were joined one to
the other by a crossbar, fixed by means of pins and screws.

Nadia resumed her place in the cart, and Michael took
his seat beside her. Before the lowered hood hung two
leathern curtains, which would in some degree protect the
travelers against the wind and rain. Two great lanterns,
suspended from the iemschik's seat, threw a pale glimmer
scarcely sufficient to light the way, but serving as warning
lights to prevent any other carriage from running into them.

It was well that all these precautions were taken, in ex-
pectation of a rough night. The road led them up towards
dense masses of clouds, and should the clouds not soon
resolve into rain, the fog would be such that the tarantass
would be unable to advance without danger of falling over
some precipice.

The Ural chain does not attain any very great height,
the highest summit not being more than five thousand feet.
Eternal snow is there unknown, and what is piled up by
the Siberian winter is soon melted by the summer sun.
Shrubs and trees grow to a considerable height. The iron
and copper mines, as well as those of precious stones, draw
a considerable number of workmen to that region. Also,
those villages termed "gavody" are there met with pretty
frequently, and the road through the great passes is easily
practicable for post-carriages.

But what is easy enough in fine weather and broad day-
light, offers difficulties and perils when the elements are en-
gaged in fierce warfare, and the traveler is in the midst of it.
Michael Strogoff knew from former experience what a
storm in the mountains was, and perhaps this would be as
terrible as the snowstorms which burst forth with such
vehemence in the winter.

Rain was not yet falling, so Michael raised the leathern
curtains which protected the interior of the tarantass and
looked out, watching the sides of the road, peopled with
fantastic shadows, caused by the wavering light of the
lanterns. Nadia, motionless, her arms folded, gazed forth
also, though without leaning forward, whilst her companion,
his body half out of the carriage, examined both sky and
earth.

The calmness of the atmosphere was very threatening,
the air being perfectly still. It was just as if Nature were
half stifled, and could no longer breathe; her lungs, that
is to say those gloomy, dense clouds, not being able to
perform their functions. The silence would have been com-
plete but for the grindings of the wheels of the tarantass
over the road, the creaking of the axles, the snorting of the
horses, and the clattering of their iron hoofs among the
pebbles, sparks flying out on every side.

The road was perfectly deserted. The tarantass en-
countered neither pedestrians nor horsemen, nor a vehicle
of any description, in the narrow defiles of the Ural, on
this threatening night. Not even the fire of a charcoal-
burner was visible in the woods, not an encampment of
miners near the mines, not a hut among the brushwood.

Under these peculiar circumstances it might have been
allowable to postpone the journey till the morning. Michael
Strogoff, however, had not hesitated, he had no right to
stop, but then -- and it began to cause him some anxiety --
what possible reason could those travelers in the telga ahead
have for being so imprudent?

Michael remained thus on the look-out for some time.
About eleven o'clock lightning began to blaze continuously
in the sky. The shadows of huge pines appeared and dis-
appeared in the rapid light. Sometimes when the tarantass
neared the side of the road, deep gulfs, lit up by the flashes,
could be seen yawning beneath them. From time to time,
on their vehicle giving a worse lurch than usual, they knew
that they were crossing a bridge of roughly-hewn planks
thrown over some chasm, thunder appearing actually to be
rumbling below them. Besides this, a booming sound filled
the air, which increased as they mounted higher. With
these different noises rose the shouts of the iemschik, some-
times scolding, sometimes coaxing his poor beasts, who were
suffering more from the oppression of the air than the
roughness of the roads. Even the bells on the shafts could
no longer rouse them, and they stumbled every instant.

"At what time shall we reach the top of the ridge?"
asked Michael of the iemschik.

"At one o'clock in the morning if we ever get there at
all," replied he, with a shake of his head.

"Why, my friend, this will not be your first storm in
the mountains, will it?"

"No, and pray God it may not be my last!"

"Are you afraid?"

"No, I'm not afraid, but I repeat that I think you were
wrong in starting."

"I should have been still more wrong had I stayed."

"Hold up, my pigeons!" cried the iemschik; it was his
business to obey, not to question.

Just then a distant noise was heard, shrill whistling
through the atmosphere, so calm a minute before. By the
light of a dazzling flash, almost immediately followed by
a tremendous clap of thunder, Michael could see huge pines
on a high peak, bending before the blast. The wind was
unchained, but as yet it was the upper air alone which was
disturbed. Successive crashes showed that many of the
trees had been unable to resist the burst of the hurricane.
An avalanche of shattered trunks swept across the road and
dashed over the precipice on the left, two hundred feet in
front of the tarantass.

The horses stopped short.

"Get up, my pretty doves!" cried the iemschik, adding
the cracking of his whip to the rumbling of the thunder.

Michael took Nadia's hand. "Are you asleep, sister?"

"No, brother."

"Be ready for anything; here comes the storm!"

"I am ready."

Michael Strogoff had only just time to draw the leathern
curtains, when the storm was upon them.

The iemschik leapt from his seat and seized the horses'
heads, for terrible danger threatened the whole party.

The tarantass was at a standstill at a turning of the
road, down which swept the hurricane; it was absolutely
necessary to hold the animals' heads to the wind, for if the
carriage was taken broadside it must infallibly capsize and
be dashed over the precipice. The frightened horses reared,
and their driver could not manage to quiet them. His
friendly expressions had been succeeded by the most insult-
ing epithets. Nothing was of any use. The unfortunate
animals, blinded by the lightning, terrified by the incessant
peals of thunder, threatened every instant to break their
traces and flee. The iemschik had no longer any control
over his team.

At that moment Michael Strogoff threw himself from
the tarantass and rushed to his assistance. Endowed with
more than common strength, he managed, though not with-
out difficulty, to master the horses.

The storm now raged with redoubled fury. A perfect
avalanche of stones and trunks of trees began to roll down
the slope above them.

"We cannot stop here," said Michael.

"We cannot stop anywhere," returned the iemschik, all
his energies apparently overcome by terror. "The storm
will soon send us to the bottom of the mountain, and that
by the shortest way."

"Take you that horse, coward," returned Michael, "I'll
look after this one."

A fresh burst of the storm interrupted him. The driver
and he were obliged to crouch upon the ground to avoid be-
ing blown down. The carriage, notwithstanding their ef-
forts and those of the horses, was gradually blown back,
and had it not been stopped by the trunk of a tree, it would
have gone over the edge of the precipice.

"Do not be afraid, Nadia!" cried Michael Strogoff.

"I'm not afraid," replied the young Livonian, her voice
not betraying the slightest emotion.

The rumbling of the thunder ceased for an instant, the
terrible blast had swept past into the gorge below.

"Will you go back?" said the iemschik.

"No, we must go on! Once past this turning, we shall
have the shelter of the slope."

"But the horses won't move!"

"Do as I do, and drag them on."

"The storm will come back!"

"Do you mean to obey?"

"Do you order it?"

"The Father orders it!" answered Michael, for the first
time invoking the all-powerful name of the Emperor.

"Forward, my swallows!" cried the iemschik, seizing one
horse, while Michael did the same to the other.

Thus urged, the horses began to struggle onward. They
could no longer rear, and the middle horse not being ham-
pered by the others, could keep in the center of the road. It
was with the greatest difficulty that either man or beasts
could stand against the wind, and for every three steps they
took in advance, they lost one, and even two, by being forced
backwards. They slipped, they fell, they got up again.
The vehicle ran a great risk of being smashed. If the hood
had not been securely fastened, it would have been blown
away long before. Michael Strogoff and the iemschik took
more than two hours in getting up this bit of road, only half
a verst in length, so directly exposed was it to the lashing
of the storm. The danger was not only from the wind
which battered against the travelers, but from the avalanche
of stones and broken trunks which were hurtling through
the air.

Suddenly, during a flash of lightning, one of these masses
was seen crashing and rolling down the mountain towards
the tarantass. The iemschik uttered a cry.

Michael Strogoff in vain brought his whip down on the
team, they refused to move.

A few feet farther on, and the mass would pass behind
them! Michael saw the tarantass struck, his companion
crushed; he saw there was no time to drag her from the
vehicle.

Then, possessed in this hour of peril with superhuman
strength, he threw himself behind it, and planting his feet
on the ground, by main force placed it out of danger.

The enormous mass as it passed grazed his chest, taking
away his breath as though it had been a cannon-ball, then
crushing to powder the flints on the road, it bounded into the
abyss below.

"Oh, brother!" cried Nadia, who had seen it all by the
light of the flashes.

"Nadia!" replied Michael, "fear nothing!"

"It is not on my own account that I fear!"

"God is with us, sister!"

"With me truly, brother, since He has sent thee in my
way!" murmured the young girl.

The impetus the tarantass had received was not to be
lost, and the tired horses once more moved forward.
Dragged, so to speak, by Michael and the iemschik, they
toiled on towards a narrow pass, lying north and south,
where they would be protected from the direct sweep of
the tempest. At one end a huge rock jutted out, round
the summit of which whirled an eddy. Behind the shelter
of the rock there was a comparative calm; yet once within
the circumference of the cyclone, neither man nor beast
could resist its power.

Indeed, some firs which towered above this protection
were in a trice shorn of their tops, as though a gigantic
scythe had swept across them. The storm was now at its
height. The lightning filled the defile, and the thunder-
claps had become one continued peal. The ground, struck
by the concussion, trembled as though the whole Ural chain
was shaken to its foundations.

Happily, the tarantass could be so placed that the storm
might strike it obliquely. But the counter-currents, di-
rected towards it by the slope, could not be so well avoided,
and so violent were they that every instant it seemed as
though it would be dashed to pieces.

Nadia was obliged to leave her seat, and Michael, by the
light of one of the lanterns, discovered an excavation bear-
ing the marks of a miner's pick, where the young girl could
rest in safety until they could once more start.

Just then -- it was one o'clock in the morning -- the rain
began to fall in torrents, and this in addition to the wind
and lightning, made the storm truly frightful. To con-
tinue the journey at present was utterly impossible. Be-
sides, having reached this pass, they had only to descend the
slopes of the Ural Mountains, and to descend now, with the
road torn up by a thousand mountain torrents, in these
eddies of wind and rain, was utter madness.

"To wait is indeed serious," said Michael, "but it must
certainly be done, to avoid still longer detentions. The
very violence of the storm makes me hope that it will not
last long. About three o'clock the day will begin to break,
and the descent, which we cannot risk in the dark, we shall
be able, if not with ease, at least without such danger, to
attempt after sunrise."

"Let us wait, brother," replied Nadia; "but if you delay,
let it not be to spare me fatigue or danger."

"Nadia, I know that you are ready to brave everything,
but, in exposing both of us, I risk more than my life, more
than yours, I am not fulfilling my task, that duty which
before everything else I must accomplish."

"A duty!" murmured Nadia.

Just then a bright flash lit up the sky; a loud clap fol-
lowed. The air was filled with sulphurous suffocating
vapor, and a clump of huge pines, struck by the electric
fluid, scarcely twenty feet from the tarantass, flared up like
a gigantic torch.

The iemschik was struck to the ground by a counter-
shock, but, regaining his feet, found himself happily unhurt.

Just as the last growlings of the thunder were lost in
the recesses of the mountain, Michael felt Nadia's hand
pressing his, and he heard her whisper these words in his
ear: "Cries, brother! Listen!"


CHAPTER XI
TRAVELERS IN DISTRESS

DURING the momentary lull which followed, shouts could
be distinctly heard from farther on, at no great distance
from the tarantass. It was an earnest appeal, evidently
from some traveler in distress.

Michael listened attentively. The iemschik also listened,
but shook his head, as though it was impossible to help.

"They are travelers calling for aid," cried Nadia.

"They can expect nothing," replied the iemschik.

"Why not?" cried Michael. "Ought not we do for them
what they would for us under similar circumstances?"

"Surely you will not risk the carriage and horses!"

"I will go on foot," replied Michael, interrupting the
iemschik.

"I will go, too, brother," said the young girl.

"No, remain here, Nadia. The iemschik will stay with
you. I do not wish to leave him alone."

"I will stay," replied Nadia.

"Whatever happens, do not leave this spot."

"You will find me where I now am."

Michael pressed her hand, and, turning the corner of
the slope, disappeared in the darkness.

"Your brother is wrong," said the iemschik.

"He is right," replied Nadia simply.

Meanwhile Strogoff strode rapidly on. If he was in a
great hurry to aid the travelers, he was also very anxious
to know who it was that had not been hindered from start-
ing by the storm; for he had no doubt that the cries came
from the telga, which had so long preceded him.

The rain had stopped, but the storm was raging with re-
doubled fury. The shouts, borne on the air, became more
distinct. Nothing was to be seen of the pass in which
Nadia remained. The road wound along, and the squalls,
checked by the corners, formed eddies highly dangerous,
to pass which, without being taken off his legs, Michael had
to use his utmost strength.

He soon perceived that the travelers whose shouts he
had heard were at no great distance. Even then, on ac-
count of the darkness, Michael could not see them, yet he
heard distinctly their words.

This is what he heard, and what caused him some sur-
prise: "Are you coming back, blockhead?"

"You shall have a taste of the knout at the next stage."

"Do you hear, you devil's postillion! Hullo! Below!"

"This is how a carriage takes you in this country!"

"Yes, this is what you call a telga!"

"Oh, that abominable driver! He goes on and does not
appear to have discovered that he has left us behind!"

"To deceive me, too! Me, an honorable Englishman!
I will make a complaint at the chancellor's office and have
the fellow hanged."

This was said in a very angry tone, but was suddenly
interrupted by a burst of laughter from his companion, who
exclaimed, "Well! this is a good joke, I must say."

"You venture to laugh!" said the Briton angrily.

"Certainly, my dear confrere, and that most heartily.
'Pon my word I never saw anything to come up to it."

Just then a crashing clap of thunder re-echoed through
the defile, and then died away among the distant peaks.
When the sound of the last growl had ceased, the merry
voice went on: "Yes, it undoubtedly is a good joke. This
machine certainly never came from France."

"Nor from England," replied the other.

On the road, by the light of the flashes, Michael saw,
twenty yards from him, two travelers, seated side by side
in a most peculiar vehicle, the wheels of which were deeply
imbedded in the ruts formed in the road.

He approached them, the one grinning from ear to ear,
and the other gloomily contemplating his situation, and rec-
ognized them as the two reporters who had been his com-
panions on board the Caucasus.

"Good-morning to you, sir," cried the Frenchman.
"Delighted to see you here. Let me introduce you to my
intimate enemy, Mr. Blount."

The English reporter bowed, and was about to introduce
in his turn his companion, Alcide Jolivet, in accordance
with the rules of society, when Michael interrupted him.

"Perfectly unnecessary, sir; we already know each other,
for we traveled together on the Volga."

"Ah, yes! exactly so! Mr. --"

"Nicholas Korpanoff, merchant, of Irkutsk. But may I
know what has happened which, though a misfortune to your
companion, amuses you so much?"

"Certainly, Mr. Korpanoff," replied Alcide. "Fancy!
our driver has gone off with the front part of this con-
founded carriage, and left us quietly seated in the back part!
So here we are in the worse half of a telga; no driver, no
horses. Is it not a joke?"

"No joke at all," said the Englishman.

"Indeed it is, my dear fellow. You do not know how
to look at the bright side of things."

"How, pray, are we to go on?" asked Blount.

"That is the easiest thing in the world," replied Alcide.
"Go and harness yourself to what remains of our cart; I
will take the reins, and call you my little pigeon, like a true
iemschik, and you will trot off like a real post-horse."

"Mr. Jolivet," replied the Englishman, "this joking is
going too far, it passes all limits and --"

"Now do be quiet, my dear sir. When you are done
up, I will take your place; and call me a broken-winded
snail and faint-hearted tortoise if I don't take you over the
ground at a rattling pace."

Alcide said all this with such perfect good-humor that
Michael could not help smiling. "Gentlemen," said he,
"here is a better plan. We have now reached the highest
ridge of the Ural chain, and thus have merely to descend
the slopes of the mountain. My carriage is close by, only
two hundred yards behind. I will lend you one of my
horses, harness it to the remains of the telga, and to-mor-
how, if no accident befalls us, we will arrive together at
Ekaterenburg."

"That, Mr. Korpanoff," said Alcide, "is indeed a gen-
erous proposal."

"Indeed, sir," replied Michael, "I would willingly offer
you places in my tarantass, but it will only hold two, and my
sister and I already fill it."

"Really, sir," answered Alcide, "with your horse and
our demi-telga we will go to the world's end."

"Sir," said Harry Blount, "we most willingly accept
your kind offer. And, as to that iemschik --"

"Oh! I assure you that you are not the first travelers
who have met with a similar misfortune," replied Michael.

"But why should not our driver come back? He knows
perfectly well that he has left us behind, wretch that he is!"

"He! He never suspected such a thing."

"What! the fellow not know that he was leaving the
better half of his telga behind?"

"Not a bit, and in all good faith is driving the fore part
into Ekaterenburg."

"Did I not tell you that it was a good joke, confrere?"
cried Alcide.

"Then, gentlemen, if you will follow me," said Michael,
"we will return to my carriage, and --"

"But the telga," observed the Englishman.

"There is not the slightest fear that it will fly away, my
dear Blount!" exclaimed Alcide; "it has taken such good
root in the ground, that if it were left here until next spring
it would begin to bud."

"Come then, gentlemen," said Michael Strogoff, "and
we will bring up the tarantass."

The Frenchman and the Englishman, descending from
their seats, no longer the hinder one, since the front had
taken its departure, followed Michael.

Walking along, Alcide Jolivet chattered away as usual,
with his invariable good-humor. "Faith, Mr. Korpanoff,"
said he, "you have indeed got us out of a bad scrape."

"I have only done, sir," replied Michael, "what anyone
would have done in my place."

"Well, sir, you have done us a good turn, and if you are
going farther we may possibly meet again, and --"

Alcide Jolivet did not put any direct question to Michael
as to where he was going, but the latter, not wishing it to
be suspected that he had anything to conceal, at once replied,
"I am bound for Omsk, gentlemen."

"Mr. Blount and I," replied Alcide, "go where danger
is certainly to be found, and without doubt news also."

"To the invaded provinces?" asked Michael with some
earnestness.

"Exactly so, Mr. Korpanoff; and we may possibly meet
there."

"Indeed, sir," replied Michael, "I have little love for
cannon-balls or lance points, and am by nature too great
a lover of peace to venture where fighting is going on."

"I am sorry, sir, extremely sorry; we must only regret
that we shall separate so soon! But on leaving Ekateren-
burg it may be our fortunate fate to travel together, if only
for a few days?"

"Do you go on to Omsk?" asked Michael, after a mo-
ment's reflection.

"We know nothing as yet," replied Alcide; "but we
shall certainly go as far as Ishim, and once there, our
movements must depend on circumstances."

"Well then, gentlemen," said Michael, "we will be fel-
low-travelers as far as Ishim."

Michael would certainly have preferred to travel alone,
but he could not, without appearing at least singular, seek
to separate himself from the two reporters, who were taking
the same road that he was. Besides, since Alcide and his
companion intended to make some stay at Ishim, he thought
it rather convenient than otherwise to make that part of
the journey in their company.

Then in an indifferent tone he asked, "Do you know,
with any certainty, where this Tartar invasion is?"

"Indeed, sir," replied Alcide, "we only know what they
said at Perm. Feofar-Khan's Tartars have invaded the
whole province of Semipolatinsk, and for some days, by
forced marches, have been descending the Irtish. You must
hurry if you wish to get to Omsk before them."

"Indeed I must," replied Michael.

"It is reported also that Colonel Ogareff has succeeded
in passing the frontier in disguise, and that he will not be
slow in joining the Tartar chief in the revolted country."

"But how do they know it?" asked Michael, whom this
news, more or less true, so directly concerned.

"Oh! as these things are always known," replied Alcide;
"it is in the air."

"Then have you really reason to think that Colonel
Ogareff is in Siberia?"

"I myself have heard it said that he was to take the
road from Kasan to Ekaterenburg."

"Ah! you know that, Mr. Jolivet?" said Harry Blount,
roused from his silence.

"I knew it," replied Alcide.

"And do you know that he went disguised as a gypsy!"
asked Blount.

"As a gypsy!" exclaimed Michael, almost involuntarily,
and he suddenly remembered the look of the old Bohemian
at Nijni-Novgorod, his voyage on board the Caucasus, and
his disembarking at Kasan.

"Just well enough to make a few remarks on the subject
in a letter to my cousin," replied Alcide, smiling.

"You lost no time at Kasan," dryly observed the English-
man.

"No, my dear fellow! and while the Caucasus was laying
in her supply of fuel, I was employed in obtaining a store of
information."

Michael no longer listened to the repartee which Harry
Blount and Alcide exchanged. He was thinking of the
gypsy troupe, of the old Tsigane, whose face he had not
been able to see, and of the strange woman who accom-
panied him, and then of the peculiar glance which she had
cast at him. Suddenly, close by he heard a pistol-shot.

"Ah! forward, sirs!" cried he.

"Hullo!" said Alcide to himself, "this quiet merchant
who always avoids bullets is in a great hurry to go where
they are flying about just now!"

Quickly followed by Harry Blount, who was not a man
to be behind in danger, he dashed after Michael. In another
instant the three were opposite the projecting rock which
protected the tarantass at the turning of the road.

The clump of pines struck by the lightning was still
burning. There was no one to be seen. However, Michael
was not mistaken. Suddenly a dreadful growling was
heard, and then another report.

"A bear;" cried Michael, who could not mistake the
growling. "Nadia; Nadia!" And drawing his cutlass
from his belt, Michael bounded round the buttress behind
which the young girl had promised to wait.

The pines, completely enveloped in flames, threw a wild
glare on the scene. As Michael reached the tarantass, a
huge animal retreated towards him.

It was a monstrous bear. The tempest had driven it
from the woods, and it had come to seek refuge in this cave,
doubtless its habitual retreat, which Nadia then occupied.

Two of the horses, terrified at the presence of the
enormous creature, breaking their traces, had escaped, and
the iemschik, thinking only of his beasts, leaving Nadia face
to face with the bear, had gone in pursuit of them.

But the brave girl had not lost her presence of mind.
The animal, which had not at first seen her, was attacking
the remaining horse. Nadia, leaving the shelter in which
she had been crouching, had run to the carriage, taken one
of Michael's revolvers, and, advancing resolutely towards
the bear, had fired close to it.

The animal, slightly wounded in the shoulder, turned
on the girl, who rushed for protection behind the tarantass,
but then, seeing that the horse was attempting to break its
traces, and knowing that if it did so, and the others were
not recovered, their journey could not be continued, with
the most perfect coolness she again approached the bear,
and, as it raised its paws to strike her down, gave it the
contents of the second barrel.

This was the report which Michael had just heard. In
an instant he was on the spot. Another bound and he
was between the bear and the girl. His arm made one
movement upwards, and the enormous beast, ripped up by
that terrible knife, fell to the ground a lifeless mass. He
had executed in splendid style the famous blow of the
Siberian hunters, who endeavor not to damage the precious
fur of the bear, which fetches a high price.

"You are not wounded, sister?" said Michael, springing
to the side of the young girl.

"No, brother," replied Nadia.

At that moment the two journalists came up. Alcide
seized the horse's head, and, in an instant, his strong wrist
mastered it. His companion and he had seen Michael's
rapid stroke. "Bravo!" cried Alcide; "for a simple mer-
chant, Mr. Korpanoff, you handle the hunter's knife in a
most masterly fashion."

"Most masterly, indeed," added Blount.

"In Siberia," replied Michael, "we are obliged to do a
little of everything."

Alcide regarded him attentively. Seen in the bright
glare, his knife dripping with blood, his tall figure, his foot
firm on the huge carcass, he was indeed worth looking at.

"A formidable fellow," said Alcide to himself. Then
advancing respectfully, he saluted the young girl.

Nadia bowed slightly.

Alcide turned towards his companion. "The sister
worthy of the brother!" said he. "Now, were I a bear,
I should not meddle with two so brave and so charming."

Harry Blount, perfectly upright, stood, hat in hand, at
some distance. His companion's easy manners only in-
creased his usual stiffness.

At that moment the iemschik, who had succeeded in re-
capturing his two horses, reappeared. He cast a regretful
glance at the magnificent animal lying on the ground, loth
to leave it to the birds of prey, and then proceeded once
more to harness his team.

Michael acquainted him with the travelers' situation, and
his intention of loaning one of the horses.

"As you please," replied the iemschik. "Only, you
know, two carriages instead of one."

"All right, my friend," said Alcide, who understood the
insinuation, "we will pay double."

"Then gee up, my turtle-doves!" cried the iemschik.

Nadia again took her place in the tarantass. Michael
and his companions followed on foot. It was three o'clock.
The storm still swept with terrific violence across the defile.
When the first streaks of daybreak appeared the tarantass
had reached the telga, which was still conscientiously im-
bedded as far as the center of the wheel. Such being the
case, it can be easily understood how a sudden jerk would
separate the front from the hinder part. One of the horses
was now harnessed by means of cords to the remains of the
telga, the reporters took their place on the singular equipage,
and the two carriages started off. They had now only to
descend the Ural slopes, in doing which there was not the
slightest difficulty.

Six hours afterwards the two vehicles, the tarantass pre-
ceding the telga, arrived at Ekaterenburg, nothing worthy of
note having happened in the descent.

The first person the reporters perceived at the door of the
post-house was their iemschik, who appeared to be waiting
for them. This worthy Russian had a fine open coun-
tenance, and he smilingly approached the travelers, and,
holding out his hand, in a quiet tone he demanded the usual
"pour-boire."

This very cool request roused Blount's ire to its highest
pitch, and had not the iemschik prudently retreated, a
straight-out blow of the fist, in true British boxing style,
would have paid his claim of "na vodkou."

Alcide Jolivet, at this burst of anger, laughed as he had
never laughed before.

"But the poor devil is quite right!" he cried. "He is
perfectly right, my dear fellow. It is not his fault if we did
not know how to follow him!"

Then drawing several copecks from his pocket, "Here
my friend," said he, handing them to the iemschik; "take
them. If you have not earned them, that is not your fault."

This redoubled Mr. Blount's irritation. He even began
to speak of a lawsuit against the owner of the telga.

"A lawsuit in Russia, my dear fellow!" cried Alcide.
"Things must indeed change should it ever be brought to
a conclusion! Did you never hear the story of the wet-
nurse who claimed payment of twelve months' nursing of
some poor little infant?"

"I never heard it," replied Harry Blount.

"Then you do not know what that suckling had become
by the time judgment was given in favor of the nurse?"

"What was he, pray?"

"Colonel of the Imperial Guard!"

At this reply all burst into a laugh.

Alcide, enchanted with his own joke, drew out his note-
book, and in it wrote the following memorandum, destined
to figure in a forthcoming French and Russian dictionary:
"Telga, a Russian carriage with four wheels, that is when
it starts; with two wheels, when it arrives at its destination."


CHAPTER XII
PROVOCATION

EKATERENBURG, geographically, is an Asiatic city; for it
is situated beyond the Ural Mountains, on the farthest
eastern slopes of the chain. Nevertheless, it belongs to the
government of Perm; and, consequently, is included in one
of the great divisions of European Russia. It is as though
a morsel of Siberia lay in Russian jaws.

Neither Michael nor his companions were likely to ex-
perience the slightest difficulty in obtaining means of con-
tinuing their journey in so large a town as Ekaterenburg.
It was founded in 1723, and has since become a place of
considerable size, for in it is the chief mint of the empire.
There also are the headquarters of the officials employed in
the management of the mines. Thus the town is the center
of an important district, abounding in manufactories prin-
cipally for the working and refining of gold and platina.

Just now the population of Ekaterenburg had greatly
increased; many Russians and Siberians, menaced by the
Tartar invasion, having collected there. Thus, though it
had been so troublesome a matter to find horses and vehicles
when going to Ekaterenburg, there was no difficulty in leav-
ing it; for under present circumstances few travelers cared
to venture on the Siberian roads.

So it happened that Blount and Alcide had not the slight-
est trouble in replacing, by a sound telga, the famous demi-
carriage which had managed to take them to Ekaterenburg.
As to Michael, he retained his tarantass, which was not
much the worse for its journey across the Urals; and he had
only to harness three good horses to it to take him swiftly
over the road to Irkutsk.

As far as Tioumen, and even up to Novo-Zaimskoe, this
road has slight inclines, which gentle undulations are the
first signs of the slopes of the Ural Mountains. But after
Novo-Zaimskoe begins the immense steppe.

At Ichim, as we have said, the reporters intended to stop,
that is at about four hundred and twenty miles from Eka-
terenburg. There they intended to be guided by circum-
stances as to their route across the invaded country, either
together or separately, according as their news-hunting in-
stinct set them on one track or another.

This road from Ekaterenburg to Ichim -- which passes
through Irkutsk -- was the only one which Michael could
take. But, as he did not run after news, and wished, on
the contrary, to avoid the country devastated by the in-
vaders, he determined to stop nowhere.

"I am very happy to make part of my journey in your
company," said he to his new companions, "but I must tell
you that I am most anxious to reach Omsk; for my sister
and I are going to rejoin our mother. Who can say whether
we shall arrive before the Tartars reach the town! I must
therefore stop at the post-houses only long enough to change
horses, and must travel day and night."

"That is exactly what we intend doing," replied Blount.

"Good," replied Michael; "but do not lose an instant.
Buy or hire a carriage whose --"

"Whose hind wheels," added Alcide, "are warranted to
arrive at the same time as its front wheels."

Half an hour afterwards the energetic Frenchman had
found a tarantass in which he and his companion at once
seated themselves. Michael and Nadia once more entered
their own carriage, and at twelve o'clock the two vehicles
left the town of Ekaterenburg together.

Nadia was at last in Siberia, on that long road which led
to Irkutsk. What must then have been the thoughts of
the young girl? Three strong swift horses were taking
her across that land of exile where her parent was con-
demned to live, for how long she knew not, and so far from
his native land. But she scarcely noticed those long steppes
over which the tarantass was rolling, and which at one time
she had despaired of ever seeing, for her eyes were gazing
at the horizon, beyond which she knew her banished father
was. She saw nothing of the country across which she
was traveling at the rate of fifteen versts an hour; nothing
of these regions of Western Siberia, so different from those
of the east. Here, indeed, were few cultivated fields; the
soil was poor, at least at the surface, but in its bowels lay
hid quantities of iron, copper, platina, and gold. How
can hands be found to cultivate the land, when it pays better
to burrow beneath the earth? The pickaxe is everywhere
at work; the spade nowhere.

However, Nadia's thoughts sometimes left the provinces
of Lake Baikal, and returned to her present situation. Her
father's image faded away, and was replaced by that of her
generous companion as he first appeared on the Vladimir
railroad. She recalled his attentions during that journey,
his arrival at the police-station, the hearty simplicity with
which he had called her sister, his kindness to her in the
descent of the Volga, and then all that he did for her on
that terrible night of the storm in the Urals, when he saved
her life at the peril of his own.

Thus Nadia thought of Michael. She thanked God for
having given her such a gallant protector, a friend so gen-
erous and wise. She knew that she was safe with him,
under his protection. No brother could have done more
than he. All obstacles seemed cleared away; the perform-
ance of her journey was but a matter of time.

Michael remained buried in thought. He also thanked
God for having brought about this meeting with Nadia,
which at the same time enabled him to do a good action,
and afforded him additional means for concealing his true
character. He delighted in the young girl's calm intre-
pidity. Was she not indeed his sister? His feeling towards
his beautiful and brave companion was rather respect than
affection. He felt that hers was one of those pure and rare
hearts which are held by all in high esteem.

However, Michael's dangers were now beginning, since
he had reached Siberian ground. If the reporters were
not mistaken, if Ivan Ogareff had really passed the frontier,
all his actions must be made with extreme caution. Things
were now altered; Tartar spies swarmed in the Siberian
provinces. His incognito once discovered, his character as
courier of the Czar known, there was an end of his journey,
and probably of his life. Michael felt now more than ever
the weight of his responsibility.

While such were the thoughts of those occupying the
first carriage, what was happening in the second? Nothing
out of the way. Alcide spoke in sentences; Blount replied
by monosyllables. Each looked at everything in his own
light, and made notes of such incidents as occurred on the
journey -- few and but slightly varied -- while they crossed
the provinces of Western Siberia.

At each relay the reporters descended from their carriage
and found themselves with Michael. Except when meals
were to be taken at the post-houses, Nadia did not leave
the tarantass. When obliged to breakfast or dine, she sat
at table, but was always very reserved, and seldom joined in
conversation.

Alcide, without going beyond the limits of strict pro-
priety, showed that he was greatly struck by the young
girl. He admired the silent energy which she showed in
bearing all the fatigues of so difficult a journey.

The forced stoppages were anything but agreeable to
Michael; so he hastened the departure at each relay, roused
the innkeepers, urged on the iemschiks, and expedited the
harnessing of the tarantass. Then the hurried meal over --
always much too hurried to agree with Blount, who was a
methodical eater -- they started, and were driven as eagles,
for they paid like princes.

It need scarcely be said that Blount did not trouble him-
self about the girl at table. That gentleman was not in the
habit of doing two things at once. She was also one of the
few subjects of conversation which he did not care to dis-
cuss with his companion.

Alcide having asked him, on one occasion, how old he
thought the girl, "What girl?" he replied, quite seriously.

"Why, Nicholas Korpanoff's sister."

"Is she his sister?"

"No; his grandmother!" replied Alcide, angry at his in-
difference. "What age should you consider her?"

"Had I been present at her birth I might have known."

Very few of the Siberian peasants were to be seen in the
fields. These peasants are remarkable for their pale, grave
faces, which a celebrated traveler has compared to those of
the Castilians, without the haughtiness of the latter. Here
and there some villages already deserted indicated the ap-
proach of the Tartar hordes. The inhabitants, having
driven off their flocks of sheep, their camels, and their
horses, were taking refuge in the plains of the north. Some
tribes of the wandering Kirghiz, who remained faithful, had
transported their tents beyond the Irtych, to escape the dep-
redations of the invaders.

Happily, post traveling was as yet uninterrupted; and
telegraphic communication could still be effected between
places connected with the wire. At each relay horses were
to be had on the usual conditions. At each telegraphic sta-
tion the clerks transmitted messages delivered to them, de-
laying for State dispatches alone.

Thus far, then, Michael's journey had been accomplished
satisfactorily. The courier of the Czar had in no way been
impeded; and, if he could only get on to Krasnoiarsk, which
seemed the farthest point attained by Feofar-Khan's Tar-
tars, he knew that he could arrive at Irkutsk, before them.
The day after the two carriages had left Ekaterenburg they
reached the small town of Toulouguisk at seven o'clock in
the morning, having covered two hundred and twenty versts,
no event worthy of mention having occurred. The same
evening, the 22d of July, they arrived at Tioumen.

Tioumen, whose population is usually ten thousand in-
habitants, then contained double that number. This, the
first industrial town established by the Russians in Siberia,
in which may be seen a fine metal-refining factory and a bell
foundry, had never before presented such an animated ap-
pearance. The correspondents immediately went off after
news. That brought by Siberian fugitives from the seat
of war was far from reassuring. They said, amongst other
things, that Feofar-Khan's army was rapidly approaching
the valley of the Ichim, and they confirmed the report that
the Tartar chief was soon to be joined by Colonel Ogareff,
if he had not been so already. Hence the conclusion was
that operations would be pushed in Eastern Siberia with the
greatest activity. However, the loyal Cossacks of the gov-
ernment of Tobolsk were advancing by forced marches
towards Tomsk, in the hope of cutting off the Tartar
columns.

At midnight the town of Novo-Saimsk was reached; and
the travelers now left behind them the country broken by
tree-covered hills, the last remains of the Urals.

Here began the regular Siberian steppe which extends
to the neighborhood of Krasnoiarsk. It is a boundless
plain, a vast grassy desert; earth and sky here form a circle
as distinct as that traced by a sweep of the compasses. The
steppe presents nothing to attract notice but the long line of
the telegraph posts, their wires vibrating in the breeze like
the strings of a harp. The road could be distinguished
from the rest of the plain only by the clouds of fine dust
which rose under the wheels of the tarantass. Had it not
been for this white riband, which stretched away as far as
the eye could reach, the travelers might have thought them-
selves in a desert.

Michael and his companions again pressed rapidly for-
ward. The horses, urged on by the iemschik, seemed to fly
over the ground, for there was not the slightest obstacle to
impede them. The tarantass was going straight for Ichim,
where the two correspondents intended to stop, if nothing
happened to make them alter their plans.

A hundred and twenty miles separated Novo-Saimsk
from the town of Ichim, and before eight o'clock the next
evening the distance could and should be accomplished if
no time was lost. In the opinion of the iemschiks, should
the travelers not be great lords or high functionaries, they
were worthy of being so, if it was only for their generosity
in the matter of "na vodkou."

On the afternoon of the next day, the 23rd of July, the
two carriages were not more than thirty versts from Ichim.
Suddenly Michael caught sight of a carriage -- scarcely
visible among the clouds of dust -- preceding them along
the road. As his horses were evidently less fatigued than
those of the other traveler, he would not be long in over-
taking it. This was neither a tarantass nor a telga, but a
post-berlin, which looked as if it had made a long journey.
The postillion was thrashing his horses with all his might,
and only kept them at a gallop by dint of abuse and blows.
The berlin had certainly not passed through Novo-Saimsk,
and could only have struck the Irkutsk road by some less
frequented route across the steppe.

Our travelers' first thought, on seeing this berlin, was
to get in front of it, and arrive first at the relay,
so as to make sure of fresh horses. They said a word
to their iemschiks, who soon brought them up with the
berlin.

Michael Strogoff came up first. As he passed, a head
was thrust out of the window of the berlin.

He had not time to see what it was like, but as he dashed
by he distinctly heard this word, uttered in an imperious
tone: "Stop!"

But they did not stop; on the contrary, the berlin was
soon distanced by the two tarantasses.

It now became a regular race; for the horses of the ber-
lin -- no doubt excited by the sight and pace of the others --
recovered their strength and kept up for some minutes.
The three carriages were hidden in a cloud of dust. From
this cloud issued the cracking of whips mingled with ex-
cited shouts and exclamations of anger.

Nevertheless, the advantage remained with Michael and
his companions, which might be very important to them
if the relay was poorly provided with horses. Two car-
riages were perhaps more than the postmaster could provide
for, at least in a short space of time.

Half an hour after the berlin was left far behind, look-
ing only a speck on the horizon of the steppe.

It was eight o'clock in the evening when the two car-
riages reached Ichim. The news was worse and worse with
regard to the invasion. The town itself was menaced by
the Tartar vanguard; and two days before the authorities
had been obliged to retreat to Tobolsk. There was not an
officer nor a soldier left in Ichim.

On arriving at the relay, Michael Strogoff immediately
asked for horses. He had been fortunate in distancing the
berlin. Only three horses were fit to be harnessed. The
others had just come in worn out from a long stage.

As the two correspondents intended to stop at Ichim,
they had not to trouble themselves to find transport, and
had their carriage put away. In ten minutes Michael was
told that his tarantass was ready to start.

"Good," said he.

Then turning to the two reporters: "Well, gentlemen,
the time is come for us to separate."

"What, Mr. Korpanoff," said Alcide Jolivet, "shall you
not stop even for an hour at Ichim?"

"No, sir; and I also wish to leave the post-house before
the arrival of the berlin which we distanced."

"Are you afraid that the traveler will dispute the horses
with you?"

"I particularly wish to avoid any difficulty."

"Then, Mr. Korpanoff," said Jolivet, "it only remains
for us to thank you once more for the service you rendered
us, and the pleasure we have had in traveling with you."

"It is possible that we shall meet you again in a few
days at Omsk," added Blount.

"It is possible," answered Michael, "since I am going
straight there."

"Well, I wish you a safe journey, Mr. Korpanoff," said
Alcide, "and Heaven preserve you from telgas."

The two reporters held out their hands to Michael with
the intention of cordially shaking his, when the sound of a
carriage was heard outside. Almost immediately the door
was flung open and a man appeared.

It was the traveler of the berlin, a military-looking man,
apparently about forty years of age, tall, robust in figure,
broad-shouldered, with a strongly-set head, and thick mus-
taches meeting red whiskers. He wore a plain uniform.
A cavalry saber hung at his side, and in his hand he held a
short-handled whip.

"Horses," he demanded, with the air of a man accus-
tomed to command.

"I have no more disposable horses," answered the post-
master, bowing.

"I must have some this moment."

"It is impossible."

"What are those horses which have just been harnessed
to the tarantass I saw at the door?"

"They belong to this traveler," answered the postmaster,
pointing to Michael Strogoff.

"Take them out!" said the traveler in a tone which
admitted of no reply.

Michael then advanced.

"These horses are engaged by me," he said.

"What does that matter? I must have them. Come,
be quick; I have no time to lose."

"I have no time to lose either," replied Michael, re-
straining himself with difficulty.

Nadia was near him, calm also, but secretly uneasy at
a scene which it would have been better to avoid.

"Enough!" said the traveler. Then, going up to the
postmaster, "Let the horses be put into my berlin," he ex-
claimed with a threatening gesture.

The postmaster, much embarrassed, did not know whom
to obey, and looked at Michael, who evidently had the right
to resist the unjust demands of the traveler.

Michael hesitated an instant. He did not wish to make
use of his podorojna, which would have drawn attention to
him, and he was most unwilling also, by giving up his
horses, to delay his journey, and yet he must not engage
in a struggle which might compromise his mission.

The two reporters looked at him ready to support him
should he appeal to them.

"My horses will remain in my carriage," said Michael,
but without raising his tone more than would be suitable
for a plain Irkutsk merchant.

The traveler advanced towards Michael and laid his hand
heavily on his shoulder. "Is it so?" he said roughly.
"You will not give up your horses to me?"

"No," answered Michael.

"Very well, they shall belong to whichever of us is able
to start. Defend yourself; I shall not spare you!"

So saying, the traveler drew his saber from its sheath,
and Nadia threw herself before Michael.

Blount and Alcide Jolivet advanced towards him.

"I shall not fight," said Michael quietly, folding his arms
across his chest.

"You will not fight?"

"No."

"Not even after this?" exclaimed the traveler. And
before anyone could prevent him, he struck Michael's
shoulder with the handle of the whip.  At this insult
Michael turned deadly pale. His hands moved convulsively
as if he would have knocked the brute down. But by a
tremendous effort he mastered himself. A duel! it was
more than a delay; it was perhaps the failure of his mission.
It would be better to lose some hours. Yes; but to swallow
this affront!

"Will you fight now, coward?" repeated the traveler,
adding coarseness to brutality.

"No," answered Michael, without moving, but looking
the other straight in the face.

"The horses this moment," said the man, and left the
room.

The postmaster followed him, after shrugging his
shoulders and bestowing on Michael a glance of anything
but approbation.

The effect produced on the reporters by this incident was
not to Michael's advantage. Their discomfiture was vis-
ible. How could this strong young man allow himself to
be struck like that and not demand satisfaction for such
an insult? They contented themselves with bowing to him
and retired, Jolivet remarking to Harry Blount

"I could not have believed that of a man who is so skill-
ful in finishing up Ural Mountain bears. Is it the case that
a man can be courageous at one time and a coward at an-
other? It is quite incomprehensible."

A moment afterwards the noise of wheels and whip showed
that the berlin, drawn by the tarantass' horses, was driving
rapidly away from the post-house.

Nadia, unmoved, and Michael, still quivering, remained
alone in the room. The courier of the Czar, his arms
crossed over his chest was seated motionless as a statue.
A color, which could not have been the blush of shame, had
replaced the paleness on his countenance.

Nadia did not doubt that powerful reasons alone could have
allowed him to suffer so great a humiliation from such a
man. Going up to him as he had come to her in the police-
station at Nijni-Novgorod:

"Your hand, brother," said she.

And at the same time her hand, with an almost maternal
gesture, wiped away a tear which sprang to her compan-
ion's eye.


CHAPTER XIII
DUTY BEFORE EVERYTHING

NADIA, with the clear perception of a right-minded
woman, guessed that some secret motive directed all
Michael Strogoff's actions; that he, for a reason unknown
to her, did not belong to himself; and that in this instance
especially he had heroically sacrificed to duty even his re-
sentment at the gross injury he had received.

Nadia, therefore, asked no explanation from Michael.
Had not the hand which she had extended to him already
replied to all that he might have been able to tell her?

Michael remained silent all the evening. The postmas-
ter not being able to supply them with fresh horses until
the next morning, a whole night must be passed at the
house. Nadia could profit by it to take some rest, and a
room was therefore prepared for her.

The young girl would no doubt have preferred not to
leave her companion, but she felt that he would rather be
alone, and she made ready to go to her room.

Just as she was about to retire she could not refrain from
going up to Michael to say good-night.

"Brother," she whispered. But he checked her with a
gesture. The girl sighed and left the room.

Michael Strogoff did not lie down. He could not have
slept even for an hour. The place on which he had been
struck by the brutal traveler felt like a burn.

"For my country and the Father," he muttered as he
ended his evening prayer.

He especially felt a great wish to know who was the
man who had struck him, whence he came, and where he
was going. As to his face, the features of it were so deeply
engraven on his memory that he had no fear of ever forget-
ting them.

Michael Strogoff at last asked for the postmaster. The
latter, a Siberian of the old type, came directly, and look-
ing rather contemptuously at the young man, waited to be
questioned.

"You belong to the country?" asked Michael.

"Yes."

"Do you know that man who took my horses?"

"No."

"Had you never seen him before?"

"Never."

"Who do you think he was?"

"A man who knows how to make himself obeyed."

Michael fixed his piercing gaze upon the Siberian, but
the other did not quail before it.

"Do you dare to judge me?" exclaimed Michael.

"Yes," answered the Siberian, "there are some things
even a plain merchant cannot receive without returning."

"Blows?"

"Blows, young man. I am of an age and strength to
tell you so."

Michael went up to the postmaster and laid his two
powerful hands on his shoulders.

Then in a peculiarly calm tone, "Be off, my friend," said
he: "be off! I could kill you."

The postmaster understood.   "I like him better for
that," he muttered and retired without another word.

At eight o'clock the next morning, the 24th of July,
three strong horses were harnessed to the tarantass.
Michael Strogoff and Nadia took their places, and Ichim,
with its disagreeable remembrances, was soon left far be-
hind.

At the different relays at which they stopped during the
day Strogoff ascertained that the berlin still preceded them
on the road to Irkutsk, and that the traveler, as hurried as
they were, never lost a minute in pursuing his way across
the steppe.

At four o'clock in the evening they reached Abatskaia,
fifty miles farther on, where the Ichim, one of the principal
affluents of the Irtych, had to be crossed. This passage
was rather more difficult than that of the Tobol. Indeed
the current of the Ichim was very rapid just at that place.
During the Siberian winter, the rivers being all frozen to
a thickness of several feet, they are easily practicable, and
the traveler even crosses them without being aware of the
fact, for their beds have disappeared under the snowy sheet
spread uniformly over the steppe; but in summer the diffi-
culties of crossing are sometimes great.

In fact, two hours were taken up in making the passage
of the Ichim, which much exasperated Michael, especially
as the boatmen gave them alarming news of the Tartar in-
vasion. Some of Feofar-Khan's scouts had already ap-
peared on both banks of the lower Ichim, in the southern
parts of the government of Tobolsk. Omsk was threatened.
They spoke of an engagement which had taken place be-
tween the Siberian and Tartar troops on the frontier of the
great Kirghese horde -- an engagement not to the advantage
of the Russians, who were weak in numbers. The troops
had retreated thence, and in consequence there had been
a general emigration of all the peasants of the province.
The boatmen spoke of horrible atrocities committed by the
invaders -- pillage, theft, incendiarism, murder. Such was
the system of Tartar warfare.

The people all fled before Feofar-Khan.  Michael
Strogoff's great fear was lest, in the depopulation of the
towns, he should be unable to obtain the means of transport.
He was therefore extremely anxious to reach Omsk. Per-
haps there they would get the start of the Tartar scouts,
who were coming down the valley of the Irtych, and would
find the road open to Irkutsk.

Just at the place where the tarantass crossed the river
ended what is called, in military language, the "Ichim
chain" -- a chain of towers, or little wooden forts, extending
from the southern frontier of Siberia for a distance of
nearly four hundred versts. Formerly these forts were
occupied by detachments of Cossacks, and they protected
the country against the Kirghese, as well as against the
Tartars. But since the Muscovite Government had believed
these hordes reduced to absolute submission, they had been
abandoned, and now could not be used; just at the time
when they were needed. Many of these forts had been re-
duced to ashes; and the boatmen even pointed out the smoke
to Michael, rising in the southern horizon, and showing the
approach of the Tartar advance-guard.

As soon as the ferryboat landed the tarantass on the
right bank of the Ichim, the journey across the steppe was
resumed with all speed. Michael Strogoff remained very
silent. He was, however, always attentive to Nadia, help-
ing her to bear the fatigue of this long journey without
break or rest; but the girl never complained. She longed
to give wings to the horses. Something told her that her
companion was even more anxious than herself to reach
Irkutsk; and how many versts were still between!

It also occurred to her that if Omsk was entered by the
Tartars, Michael's mother, who lived there, would be in
danger, and that this was sufficient to explain her son's im-
patience to get to her.

Nadia at last spoke to him of old Marfa, and of how un-
protected she would be in the midst of all these events.

"Have you received any news of your mother since the
beginning of the invasion?" she asked.

"None, Nadia. The last letter my mother wrote to me
contained good news. Marfa is a brave and energetic
Siberian woman. Notwithstanding her age, she has pre-
served all her moral strength. She knows how to suffer."

"I shall see her, brother," said Nadia quickly. "Since
you give me the name of sister, I am Marfa's daughter."

And as Michael did not answer she added:

"Perhaps your mother has been able to leave Omsk?"

"It is possible, Nadia," replied Michael; "and I hope
she may have reached Tobolsk. Marfa hates the Tartars.
She knows the steppe, and would have no fear in just tak-
ing her staff and going down the banks of the Irtych.
There is not a spot in all the province unknown to her.
Many times has she traveled all over the country with my
father; and many times I myself, when a mere child, have
accompanied them across the Siberian desert. Yes, Nadia,
I trust that my mother has left Omsk."

"And when shall you see her?"

"I shall see her -- on my return."

"If, however, your mother is still at Omsk, you will be
able to spare an hour to go to her?"

"I shall not go and see her."

"You will not see her?"

"No, Nadia," said Michael, his chest heaving as he felt
he could not go on replying to the girl's questions.

"You say no! Why, brother, if your mother is still at
Omsk, for what reason could you refuse to see her?"

"For what reason, Nadia? You ask me for what rea-
son," exclaimed Michael, in so changed a voice that the
young girl started. "For the same reason as that which
made me patient even to cowardice with the villain who --"
He could not finish his sentence.

"Calm yourself, brother," said Nadia in a gentle voice.
"I only know one thing, or rather I do not know it, I feel
it. It is that all your conduct is now directed by the senti-
ment of a duty more sacred -- if there can be one -- than
that which unites the son to the mother."

Nadia was silent, and from that moment avoided every
subject which in any way touched on Michael's peculiar
situation. He had a secret motive which she must respect.
She respected it.

The next day, July 25th, at three o'clock in the morning,
the tarantass arrived at Tioukalmsk, having accomplished
a distance of eighty miles since it had crossed the Ichim.
They rapidly changed horses. Here, however, for the first
time, the iemschik made difficulties about starting, declaring
that detachments of Tartars were roving across the steppe,
and that travelers, horses, and carriages would be a fine
prize for them.

Only by dint of a large bribe could Michael get over the
unwillingness of the iemschik, for in this instance, as in
many others, he did not wish to show his podorojna. The
last ukase, having been transmitted by telegraph, was known
in the Siberian provinces; and a Russian specially exempted
from obeying these words would certainly have drawn pub-
lic attention to himself -- a thing above all to be avoided by
the Czar's courier. As to the iemschik's hesitation, either
the rascal traded on the traveler's impatience or he really
had good reason to fear.

However, at last the tarantass started, and made such
good way that by three in the afternoon it had reached
Koulatsinskoe, fifty miles farther on. An hour after this
it was on the banks of the Irtych. Omsk was now only
fourteen miles distant.

The Irtych is a large river, and one of the principal of
those which flow towards the north of Asia. Rising in
the Altai Mountains, it flows from the southeast to the
northwest and empties itself into the Obi, after a course of
four thousand miles.

At this time of year, when all the rivers of the Siberian
basin are much swollen, the waters of the Irtych were very
high. In consequence the current was changed to a regular
torrent, rendering the passage difficult enough. A swim-
mer could not have crossed, however powerful; and even in
a ferryboat there would be some danger.

But Michael and Nadia, determined to brave all perils
whatever they might be, did not dream of shrinking from
this one. Michael proposed to his young companion that
he should cross first, embarking in the ferryboat with the
tarantass and horses, as he feared that the weight of this
load would render it less safe. After landing the carriage
he would return and fetch Nadia.

The girl refused. It would be the delay of an hour, and
she would not, for her safety alone, be the cause of it.

The embarkation was made not without difficulty, for
the banks were partly flooded and the boat could not get
in near enough. However, after half an hour's exertion,
the boatmen got the tarantass and the three horses on board.
The passengers embarked also, and they shoved off.

For a few minutes all went well. A little way up the
river the current was broken by a long point projecting
from the bank, and forming an eddy easily crossed by the
boat. The two boatmen propelled their barge with long
poles, which they handled cleverly; but as they gained the
middle of the stream it grew deeper and deeper, until at
last they could only just reach the bottom. The ends of
the poles were only a foot above the water, which rendered
their use difficult. Michael and Nadia, seated in the stern
of the boat, and always in dread of a delay, watched the
boatmen with some uneasiness.

"Look out!" cried one of them to his comrade.

The shout was occasioned by the new direction the boat
was rapidly taking. It had got into the direct current and
was being swept down the river. By diligent use of the
poles, putting the ends in a series of notches cut below the
gunwale, the boatmen managed to keep the craft against
the stream, and slowly urged it in a slanting direction to-
wards the right bank.

They calculated on reaching it some five or six versts
below the landing place; but, after all, that would not mat-
ter so long as men and beasts could disembark without ac-
cident. The two stout boatmen, stimulated moreover by
the promise of double fare, did not doubt of succeeding in
this difficult passage of the Irtych.

But they reckoned without an accident which they were
powerless to prevent, and neither their zeal nor their skill-
fulness could, under the circumstances, have done more.

The boat was in the middle of the current, at nearly equal
distances from either shore, and being carried down at the
rate of two versts an hour, when Michael, springing to his
feet, bent his gaze up the river.

Several boats, aided by oars as well as by the current,
were coming swiftly down upon them.

Michael's brow contracted, and a cry escaped him.

"What is the matter?" asked the girl.

But before Michael had time to reply one of the boatmen
exclaimed in an accent of terror:

"The Tartars! the Tartars!"

There were indeed boats full of soldiers, and in a few
minutes they must reach the ferryboat, it being too heavily
laden to escape from them.

The terrified boatmen uttered exclamations of despair and
dropped their poles.

"Courage, my friends!" cried Michael; "courage!
Fifty roubles for you if we reach the right bank before the
boats overtake us."

Incited by these words, the boatmen again worked man-
fully but it soon become evident that they could not escape
the Tartars.

It was scarcely probable that they would pass without
attacking them. On the contrary, there was everything to
be feared from robbers such as these.

"Do not be afraid, Nadia," said Michael; "but be ready
for anything."

"I am ready," replied Nadia.

"Even to leap into the water when I tell you?"

"Whenever you tell me."

"Have confidence in me, Nadia."

"I have, indeed!"

The Tartar boats were now only a hundred feet dis-
tant. They carried a detachment of Bokharian soldiers,
on their way to reconnoiter around Omsk.

The ferryboat was still two lengths from the shore. The
boatmen redoubled their efforts. Michael himself seized a
pole and wielded it with superhuman strength. If he could
land the tarantass and horses, and dash off with them, there
was some chance of escaping the Tartars, who were not
mounted.

But all their efforts were in vain. "Saryn na kitchou!"
shouted the soldiers from the first boat.

Michael recognized the Tartar war-cry, which is usually
answered by lying flat on the ground. As neither he nor
the boatmen obeyed a volley was let fly, and two of the
horses were mortally wounded.

At the next moment a violent blow was felt. The boats
had run into the ferryboat.

"Come, Nadia!" cried Michael, ready to jump over-
board.

The girl was about to follow him, when a blow from a
lance struck him, and he was thrown into the water. The
current swept him away, his hand raised for an instant
above the waves, and then he disappeared.

Nadia uttered a cry, but before she had time to throw
herself after him she was seized and dragged into one of
the boats. The boatmen were killed, the ferryboat left to
drift away, and the Tartars continued to descend the Irtych.


CHAPTER XIV
MOTHER AND SON

OMSK is the official capital of Western Siberia. It is not
the most important city of the government of that name,
for Tomsk has more inhabitants and is larger. But it is
at Omsk that the Governor-General of this the first half of
Asiatic Russia resides. Omsk, properly so called, is com-
posed of two distinct towns: one which is exclusively in-
habited by the authorities and officials; the other more
especially devoted to the Siberian merchants, although, in-
deed, the trade of the town is of small importance.

This city has about 12,000 to 13,000 inhabitants. It is
defended by walls, but these are merely of earth, and could
afford only insufficient protection. The Tartars, who were
well aware of this fact, consequently tried at this period to
carry it by main force, and in this they succeeded, after an
investment of a few days.

The garrison of Omsk, reduced to two thousand men, re-
sisted valiantly. But driven back, little by little, from the
mercantile portion of the place, they were compelled to
take refuge in the upper town.

It was there that the Governor-General, his officers, and
soldiers had entrenched themselves. They had made the
upper quarter of Omsk a kind of citadel, and hitherto they
held out well in this species of improvised "kreml," but
without much hope of the promised succor. The Tartar
troops, who were descending the Irtych, received every day
fresh reinforcements, and, what was more serious, they
were led by an officer, a traitor to his country, but a man
of much note, and of an audacity equal to any emergency.
This man was Colonel Ivan Ogareff.

Ivan Ogareff, terrible as any of the most savage Tartar
chieftains, was an educated soldier. Possessing on his
mother's side some Mongolian blood, he delighted in de-
ceptive strategy and ambuscades, stopping short of nothing
when he desired to fathom some secret or to set some trap.
Deceitful by nature, he willingly had recourse to the vilest
trickery; lying when occasion demanded, excelling in the
adoption of all disguises and in every species of deception.
Further, he was cruel, and had even acted as an executioner.
Feofar-Khan possessed in him a lieutenant well capable of
seconding his designs in this savage war.

When Michael Strogoff arrived on the banks of the
Irtych, Ivan Ogareff was already master of Omsk, and was
pressing the siege of the upper quarter of the town all the
more eagerly because he must hasten to Tomsk, where the
main body of the Tartar army was concentrated.

Tomsk, in fact, had been taken by Feofar-Khan some
days previously, and it was thence that the invaders, masters
of Central Siberia, were to march upon Irkutsk.

Irkutsk was the real object of Ivan Ogareff. The plan
of the traitor was to reach the Grand Duke under a false
name, to gain his confidence, and to deliver into Tartar
hands the town and the Grand Duke himself. With such
a town, and such a hostage, all Asiatic Siberia must neces-
sarily fall into the hands of the invaders. Now it was
known that the Czar was acquainted with this conspiracy,
and that it was for the purpose of baffling it that a courier
had been intrusted with the important warning. Hence,
therefore, the very stringent instructions which had been
given to the young courier to pass incognito through the
invaded district.

This mission he had so far faithfully performed, but now
could he carry it to a successful completion?

The blow which had struck Michael Strogoff was not
mortal.  By swimming in a manner by which he had
effectually concealed himself, he had reached the right bank,
where he fell exhausted among the bushes.

When he recovered his senses, he found himself in the
cabin of a mujik, who had picked him up and cared for him.
For how long a time had he been the guest of this brave
Siberian? He could not guess. But when he opened his
eyes he saw the handsome bearded face bending over him,
and regarding him with pitying eyes. "Do not speak,
little father," said the mujik, "Do not speak! Thou art
still too weak. I will tell thee where thou art and every-
thing that has passed."

And the mujik related to Michael Strogoff the different
incidents of the struggle which he had witnessed -- the at-
tack upon the ferry by the Tartar boats, the pillage of the
tarantass, and the massacre of the boatmen.

But Michael Strogoff listened no longer, and slipping his
hand under his garment he felt the imperial letter still
secured in his breast. He breathed a sigh of relief.

But that was not all. "A young girl accompanied me,"
said he.

"They have not killed her," replied the mujik, anticipat-
ing the anxiety which he read in the eyes of his guest.
"They have carried her off in their boat, and have con-
tinued the descent of Irtych. It is only one prisoner more
to join the many they are taking to Tomsk!"

Michael Strogoff was unable to reply. He pressed his
hand upon his heart to restrain its beating. But, notwith-
standing these many trials, the sentiment of duty mastered
his whole soul. "Where am I?" asked he.

"Upon the right bank of the Irtych, only five versts from
Omsk," replied the mujik.

"What wound can I have received which could have thus
prostrated me? It was not a gunshot wound?"

"No; a lance-thrust in the head, now healing," replied
the mujik. "After a few days' rest, little father, thou wilt
be able to proceed. Thou didst fall into the river; but the
Tartars neither touched nor searched thee; and thy purse
is still in thy pocket."

Michael Strogoff gripped the mujik's hand. Then, re-
covering himself with a sudden effort, "Friend," said he,
"how long have I been in thy hut?"

"Three days."

"Three days lost!"

"Three days hast thou lain unconscious."

"Hast thou a horse to sell me?"

"Thou wishest to go?"

"At once."

"I have neither horse nor carriage, little father. Where
the Tartar has passed there remains nothing!"

"Well, I will go on foot to Omsk to find a horse."

"A few more hours of rest, and thou wilt be in a better
condition to pursue thy journey."

"Not an hour!"

"Come now," replied the mujik, recognizing the fact
that it was useless to struggle against the will of his guest,
"I will guide thee myself.   Besides," he added, "the
Russians are still in great force at Omsk, and thou couldst,
perhaps, pass unperceived."

"Friend," replied Michael Strogoff, "Heaven reward thee
for all thou hast done for me!"

"Only fools expect reward on earth," replied the mujik.

Michael Strogoff went out of the hut. When he tried
to walk he was seized with such faintness that, without the
assistance of the mujik, he would have fallen; but the fresh
air quickly revived him. He then felt the wound in his
head, the violence of which his fur cap had lessened. With
the energy which he possessed, he was not a man to suc-
cumb under such a trifle. Before his eyes lay a single goal
 -- far-distant Irkutsk. He must reach it! But he must
pass through Omsk without stopping there.

"God protect my mother and Nadia!" he murmured.
"I have no longer the right to think of them!"

Michael Strogoff and the mujik soon arrived in the mer-
cantile quarter of the lower town. The surrounding earth-
work had been destroyed in many places, and there were
the breaches through which the marauders who followed
the armies of Feofar-Khan had penetrated. Within Omsk,
in its streets and squares, the Tartar soldiers swarmed like
ants; but it was easy to see that a hand of iron imposed
upon them a discipline to which they were little accus-
tomed. They walked nowhere alone, but in armed groups,
to defend themselves against surprise.

In the chief square, transformed into a camp, guarded
by many sentries, 2,000 Tartars bivouacked. The horses,
picketed but still saddled, were ready to start at the first
order. Omsk could only be a temporary halting-place for
this Tartar cavalry, which preferred the rich plains of East-
ern Siberia, where the towns were more wealthy, and, con-
sequently, pillage more profitable.

Above the mercantile town rose the upper quarter, which
Ivan Ogareff, notwithstanding several assaults vigorously
made but bravely repelled, had not yet been able to reduce.
Upon its embattled walls floated the national colors of
Russia.

It was not without a legitimate pride that Michael
Strogoff and his guide, vowing fidelity, saluted them.

Michael Strogoff was perfectly acquainted with the town
of Omsk, and he took care to avoid those streets which were
much frequented. This was not from any fear of being
recognized. In the town his old mother only could have
called him by name, but he had sworn not to see her, and he
did not. Besides -- and he wished it with his whole heart --
she might have fled into some quiet portion of the steppe.

The mujik very fortunately knew a postmaster who, if
well paid, would not refuse at his request either to let or
to sell a carriage or horses. There remained the difficulty
of leaving the town, but the breaches in the fortifications
would, of course, facilitate his departure.

The mujik was accordingly conducting his guest straight
to the posting-house, when, in a narrow street, Michael
Strogoff, coming to a sudden stop sprang behind a jutting
wall.

"What is the matter?" asked the astonished mujik.

"Silence!" replied Michael, with his finger on his lips.
At this moment a detachment debouched from the principal
square into the street which Michael Strogoff and his com-
panion had just been following.

At the head of the detachment, composed of twenty
horsemen, was an officer dressed in a very simple uniform.
Although he glanced rapidly from one side to the other he
could not have seen Michael Strogoff, owing to his precipi-
tous retreat.

The detachment went at full trot into the narrow street.
Neither the officer nor his escort concerned themselves about
the inhabitants. Several unlucky ones had scarcely time to
make way for their passage. There were a few half-stifled
cries, to which thrusts of the lance gave an instant reply,
and the street was immediately cleared.

When the escort had disappeared, "Who is that officer?"
asked Michael Strogoff. And while putting the question
his face was pale as that of a corpse.

"It is Ivan Ogareff," replied the Siberian, in a deep voice
which breathed hatred.

"He!" cried Michael Strogoff, from whom the word
escaped with a fury he could not conquer. He had just
recognized in this officer the traveler who had struck him
at the posting-house of Ichim. And, although he had only
caught a glimpse of him, it burst upon his mind, at the
same time, that this traveler was the old Zingari whose
words he had overheard in the market place of Nijni-Nov-
gorod.

Michael Strogoff was not mistaken. The two men were
one and the same. It was under the garb of a Zingari,
mingling with the band of Sangarre, that Ivan Ogareff had
been able to leave the town of Nijni-Novgorod, where he
had gone to seek his confidants. Sangarre and her Zingari,
well paid spies, were absolutely devoted to him. It was
he who, during the night, on the fair-ground had uttered
that singular sentence, which Michael Strogoff could not
understand; it was he who was voyaging on board the
Caucasus, with the whole of the Bohemian band; it was he
who, by this other route, from Kasan to Ichim, across the
Urals, had reached Omsk, where now he held supreme au-
thority.

Ivan Ogareff had been barely three days at Omsk, and
had it not been for their fatal meeting at Ichim, and for
the event which had detained him three days on the banks
of the Irtych, Michael Strogoff would have evidently beaten
him on the way to Irkutsk.

And who knows how many misfortunes would have been
avoided in the future! In any case -- and now more than
ever -- Michael Strogoff must avoid Ivan Ogareff, and con-
trive not to be seen. When the moment of encountering
him face to face should arrive, he knew how to meet it,
even should the traitor be master of the whole of Siberia.

The mujik and Michael resumed their way and arrived at
the posting-house. To leave Omsk by one of the breaches
would not be difficult after nightfall. As for purchasing a
carriage to replace the tarantass, that was impossible.
There were none to be let or sold. But what want had
Michael Strogoff now for a carriage? Was he not alone,
alas? A horse would suffice him; and, very fortunately,
a horse could be had. It was an animal of strength and
mettle, and Michael Strogoff, accomplished horseman as he
was, could make good use of it.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon. Michael Strogoff,
compelled to wait till nightfall, in order to pass the fortifica-
tions, but not desiring to show himself, remained in the
posting-house, and there partook of food.

There was a great crowd in the public room. They
were talking of the expected arrival of a corps of Musco-
vite troops, not at Omsk, but at Tomsk -- a corps intended
to recapture that town from the Tartars of Feofar-Khan.

Michael Strogoff lent an attentive ear, but took no part
in the conversation. Suddenly a cry made him tremble, a
cry which penetrated to the depths of his soul, and these two
words rushed into his ear: "My son!"

His mother, the old woman Marfa, was before him!
Trembling, she smiled upon him. She stretched forth her
arms to him. Michael Strogoff arose. He was about to
throw himself --

The thought of duty, the serious danger for his mother
and himself in this unfortunate meeting, suddenly stopped
him, and such was his command over himself that not a
muscle of his face moved. There were twenty people in the
public room. Among them were, perhaps, spies, and was
it not known in the town that the son of Marfa Strogoff
belonged to the corps of the couriers of the Czar?

Michael Strogoff did not move.

"Michael!" cried his mother.

"Who are you, my good lady?" Michael Strogoff
stammered, unable to speak in his usual firm tone.

"Who am I, thou askest! Dost thou no longer know
thy mother?"

"You are mistaken," coldly replied Michael Strogoff.
"A resemblance deceives you."

The old Marfa went up to him, and, looking straight into
his eyes, said, "Thou art not the son of Peter and Marfa
Strogoff?"

Michael Strogoff would have given his life to have locked
his mother in his arms; but if he yielded it was all over
with him, with her, with his mission, with his oath! Com-
pletely master of himself, he closed his eyes, in order not
to see the inexpressible anguish which agitated the revered
countenance of his mother. He drew back his hands, in or-
der not to touch those trembling hands which sought him.
"I do not know in truth what it is you say, my good
woman," he replied, stepping back.

"Michael!" again cried his aged mother.

"My name is not Michael. I never was your son! I am
Nicholas Korpanoff, a merchant at Irkutsk."

And suddenly he left the public room, whilst for the last
time the words re-echoed, "My son! my son!"

Michael Strogoff, by a desperate effort, had gone. He
did not see his old mother, who had fallen back almost
inanimate upon a bench. But when the postmaster has-
tened to assist her, the aged woman raised herself. Sud-
denly a thought occurred to her. She denied by her son!
It was not possible. As for being herself deceived, and
taking another for him, equally impossible. It was cer-
tainly her son whom she had just seen; and if he had not
recognized her it was because he would not, it was because
he ought not, it was because he had some cogent reasons
for acting thus! And then, her mother's feelings arising
within her, she had only one thought -- "Can I, unwittingly,
have ruined him?"

"I am mad," she said to her interrogators. "My eyes
have deceived me! This young man is not my child. He
had not his voice. Let us think no more of it; if we do I
shall end by finding him everywhere."

Less than ten minutes afterwards a Tartar officer ap-
peared in the posting-house. "Marfa Strogoff?" he asked.

"It is I," replied the old woman, in a tone so calm, and
with a face so tranquil, that those who had witnessed the
meeting with her son would not have known her.

"Come," said the officer,

Marfa Strogoff, with firm step, followed the Tartar.
Some moments afterwards she found herself in the chief
square in the presence of Ivan Ogareff, to whom all the
details of this scene had been immediately reported.

Ogareff, suspecting the truth, interrogated the old
Siberian woman. "Thy name?" he asked in a rough voice.

"Marfa Strogoff."

"Thou hast a son?"

"Yes."

"He is a courier of the Czar?"

"Yes."

"Where is he?"

"At Moscow."

"Thou hast no news of him?"

"No news."

"Since how long?"

"Since two months."

"Who, then, was that young man whom thou didst call
thy son a few moments ago at the posting-house?"

"A young Siberian whom I took for him," replied Marfa
Strogoff. "This is the tenth man in whom I have thought
I recognized my son since the town has been so full of
strangers. I think I see him everywhere."

"So this young man was not Michael Strogoff?"

"It was not Michael Strogoff."

"Dost thou know, old woman, that I can torture thee
until thou avowest the truth?"

"I have spoken the truth, and torture will not cause me
to alter my words in any way."

"This Siberian was not Michael Strogoff?" asked a
second time Ivan Ogareff.

"No, it was not he," replied a second time Marfa
Strogoff. "Do you think that for anything in the world
I would deny a son whom God has given me?"

Ivan Ogareff regarded with an evil eye the old woman
who braved him to the face. He did not doubt but that
she had recognized her son in this young Siberian. Now
if this son had first renounced his mother, and if his mother
renounced him in her turn, it could occur only from the
most weighty motive. Ogareff had therefore no doubt that
the pretended Nicholas Korpanoff was Michael Strogoff,
courier of the Czar, seeking concealment under a false
name, and charged with some mission which it would have
been important for him to know. He therefore at once
gave orders for his pursuit. Then "Let this woman be
conducted to Tomsk," he said.

While the soldiers brutally dragged her off, he added be-
tween his teeth, "When the moment arrives I shall know
how to make her speak, this old sorceress!"


CHAPTER XV
THE MARSHES OF THE BARABA

IT was fortunate that Michael Strogoff had left the post-
ing-house so promptly. The orders of Ivan Ogareff had
been immediately transmitted to all the approaches of the
city, and a full description of Michael sent to all the various
commandants, in order to prevent his departure from Omsk.
But he had already passed through one of the breaches in
the wall; his horse was galloping over the steppe, and the
chances of escape were in his favor.

It was on the 29th of July, at eight o'clock in the evening,
that Michael Strogoff had left Omsk. This town is sit-
uated about halfway between Moscow and Irkutsk, where
it was necessary that he should arrive within ten days if he
wished to get ahead of the Tartar columns. It was evident
that the unlucky chance which had brought him into the
presence of his mother had betrayed his incognito. Ivan
Ogareff was no longer ignorant of the fact that a courier of
the Czar had just passed Omsk, taking the direction of
Irkutsk. The dispatches which this courier bore must have
been of immense importance.  Michael Strogoff knew,
therefore, that every effort would be made to capture him.

But what he did not know, and could not know, was
that Marfa Strogoff was in the hands of Ivan Ogareff, and
that she was about to atone, perhaps with her life, for that
natural exhibition of her feelings which she had been unable
to restrain when she suddenly found herself in the presence
of her son. And it was fortunate that he was ignorant of
it. Could he have withstood this fresh trial?

Michael Strogoff urged on his horse, imbuing him with
all his own feverish impatience, requiring of him one thing
only, namely, to bear him rapidly to the next posting-house,
where he could be exchanged for a quicker conveyance.

At midnight he had cleared fifty miles, and halted at the
station of Koulikovo. But there, as he had feared, he
found neither horses nor carriages. Several Tartar de-
tachments had passed along the highway of the steppe.
Everything had been stolen or requisitioned both in the
villages and in the posting-houses. It was with difficulty
that Michael Strogoff was even able to obtain some refresh-
ment for his horse and himself.

It was of great importance, therefore, to spare his horse,
for he could not tell when or how he might be able to re-
place it. Desiring, however, to put the greatest possible
distance between himself and the horsemen who had no
doubt been dispatched in pursuit, he resolved to push on.
After one hour's rest he resumed his course across the
steppe.

Hitherto the weather had been propitious for his journey.
The temperature was endurable. The nights at this time
of the year are very short, and as they are lighted by the
moon, the route over the steppe is practicable. Michael
Strogoff, moreover, was a man certain of his road and de-
void of doubt or hesitation, and in spite of the melancholy
thoughts which possessed him he had preserved his clear-
ness of mind, and made for his destined point as though it
were visible upon the horizon. When he did halt for a
moment at some turn in the road it was to breathe his horse.
Now he would dismount to ease his steed for a moment,
and again he would place his ear to the ground to listen
for the sound of galloping horses upon the steppe. Noth-
ing arousing his suspicions, he resumed his way.

On the 30th of July, at nine o'clock in the morning,
Michael Strogoff passed through the station of Touroumoff
and entered the swampy district of the Baraba.

There, for a distance of three hundred versts, the nat-
ural obstacles would be extremely great. He knew this,
but he also knew that he would certainly surmount them.

These vast marshes of the Baraba, form the reservoir to
all the rain-water which finds no outlet either towards the
Obi or towards the Irtych. The soil of this vast depression
is entirely argillaceous, and therefore impermeable, so that
the waters remain there and make of it a region very diffi-
cult to cross during the hot season. There, however, lies
the way to Irkutsk, and it is in the midst of ponds, pools,
lakes, and swamps, from which the sun draws poisonous ex-
halations, that the road winds, and entails upon the traveler
the greatest fatigue and danger.

Michael Strogoff spurred his horse into the midst of a
grassy prairie, differing greatly from the close-cropped sod
of the steppe, where feed the immense Siberian herds. The
grass here was five or six feet in height, and had made
room for swamp-plants, to which the dampness of the place,
assisted by the heat of summer, had given giant proportions.
These were principally canes and rushes, which formed a
tangled network, an impenetrable undergrowth, sprinkled
everywhere with a thousand flowers remarkable for the
brightness of their color.

Michael Strogoff, galloping amongst this undergrowth of
cane, was no longer visible from the swamps which bordered
the road. The tall grass rose above him, and his track was
indicated only by the flight of innumerable aquatic birds,
which rose from the side of the road and dispersed into the
air in screaming flocks.

The way, however, was clearly traceable. Now it would
lie straight between the dense thicket of marsh-plants; again
it would follow the winding shores of vast pools, some of
which, several versts in length and breadth, deserve the
name of lakes.   In other localities the stagnant waters
through which the road lay had been avoided, not by bridges,
but by tottering platforms ballasted with thick layers of
clay, whose joists shook like a too weak plank thrown across
an abyss. Some of these platforms extended over three
hundred feet, and travelers by tarantass, when crossing
them have experienced a nausea like sea-sickness.

Michael Strogoff, whether the soil beneath his feet was
solid or whether it sank under him, galloped on without
halt, leaping the space between the rotten joists; but how-
ever fast they traveled the horse and the horseman were
unable to escape from the sting of the two-winged insects
which infest this marshy country.

Travelers who are obliged to cross the Baraba during
the summer take care to provide themselves with masks of
horse-hair, to which is attached a coat of mail of very fine
wire, which covers their shoulders. Notwithstanding these
precautions, there are few who come out of these marshes
without having their faces, necks, and hands covered with
red spots. The atmosphere there seems to bristle with
fine needles, and one would almost say that a knight's
armor would not protect him against the darts of these
dipterals. It is a dreary region, which man dearly disputes
with tipulae, gnats, mosquitos, horse-flies, and millions of
microscopic insects which are not visible to the naked eye;
but, although they are not seen, they make themselves felt
by their intolerable stinging, to which the most callous
Siberian hunters have never been able to inure themselves.

Michael Strogoff's horse, stung by these venomous in-
sects, sprang forward as if the rowels of a thousand spurs
had pierced his flanks. Mad with rage, he tore along over
verst after verst with the speed of an express train, lashing
his sides with his tail, seeking by the rapidity of his pace
an alleviation of his torture.

It required as good a horseman as Michael Strogoff not
to be thrown by the plungings of his horse, and the sudden
stops and bounds which he made to escape from the stings
of his persecutors. Having become insensible, so to speak,
to physical suffering, possessed only with the one desire to
arrive at his destination at whatever cost, he saw during
this mad race only one thing -- that the road flew rapidly be-
hind him.

Who would have thought that this district of the Baraba,
so unhealthy during the summer, could have afforded an
asylum for human beings? Yet it did so. Several Siber-
ian hamlets appeared from time to time among the giant
canes. Men, women, children, and old men, clad in the
skins of beasts, their faces covered with hardened blisters
of skin, pastured their poor herds of sheep. In order to
preserve the animals from the attack of the insects, they
drove them to the leeward of fires of green wood, which
were kept burning night and day, and the pungent smoke of
which floated over the vast swamp.

When Michael Strogoff perceived that his horse, tired
out, was on the point of succumbing, he halted at one of
these wretched hamlets, and there, forgetting his own
fatigue, he himself rubbed the wounds of the poor animal
with hot grease according to the Siberian custom; then he
gave him a good feed; and it was only after he had well
groomed and provided for him that he thought of himself,
and recruited his strength by a hasty meal of bread and
meat and a glass of kwass. One hour afterwards, or at the
most two, he resumed with all speed the interminable road
to Irkutsk.

On the 30th of July, at four o'clock in the afternoon,
Michael Strogoff, insensible of every fatigue, arrived at
Elamsk. There it became necessary to give a night's rest to
his horse. The brave animal could no longer have con-
tinued the journey. At Elamsk, as indeed elsewhere, there
existed no means of transport, -- for the same reasons as
at the previous villages, neither carriages nor horses were
to be had.

Michael Strogoff resigned himself therefore to pass the
night at Elamsk, to give his horse twelve hours' rest. He
recalled the instructions which had been given to him
at Moscow -- to cross Siberia incognito, to arrive at
Irkutsk, but not to sacrifice success to the rapidity of the
journey; and consequently it was necessary that he should
husband the sole means of transport which remained to
him.

On the morrow, Michael Strogoff left Elamsk at the
moment when the first Tartar scouts were signaled ten
versts behind upon the road to the Baraba, and he plunged
again into the swampy region. The road was level, which
made it easy, but very tortuous, and therefore long. It
was impossible, moreover, to leave it, and to strike a
straight line across that impassable network of pools and
bogs.

On the next day, the 1st of August, eighty miles farther,
Michael Strogoff arrived at midday at the town of Spaskoe,
and at two o'clock he halted at Pokrowskoe. His horse,
jaded since his departure from Elamsk, could not have taken
a single step more.

There Michael Strogoff was again compelled to lose, for
necessary rest, the end of that day and the entire night;
but starting again on the following morning, and still
traversing the semi-inundated soil, on the 2nd of August,
at four o'clock in the afternoon, after a stage of fifty miles
he reached Kamsk.

The country had changed. This little village of Kamsk
lies, like an island, habitable and healthy, in the midst of
the uninhabitable district. It is situated in the very center
of the Baraba. The emigration caused by the Tartar in-
vasion had not yet depopulated this little town of Kamsk.
Its inhabitants probably fancied themselves safe in the
center of the Baraba, whence at least they thought they
would have time to flee if they were directly menaced.

Michael Strogoff, although exceedingly anxious for news,
could ascertain nothing at this place. It would have been
rather to him that the Governor would have addressed him-
self had he known who the pretended merchant of Irkutsk
really was. Kamsk, in fact, by its very situation seemed
to be outside the Siberian world and the grave events which
troubled it.

Besides, Michael Strogoff showed himself little, if at all.
To be unperceived was not now enough for him: he would
have wished to be invisible. The experience of the past
made him more and more circumspect in the present and
the future. Therefore he secluded himself, and not caring
to traverse the streets of the village, he would not even leave
the inn at which he had halted.

As for his horse, he did not even think of exchanging
him for another animal. He had become accustomed to
this brave creature. He knew to what extent he could
rely upon him. In buying him at Omsk he had been lucky,
and in taking him to the postmaster the generous mujik
had rendered him a great service. Besides, if Michael
Strogoff had already become attached to his horse, the horse
himself seemed to become inured, by degrees, to the fatigue
of such a journey, and provided that he got several hours
of repose daily, his rider might hope that he would carry
him beyond the invaded provinces.

So, during the evening and night of the 2nd of August,
Michael Strogoff remained confined to his inn, at the en-
trance of the town; which was little frequented and out of
the way of the importunate and curious.

Exhausted with fatigue, he went to bed after having
seen that his horse lacked nothing; but his sleep was broken.
What he had seen since his departure from Moscow showed
him the importance of his mission. The rising was an ex-
tremely serious one, and the treachery of Ogareff made it
still more formidable. And when his eyes fell upon the
letter bearing upon it the authority of the imperial seal --
the letter which, no doubt, contained the remedy for so
many evils, the safety of all this war-ravaged country --
Michael Strogoff felt within himself a fierce desire to dash
on across the steppe, to accomplish the distance which sep-
arated him from Irkutsk as the crow would fly it, to be an
eagle that he might overtop all obstacles, to be a hurricane
that he might sweep through the air at a hundred versts
an hour, and to be at last face to face with the Grand Duke,
and to exclaim: "Your highness, from his Majesty the
Czar!"

On the next morning at six o'clock, Michael Strogoff
started off again.   Thanks to his extreme prudence this
part of the journey was signalized by no incident whatever.
At Oubinsk he gave his horse a whole night's rest, for he
wished on the next day to accomplish the hundred versts
which lie between Oubinsk and Ikoulskoe without halting.
He started therefore at dawn; but unfortunately the Baraba
proved more detestable than ever.

In fact, between Oubinsk and Kamakore the very heavy
rains of some previous weeks were retained by this shallow
depression as in a water-tight bowl. There was, for a long
distance, no break in the succession of swamps, pools, and
lakes. One of these lakes -- large enough to warrant its
geographical nomenclature -- Tchang, Chinese in name, had
to be coasted for more than twenty versts, and this with
the greatest difficulty.   Hence certain delays occurred,
which all the impatience of Michael Strogoff could not
avoid. He had been well advised in not taking a carriage
at Kamsk, for his horse passed places which would have
been impracticable for a conveyance on wheels.

In the evening, at nine o'clock, Michael Strogoff arrived
at Ikoulskoe, and halted there over night. In this remote
village of the Baraba news of the war was utterly wanting.
From its situation, this part of the province, lying in the
fork formed by the two Tartar columns which had bifur-
cated, one upon Omsk and the other upon Tomsk, had
hitherto escaped the horrors of the invasion.

But the natural obstacles were now about to disappear,
for, if he experienced no delay, Michael Strogoff should on
the morrow be free of the Baraba and arrive at Kolyvan.
There he would be within eighty miles of Tomsk. He
would then be guided by circumstances, and very probably
he would decide to go around Tomsk, which, if the news
were true, was occupied by Feofar-Khan.

But if the small towns of Ikoulskoe and Karguinsk, which
he passed on the next day, were comparatively quiet, owing
to their position in the Baraba, was it not to be dreaded
that, upon the right banks of the Obi, Michael Strogoff
would have much more to fear from man? It was probable.
However, should it become necessary, he would not hesi-
tate to abandon the beaten path to Irkutsk. To journey
then across the steppe he would, no doubt, run the risk
of finding himself without supplies. There would be, in
fact, no longer a well-marked road. Still, there must be
no hesitation.

Finally, towards half past three in the afternoon, Michael
Strogoff left the last depressions of the Baraba, and the
dry and hard soil of Siberia rang out once more beneath
his horse's hoofs.

He had left Moscow on the 15th of July. Therefore on
this day, the 5th of August, including more than seventy
hours lost on the banks of the Irtych, twenty days had
gone by since his departure.

One thousand miles still separated him from Irkutsk.


CHAPTER XVI
A FINAL EFFORT

MICHAEL'S fear of meeting the Tartars in the plains be-
yond the Baraba was by no means ungrounded. The fields,
trodden down by horses' hoofs, afforded but too clear evi-
dence that their hordes had passed that way; the same, in-
deed, might be said of these barbarians as of the Turks:
"Where the Turk goes, no grass grows."

Michael saw at once that in traversing this country the
greatest caution was necessary. Wreaths of smoke curling
upwards on the horizon showed that huts and hamlets were
still burning. Had these been fired by the advance guard,
or had the Emir's army already advanced beyond the boun-
daries of the province? Was Feofar-Khan himself in the
government of Yeniseisk? Michael could settle on no line
of action until these questions were answered. Was the
country so deserted that he could not discover a single Si-
berian to enlighten him?

Michael rode on for two versts without meeting a human
being. He looked carefully for some house which had not
been deserted. Every one was tenantless.

One hut, however, which he could just see between the
trees, was still smoking. As he approached he perceived,
at some yards from the ruins of the building, an old man
surrounded by weeping children.  A woman still young,
evidently his daughter and the mother of the poor children,
kneeling on the ground, was gazing on the scene of desola-
tion. She had at her breast a baby but a few months old;
shortly she would have not even that nourishment to give
it. Ruin and desolation were all around!

Michael approached the old man.

"Will you answer me a few questions?" he asked.

"Speak," replied the old man.

"Have the Tartars passed this way?"

"Yes, for my house is in flames."

"Was it an army or a detachment?"

"An army, for, as far as eye can reach, our fields are
laid waste."

"Commanded by the Emir?"

"By the Emir; for the Obi's waters are red."

"Has Feofar-Khan entered Tomsk?"

"He has."

"Do you know if his men have entered Kolyvan?"

"No; for Kolyvan does not yet burn."

"Thanks, friend. Can I aid you and yours?"

"No."

"Good-by."

"Farewell."

And Michael, having presented five and twenty roubles
to the unfortunate woman, who had not even strength to
thank him, put spurs to his horse once more.

One thing he knew; he must not pass through Tomsk.
To go to Kolyvan, which the Tartars had not yet reached,
was possible. Yes, that is what he must do; there he must
prepare himself for another long stage. There was noth-
ing for it but, having crossed the Obi, to take the Irkutsk
road and avoid Tomsk.

This new route decided on, Michael must not delay an
instant. Nor did he, but, putting his horse into a steady
gallop, he took the road towards the left bank of the Obi,
which was still forty versts distant. Would there be a
ferry boat there, or should he, finding that the Tartars had
destroyed all the boats, be obliged to swim across?

As to his horse, it was by this time pretty well worn
out, and Michael intended to make it perform this stage
only, and then to exchange it for a fresh one at Kolyvan.
Kolyvan would be like a fresh starting point, for on leav-
ing that town his journey would take a new form. So
long as he traversed a devastated country the difficulties
must be very great; but if, having avoided Tomsk, he could
r‚sum‚ the road to Irkutsk across the province of Yeniseisk,
which was not yet laid waste, he would finish his journey in
a few days.

Night came on, bringing with it refreshing coolness after
the heat of the day. At midnight the steppe was pro-
foundly dark. The sound of the horses's hoofs alone was
heard on the road, except when, every now and then, its
master spoke a few encouraging words. In such darkness
as this great care was necessary lest he should leave the
road, bordered by pools and streams, tributaries of the Obi.
Michael therefore advanced as quickly as was consistent
with safety. He trusted no less to the excellence of his
eyes, which penetrated the gloom, than to the well-proved
sagacity of his horse.

Just as Michael dismounted to discover the exact direc-
tion of the road, he heard a confused murmuring sound
from the west. It was like the noise of horses' hoofs at
some distance on the parched ground. Michael listened at-
tentively, putting his ear to the ground.

"It is a detachment of cavalry coming by the road from
Omsk," he said to himself. "They are marching very
quickly, for the noise is increasing. Are they Russians
or Tartars?"

Michael again listened. "Yes," said he, "they are at a
sharp trot. My horse cannot outstrip them. If they are
Russians I will join them; if Tartars I must avoid them.
But how? Where can I hide in this steppe?"

He gave a look around, and, through the darkness, dis-
covered a confused mass at a hundred paces before him on
the left of the road. "There is a copse!" he exclaimed.
"To take refuge there is to run the risk of being caught,
if they are in search of me; but I have no choice."

In a few moments Michael, dragging his horse by the
bridle, reached a little larch wood, through which the road
lay.   Beyond this it was destitute of trees, and wound
among bogs and pools, separated by dwarfed bushes, whins,
and heather. The ground on either side was quite imprac-
ticable, and the detachment must necessarily pass through
the wood. They were pursuing the high road to Irkutsk.
Plunging in about forty feet, he was stopped by a stream
running under the brushwood. But the shadow was so
deep that Michael ran no risk of being seen, unless the wood
should be carefully searched. He therefore led his horse
to the stream and fastened him to a tree, returning to the
edge of the road to listen and ascertain with what sort of
people he had to do.

Michael had scarcely taken up his position behind a
group of larches when a confused light appeared, above
which glared brighter lights waving about in the shadow.

"Torches!" said he to himself. And he drew quickly
back, gliding like a savage into the thickest underwood.

As they approached the wood the horses' pace was slack-
ened. The horsemen were probably lighting up the road
with the intention of examining every turn.

Michael feared this, and instinctively drew near to the
bank of the stream, ready to plunge in if necessary.

Arrived at the top of the wood, the detachment halted.
The horsemen dismounted. There were about fifty. A
dozen of them carried torches, lighting up the road.

By watching their preparations Michael found to his
joy that the detachment were not thinking of visiting the
copse, but only bivouacking near, to rest their horses and
allow the men to take some refreshment. The horses were
soon unsaddled, and began to graze on the thick grass which
carpeted the ground. The men meantime stretched them-
selves by the side of the road, and partook of the provisions
they produced from their knapsacks.

Michael's self-possession had never deserted him, and
creeping amongst the high grass he endeavored not only to
examine the new-comers, but to hear what they said. It
was a detachment from Omsk, composed of Usbeck horse-
men, a race of the Mongolian type. These men, well built,
above the medium height, rough, and wild-featured, wore
on their heads the "talpak," or black sheep-skin cap, and
on their feet yellow high-heeled boots with turned-up toes,
like the shoes of the Middle Ages. Their tunics were close-
fitting, and confined at the waist by a leathern belt braided
with red. They were armed defensively with a shield, and
offensively with a curved sword, and a flintlock musket
slung at the saddle-bow. From their shoulders hung gay-
colored cloaks.

The horses, which were feeding at liberty at the edge of
the wood, were, like their masters, of the Usbeck race.
These animals are rather smaller than the Turcomanian
horses, but are possessed of remarkable strength, and know
no other pace than the gallop.

This detachment was commanded by a "pendja-baschi";
that is to say, a commander of fifty men, having under him
a "deh-baschi," or simple commander of ten men. These
two officers wore helmets and half coats-of-mail; little trum-
pets fastened to their saddle-bows were the distinctive signs
of their rank.

The pendja-baschi had been obliged to let his men rest,
fatigued with a long stage. He and the second officer, smok-
ing "beng," the leaf which forms the base of the "has-
chisch," strolled up and down the wood, so that Michael
Strogoff without being seen, could catch and understand
their conversation, which was spoken in the Tartar lan-
guage.

Michael's attention was singularly excited by their very
first words. It was of him they were speaking.

"This courier cannot be much in advance of us," said
the pendja-baschi; "and, on the other hand, it is absolutely
impossible that he can have followed any other route than
that of the Baraba."

"Who knows if he has left Omsk?" replied the deh-
baschi. "Perhaps he is still hidden in the town."

"That is to be wished, certainly. Colonel Ogareff would
have no fear then that the dispatches he bears should ever
reach their destination."

"They say that he is a native, a Siberian," resumed the
deh-baschi. "If so, he must be well acquainted with the
country, and it is possible that he has left the Irkutsk road,
depending on rejoining it later."

"But then we should be in advance of him," answered
the pendja-baschi; "for we left Omsk within an hour after
his departure, and have since followed the shortest road
with all the speed of our horses. He has either remained
in Omsk, or we shall arrive at Tomsk before him, so as to
cut him off; in either case he will not reach Irkutsk."

"A rugged woman, that old Siberian, who is evidently
his mother," said the deh-baschi.

At this remark Michael's heart beat violently.

"Yes," answered the pendja-baschi. "She stuck to it
well that the pretended merchant was not her son, but it
was too late. Colonel Ogareff was not to be taken in; and,
as he said, he will know how to make the old witch speak
when the time comes."

These words were so many dagger-thrusts for Michael.
He was known to be a courier of the Czar! A detach-
ment of horsemen on his track could not fail to cut him
off. And, worst of all, his mother was in the hands of the
Tartars, and the cruel Ogareff had undertaken to make her
speak when he wished!

Michael well knew that the brave Siberian would sacrifice
her life for him. He had fancied that he could not hate
Ivan Ogareff more, yet a fresh tide of hate now rose in
his heart. The wretch who had betrayed his country now
threatened to torture his mother.

The conversation between the two officers continued, and
Michael understood that an engagement was imminent in
the neighborhood of Kolyvan, between the Muscovite troops
coming from the north and the Tartars. A small Russian
force of two thousand men, reported to have reached the
lower course of the Obi, were advancing by forced marches
towards Tomsk. If such was the case, this force, which
would soon find itself engaged with the main body of Feo-
far-Khan's army, would be inevitably overwhelmed, and the
Irkutsk road would be in the entire possession of the in-
vaders.

As to himself, Michael learnt, by some words from the
pendja-baschi, that a price was set on his head, and that
orders had been given to take him, dead or alive.

It was necessary, therefore, to get the start of the Usbeck
horsemen on the Irkutsk road, and put the Obi between
himself and them. But to do that, he must escape before
the camp was broken up.

His determination taken, Michael prepared to execute it.

Indeed, the halt would not be prolonged, and the pendja-
baschi did not intend to give his men more than an hour's
rest, although their horses could not have been changed
for fresh ones since Omsk, and must be as much fatigued
as that of Michael Strogoff.

There was not a moment to lose. It was within an hour
of morning. It was needful to profit by the darkness to
leave the little wood and dash along the road; but although
night favored it the success of such a flight appeared to be
almost impossible.

Not wishing to do anything at random, Michael took
time for reflection, carefully weighing the chances so as to
take the best. From the situation of the place the result
was this -- that he could not escape through the back of the
wood, the stream which bordered it being not only deep,
but very wide and muddy. Beneath this thick water was
a slimy bog, on which the foot could not rest. There was
only one way open, the high-road. To endeavor to reach
it by creeping round the edge of the wood, without attract-
ing attention, and then to gallop at headlong speed, required
all the remaining strength and energy of his noble steed.
Too probably it would fall dead on reaching the banks of
the Obi, when, either by boat or by swimming, he must cross
this important river. This was what Michael had be-
fore him.

His energy and courage increased in sight of danger.

His life, his mission, his country, perhaps the safety of
his mother, were at stake. He could not hesitate.

There was not a moment to be lost. Already there was
a slight movement among the men of the detachment. A
few horsemen were strolling up and down the road in front
of the wood. The rest were still lying at the foot of the
trees, but their horses were gradually penetrating towards
the center of the wood.

Michael had at first thought of seizing one of these horses,
but he recollected that, of course, they would be as fatigued
as his own. It was better to trust to his own brave steed,
which had already rendered him such important service.
The good animal, hidden behind a thicket, had escaped the
sight of the Usbecks. They, besides, had not penetrated
so far into the wood.

Michael crawled up to his horse through the grass, and
found him lying down. He patted and spoke gently to
him, and managed to raise him without noise. Fortunately,
the torches were entirely consumed, and now went out, the
darkness being still profound under shelter of the larches.
After replacing the bit, Michael looked to his girths and
stirrups, and began to lead his horse quietly away. The
intelligent animal followed his master without even making
the least neigh.

A few Usbeck horses raised their heads, and began to
wander towards the edge of the wood. Michael held his
revolver in his hand, ready to blow out the brains of the
first Tartar who should approach him. But happily the
alarm was not given, and he was able to gain the angle made
by the wood where it joined the road.

To avoid being seen, Michael's intention was not to
mount until after turning a corner some two hundred feet
from the wood. Unfortunately, just at the moment that
he was issuing from the wood, an Usbeck's horse, scenting
him, neighed and began to trot along the road. His master
ran to catch him, and seeing a shadowy form moving in the
dim light, "Look out!" he shouted.

At the cry, all the men of the bivouac jumped up, and
ran to seize their horses. Michael leaped on his steed, and
galloped away. The two officers of the detachment urged
on their men to follow.

Michael heard a report, and felt a ball pass through his
tunic.   Without turning his head, without replying, he
spurred on, and, clearing the brushwood with a tremendous
bound, he galloped at full speed toward the Obi.

The Usbecks' horses being unsaddled gave him a small
start, but in less than two minutes he heard the tramp of
several horses gradually gaining on him.

Day was now beginning to break, and objects at some
distance were becoming visible. Michael turned his head,
and perceived a horseman rapidly approaching him.   It
was the deh-baschi. Being better mounted, this officer had
distanced his detachment.

Without drawing rein, Michael extended his revolver,
and took a moment's aim. The Usbeck officer, hit in the
breast, rolled on the ground.

But the other horsemen followed him closely, and with-
out waiting to assist the deh-baschi, exciting each other by
their shouts, digging their spurs into their horses' sides,
they gradually diminished the distance between themselves
and Michael.

For half an hour only was the latter able to keep out
of range of the Tartars, but he well knew that his horse
was becoming weaker, and dreaded every instant that he
would stumble never to rise again.

It was now light, although the sun had not yet risen
above the horizon. Two versts distant could be seen a
pale line bordered by a few trees.

This was the Obi, which flows from the southwest to
the northeast, the surface almost level with the ground, its
bed being but the steppe itself.

Several times shots were fired at Michael, but without
hitting him, and several times too he discharged his revolver
on those of the soldiers who pressed him too closely. Each
time an Usbeck rolled on the ground, midst cries of rage
from his companions. But this pursuit could only termin-
ate to Michael's disadvantage. His horse was almost ex-
hausted. He managed to reach the bank of the river. The
Usbeck detachment was now not more than fifty paces be-
hind him.

The Obi was deserted -- not a boat of any description
which could take him over the water!

"Courage, my brave horse!" cried Michael. "Come!
A last effort!" And he plunged into the river, which here
was half a verst in width.

It would have been difficult to stand against the current
-- indeed, Michael's horse could get no footing. He must
therefore swim across the river, although it was rapid as
a torrent. Even to attempt it showed Michael's marvelous
courage. The soldiers reached the bank, but hesitated to
plunge in.

The pendja-baschi seized his musket and took aim at
Michael, whom he could see in the middle of the stream.
The shot was fired, and Michael's horse, struck in the side,
was borne away by the current.

His master, speedily disentangling himself from his stir-
rups, struck out boldly for the shore. In the midst of a
hailstorm of balls he managed to reach the opposite side,
and disappeared in the rushes.


CHAPTER XVII
THE RIVALS

MICHAEL was in comparative safety, though his situa-
tion was still terrible. Now that the faithful animal who
had so bravely borne him had met his death in the waters
of the river, how was he to continue his journey?

He was on foot, without provisions, in a country devas-
tated by the invasion, overrun by the Emir's scouts, and
still at a considerable distance from the place he was striv-
ing to reach. "By Heaven, I will get there!" he ex-
claimed, in reply to all the reasons for faltering. "God will
protect our sacred Russia."

Michael was out of reach of the Usbeck horsemen. They
had not dared to pursue him through the river.

Once more on solid ground Michael stopped to consider
what he should do next. He wished to avoid Tomsk, now
occupied by the Tartar troops.   Nevertheless, he must
reach some town, or at least a post-house, where he could
procure a horse. A horse once found, he would throw him-
self out of the beaten track, and not again take to the
Irkutsk road until in the neighborhood of Krasnoiarsk.
From that place, if he were quick, he hoped to find the way
still open, and he intended to go through the Lake Baikal
provinces in a southeasterly direction.

Michael began by going eastward.   By following the
course of the Obi two versts further, he reached a pictur-
esque little town lying on a small hill. A few churches,
with Byzantine cupolas colored green and gold, stood up
against the gray sky. This is Kolyvan, where the officers
and people employed at Kamsk and other towns take refuge
during the summer from the unhealthy climate of the
Baraba. According to the latest news obtained by the
Czar's courier, Kolyvan could not be yet in the hands of the
invaders. The Tartar troops, divided into two columns,
had marched to the left on Omsk, to the right on Tomsk,
neglecting the intermediate country.

Michael Strogoff's plan was simply this -- to reach Koly-
van before the arrival of the Usbeck horsemen, who would
ascend the other bank of the Obi to the ferry. There he
would procure clothes and a horse, and r‚sum‚ the road to
Irkutsk across the southern steppe.

It was now three o'clock in the morning. The neighbor-
hood of Kolyvan was very still, and appeared to have been
totally abandoned. The country population had evidently
fled to the northwards, to the province of Yeniseisk, dread-
ing the invasion, which they could not resist.

Michael was walking at a rapid pace towards Kolyvan
when distant firing struck his ear. He stopped, and clearly
distinguished the dull roar of artillery, and above it a crisp
rattle which could not be mistaken.

"It is cannon and musketry!" said he. "The little Rus-
sian body is engaged with the Tartar army! Pray Heaven
that I may arrive at Kolyvan before them!"

The firing became gradually louder, and soon to the left
of Kolyvan a mist collected -- not smoke, but those great
white clouds produced by discharges of artillery.

The Usbeck horsemen stopped on the left of the Obi, to
await the result of the battle. From them Michael had
nothing to fear as he hastened towards the town.

In the meanwhile the firing increased, and became
sensibly nearer. It was no longer a confused roar, but
distinct reports. At the same time the smoke partially
cleared, and it became evident that the combatants were
rapidly moving southwards.   It appeared that Kolyvan
was to be attacked on the north side. But were the Rus-
sians defending it or the Tartars? It being impossible to
decide this, Michael became greatly perplexed.

He was not more than half a verst from Kolyvan when
he observed flames shooting up among the houses of the
town, and the steeple of a church fell in the midst of clouds
of smoke and fire. Was the struggle, then, in Kolyvan?
Michael was compelled to think so. 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 bet-
ter 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, phleg-
matic, 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 en-
tered 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 depar-
ture 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 Tele-
graph 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 win-
dow, 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 de-
feated. Fiercely pursued by the Tartar cavalry."

And as Harry Blount returned he heard Jolivet complet-
ing 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 re-
frain 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 fir-
ing was incessant.

At that moment the telegraph office shook to its founda-
tions. 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 of-
fice. 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!

END OF BOOK I



BOOK II

CHAPTER I
A TARTAR CAMP

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 ap-
pearance.

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 pris-
oners 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 en-
gaged with the two columns of the enemy, the bases of
which rested on Tomsk and Omsk, only a few hundred re-
mained. 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 re-
volted 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 con-
sider 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 prin-
cipal 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 pur-
sued 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 hun-
dreds 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 Tar-
tar army.

Nothing could be more romantic than this picture, in
delineating which the most skillful artist would have ex-
hausted 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 tas-
sels, 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 horse-
back 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 pre-
sent 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 dis-
putes 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 con-
ditions 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 be-
yond 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 be-
fore 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 Si-
beria. 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 ac-
quaintances.

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 disagree-
able 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 thou-
sand 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," an-
swered 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 remain-
ing 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 cer-
tainly 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," mur-
mured Alcide Jolivet; "there he is asleep. A few hours'
sleep and a few cold water compresses are all that are re-
quired to set an Englishman on his legs again. These fel-
lows 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 com-
panion, 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 every-
thing 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 pre-
vented him from approaching his former traveling compan-
ions. 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 commo-
tions, bringing squalls mingled with rain. The unfor-
tunate prisoners, destitute of shelter, had to bear all the in-
clemencies 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 march-
ing 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.


CHAPTER II
CORRESPONDENTS IN TROUBLE

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 im-
portant 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 re-
main at the outposts without shelter, almost without nourish-
ment. 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 with-
out bringing in its train the usual crowd of beggars, free-
booters, 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 re-
sources. 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 any-
where. 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 exe-
cute 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 Red-
Skin 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 horse-
men, moved to the front of the camp to receive Ivan Ogareff.
Arrived in his presence, they paid him the greatest re-
spect, 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 be-
fore him. "Nothing?" asked Ogareff.

"Nothing."

"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 re-
mained 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 tempo-
rarily 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, with-
out 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 Moun-
tains."

"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 over-
whelmed 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 re-
tired 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 sup-
pressed.

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 al-
ready 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 Rus-
sian 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 news-
papers," 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, "authoriza-
tion 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 cool-
ness, "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 com-
panion, 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 re-
join 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 con-
trary, 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 favor-
able result of his arrival, however, was the order which was
given to raise the camp that very day, and remove the head-
quarters 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 pris-
oners; 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 ar-
rival of Ivan Ogareff, he questioned whether it would not
be better to give up his first plan and attempt to escape dur-
ing 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 prison-
ers, 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 any-
one else, and, without her appearing to notice, was con-
stantly 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 coura-
geous, kind-hearted being to comfort and assist her.
Amongst her companions in misfortune a young girl, re-
markable 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 to-
gether 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 af-
forded by the age of the old prisoner.

On the crowd of unhappy people, embittered by suffer-
ings, 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 suc-
cumbed to this double blow. The interruption to her jour-
ney, the death of Michael, made her both desperate and ex-
cited. 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 ob-
ject 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 him-
self?" 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 her-
self, 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. How-
ever, one day her heart overflowed, and she told all the
events which had occurred from her departure from Wladi-
mir 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 com-
panion 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 com-
panion, 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 mourn-
ing which I wear is not yet for my son."


CHAPTER III
BLOW FOR BLOW

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 fast-
ened to a long chain. There were, too, women and chil-
dren, 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 ani-
mals. 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 ter-
rible 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 per-
formed as rapidly as possible.

The country, which extends from the right of the Obi
to the base of the spur detached from the Sayanok Moun-
tains, 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 moun-
tains.

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 Rus-
sian 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 mis-
fortune such services as his situation allowed. He encour-
aged some, supported others, going to and fro, until a prick
from a soldier's lance obliged him to r‚sum‚ 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 re-
solved 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 con-
voy'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 fav-
ored the flight of some bold or desperate man, and the strict-
est 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 encamp-
ment 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 en-
trance 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 ar-
ranged 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 sov-
ereigns. 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! Imi-
tate 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 mis-
fortune. 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 com-
panion. 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 hap-
piness 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 appre-
hension 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 posses-
sion 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 say-
ing, 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, al-
though 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 pru-
dence 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 en-
campment. The Tartar soldiers were almost immediately
under arms.

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

Michael Strogoff, hidden in a group of prisoners, saw
this man pass. He had a presentiment that some catas-
trophe 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 them-
selves 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?"

"No!"

"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?"

"No."

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

"No."

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."

"No."

"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 invol-
untary 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 him-
self.

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 him-
self; "the knout for this wretched old woman -- the knout
to the death!"

A Tartar soldier bearing this terrible instrument of tor-
ture approached Marfa. The knout is composed of a cer-
tain number of leathern thongs, at the end of which are at-
tached 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 an-
other 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 re-
paid!" 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 con-
tents 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.


CHAPTER IV
THE TRIUMPHAL ENTRY

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 Feo-
far-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. Con-
trary 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 shoul-
ders, 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 dig-
nitaries 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 be-
fore 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 even-
ing they both intended to take the road to Irkutsk, and be-
ing 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 com-
panions 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 ex-
pected 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 in-
flicted on Michael. Ogareff had protected him against the
soldiers because he well knew what would happen by reserv-
ing him for the justice of the Emir.

The mother and son had not been able to speak to-
gether 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 unin-
tentionally 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 her-
self, 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 interfer-
ence 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 fea-
tures being half hidden by her hair -- passed in her turn be-
fore 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 re-
mained 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 in-
famous 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."


CHAPTER V
"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, stretch-
ing 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 bar-
barians give it before the drama."

Michael had been commanded to look at everything. He
looked. A troop of dancers poured into the open space be-
fore 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 instru-
ments, 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 else-
where. 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 pros-
trated 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 com-
bination 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 coup-
let, of very peculiar rhythm, a dancer took her position by
him and remained there immovable, listening to him, but
each time that the burden came from the lips of the young
singer, she resumed her dance, dinning in his ears with her
daire, and deafening him with the clashing of her cymbals.
Then, after the last chorus, the remainder surrounded the
Tsigane in the windings of their dance.

At that moment a shower of gold fell from the hands
of the Emir and his train, and from the hands of his officers
of all ranks; to the noise which the pieces made as they
struck the cymbals of the dancers, being added the last
murmurs of the doutares and tambourines.

"Lavish as robbers," said Alcide in the ear of his com-
panion. And in fact it was the result of plunder which
was falling; for, with the Tartar tomans and sequins,
rained also Russian ducats and roubles.

Then silence followed for an instant, and the voice of
the executioner, who laid his hand on Michael's shoulder,
once more pronounced the words, which this repetition
rendered more and more sinister:

"Look while you may "

But this time Alcide observed that the executioner no
longer held the saber bare in his hand.

Meanwhile the sun had sunk behind the horizon. A
semi-obscurity began to envelop the plain. The mass of
cedars and pines became blacker and blacker, and the waters
of the Tom, totally obscured in the distance, mingled with
the approaching shadows.

But at that instant several hundreds of slaves, bearing
lighted torches, entered the square.   Led by Sangarre,
Tsiganes and Persians reappeared before the Emir's throne,
and showed off, by the contrast, their dances of styles so
different.   The instruments of the Tartar orchestra
sounded forth in harmony still more savage, accompanied
by the guttural cries of the singers. The kites, which had
fallen to the ground, once more winged their way into the
sky, each bearing a parti-colored lantern, and under a
fresher breeze their harps vibrated with intenser sound in
the midst of the aerial illumination.

Then a squadron of Tartars, in their brilliant uniforms,
mingled in the dances, whose wild fury was increasing
rapidly, and then began a performance which produced a
very strange effect. Soldiers came on the ground, armed
with bare sabers and long pistols, and, as they executed
dances, they made the air re-echo with the sudden detona-
tions of their firearms, which immediately set going the
rumbling of the tambourines, and grumblings of the daires,
and the gnashing of doutares.

Their arms, covered with a colored powder of some
metallic ingredient, after the Chinese fashion, threw long
jets -- red, green, and blue -- so that the groups of dancers
seemed to be in the midst of fireworks. In some respects,
this performance recalled the military dance of the ancients,
in the midst of naked swords; but this Tartar dance was
rendered yet more fantastic by the colored fire, which wound,
serpent-like, above the dancers, whose dresses seemed to be
embroidered with fiery hems. It was like a kaleidoscope of
sparks, whose infinite combinations varied at each movement
of the dancers.

Though it may be thought that a Parisian reporter would
be perfectly hardened to any scenic effect, which our modern
ideas have carried so far, yet Alcide Jolivet could not re-
strain a slight movement of the head, which at home, be-
tween the Boulevard Montmartre and La Madeleine would
have said --" Very fair, very fair."

Then, suddenly, at a signal, all the lights of the fantasia
were extinguished, the dances ceased, and the performers
disappeared. The ceremony was over, and the torches
alone lighted up the plateau, which a few instants before
had been so brilliantly illuminated.

On a sign from the Emir, Michael was led into the middle
of the square.

"Blount," said Alcide to his companion, "are you going
to see the end of all this?"

"No, that I am not," replied Blount.

"The readers of the Daily Telegraph are, I hope, not
very eager for the details of an execution a la mode
Tartare?"

"No more than your cousin!"

"Poor fellow!" added Alcide, as he watched Michael.
"That valiant soldier should have fallen on the field of
battle!"

"Can we do nothing to save him?" said Blount.

"Nothing!"

The reporters recalled Michael's generous conduct to-
wards them; they knew now through what trials he must
have passed, ever obedient to his duty; and in the midst of
these Tartars, to whom pity is unknown, they could do
nothing for him. Having little desire to be present at the
torture reserved for the unfortunate man, they returned to
the town. An hour later, they were on the road to Irkutsk,
for it was among the Russians that they intended to follow
what Alcide called, by anticipation, "the campaign of
revenge."

Meantime, Michael was standing ready, his eyes return-
ing the Emir's haughty glance, while his countenance as-
sumed an expression of intense scorn whenever he cast his
looks on Ivan Ogareff. He was prepared to die, yet not
a single sign of weakness escaped him.

The spectators, waiting around the square, as well as
Feofar-Khan's body-guard, to whom this execution was
only one of the attractions, were eagerly expecting it.
Then, their curiosity satisfied, they would rush off to enjoy
the pleasures of intoxication.

The Emir made a sign. Michael was thrust forward by
his guards to the foot of the terrace, and Feofar said to
him, "You came to see our goings out and comings in,
Russian spy. You have seen for the last time. In an in-
stant your eyes will be forever shut to the day."

Michael's fate was to be not death, but blindness; loss of
sight, more terrible perhaps than loss of life. The un-
happy man was condemned to be blinded.

However, on hearing the Emir's sentence Michael's heart
did not grow faint. He remained unmoved, his eyes wide
open, as though he wished to concentrate his whole life into
one last look.  To entreat pity from these savage men
would be useless, besides, it would be unworthy of him.
He did not even think of it. His thoughts were condensed
on his mission, which had apparently so completely failed;
on his mother, on Nadia, whom he should never more see!
But he let no sign appear of the emotion he felt. Then,
a feeling of vengeance to be accomplished came over him.
"Ivan," said he, in a stern voice, "Ivan the Traitor, the
last menace of my eyes shall be for you!"

Ivan Ogareff shrugged his shoulders.

But Michael was not to be looking at Ivan when his eyes
were put out. Marfa Strogoff stood before him.

"My mother!" cried he. "Yes! yes! my last glance
shall be for you, and not for this wretch! Stay there, be-
fore me! Now I see once more your well-beloved face!
Now shall my eyes close as they rest upon it . . . !"

The old woman, without uttering a word, advanced.

"Take that woman away!" said Ivan.

Two soldiers were about to seize her, but she stepped
back and remained standing a few paces from Michael.

The executioner appeared. This time, he held his saber
bare in his hand, and this saber he had just drawn from
the chafing-dish, where he had brought it to a white heat.
Michael was going to be blinded in the Tartar fashion, with
a hot blade passed before his eyes!

Michael did not attempt to resist. Nothing existed be-
fore his eyes but his mother, whom his eyes seemed to devour.
All his life was in that last look.

Marfa Strogoff, her eyes open wide, her arms extended
towards where he stood, was gazing at him. The incan-
descent blade passed before Michael's eyes.

A despairing cry was heard. His aged mother fell sense-
less to the ground. Michael Strogoff was blind.

His orders executed, the Emir retired with his train.
There remained in the square only Ivan Ogareff and the
torch bearers. Did the wretch intend to insult his victim
yet further, and yet to give him a parting blow?

Ivan Ogareff slowly approached Michael, who, feeling
him coming, drew himself up. Ivan drew from his pocket
the Imperial letter, he opened it, and with supreme irony
he held it up before the sightless eyes of the Czar's courier,
saying, "Read, now, Michael Strogoff, read, and go and re-
peat at Irkutsk what you have read. The true Courier of
the Czar is Ivan Ogareff."

This said, the traitor thrust the letter into his breast.
Then, without looking round he left the square, followed by
the torch-bearers.

Michael was left alone, at a few paces from his mother,
lying lifeless, perhaps dead. He heard in the distance cries
and songs, the varied noises of a wild debauch. Tomsk,
illuminated, glittered and gleamed.

Michael listened. The square was silent and deserted.
He went, groping his way, towards the place where his
mother had fallen. He found her with his hand, he bent
over her, he put his face close to hers, he listened for the
beating of her heart. Then he murmured a few words.

Did Marfa still live, and did she hear her son's words?
Whether she did so or not, she made not the slightest move-
ment. Michael kissed her forehead and her white locks.
He then raised himself, and, groping with his foot, trying
to stretch out his hand to guide himself, he walked by de-
grees to the edge of the square.

Suddenly Nadia appeared. She walked straight to her
companion. A knife in her hand cut the cords which bound
Michael's arms. The blind man knew not who had freed
him, for Nadia had not spoken a word.

But this done: "Brother!" said she.

"Nadia!" murmured Michael, "Nadia!"

"Come, brother," replied Nadia, "use my eyes whilst
yours sleep. I will lead you to Irkutsk."


CHAPTER VI
A FRIEND ON THE HIGHWAY

HALF an hour afterwards, Michael and Nadia had left
Tomsk.

Many others of the prisoners were that night able to
escape from the Tartars, for officers and soldiers, all more
or less intoxicated, had unconsciously relaxed the vigilant
guard which they had hitherto maintained. Nadia, after
having been carried off with the other prisoners, had been
able to escape and return to the square, at the moment when
Michael was led before the Emir. There, mingling with
the crowd, she had witnessed the terrible scene. Not a
cry escaped her when the scorching blade passed before her
companion's eyes. She kept, by her strength of will, mute
and motionless. A providential inspiration bade her re-
strain herself and retain her liberty that she might lead
Marfa's son to that goal which he had sworn to reach.
Her heart for an instant ceased to beat when the aged
Siberian woman fell senseless to the ground, but one
thought restored her to her former energy. "I will be the
blind man's dog," said she.

On Ogareff's departure, Nadia had concealed herself in
the shade. She had waited till the crowd left the square.
Michael, abandoned as a wretched being from whom noth-
ing was to be feared, was alone. She saw him draw him-
self towards his mother, bend over her, kiss her forehead,
then rise and grope his way in flight.

A few instants later, she and he, hand in hand, had de-
scended the steep slope, when, after having followed the
high banks of the Tom to the furthest extremity of the
town, they happily found a breach in the inclosure.

The road to Irkutsk was the only one which penetrated
towards the east. It could not be mistaken. It was pos-
sible that on the morrow, after some hours of carousal, the
scouts of the Emir, once more scattering over the steppes,
might cut off all communication. It was of the greatest
importance therefore to get in advance of them. How
could Nadia bear the fatigues of that night, from the l6th
to the 17th of August? How could she have found
strength for so long a stage? How could her feet, bleed-
ing under that forced march, have carried her thither? It
is almost incomprehensible. But it is none the less true that
on the next morning, twelve hours after their departure
from Tomsk, Michael and she reached the town of
Semilowskoe, after a journey of thirty-five miles.

Michael had not uttered a single word. It was not
Nadia who held his hand, it was he who held that of his
companion during the whole of that night; but, thanks to
that trembling little hand which guided him, he had walked
at his ordinary pace.

Semilowskoe was almost entirely abandoned. The in-
habitants had fled. Not more than two or three houses
were still occupied. All that the town contained, useful or
precious, had been carried off in wagons. However, Nadia
was obliged to make a halt of a few hours. They both re-
quired food and rest.

The young girl led her companion to the extremity of
the town. There they found an empty house, the door
wide open. An old rickety wooden bench stood in the
middle of the room, near the high stove which is to be
found in all Siberian houses. They silently seated them-
selves.

Nadia gazed in her companion's face as she had never
before gazed. There was more than gratitude, more than
pity, in that look. Could Michael have seen her, he would
have read in that sweet desolate gaze a world of devotion
and tenderness.

The eyelids of the blind man, made red by the heated
blade, fell half over his eyes. The pupils seemed to be
singularly enlarged. The rich blue of the iris was darker
than formerly. The eyelashes and eyebrows were partly
burnt, but in appearance, at least, the old penetrating look
appeared to have undergone no change. If he could no
longer see, if his blindness was complete, it was because
the sensibility of the retina and optic nerve was radically
destroyed by the fierce heat of the steel.

Then Michael stretched out his hands.

"Are you there, Nadia?" he asked.

"Yes," replied the young girl; "I am close to you, and
I will not go away from you, Michael."

At his name, pronounced by Nadia for the first time, a
thrill passed through Michael's frame. He perceived that
his companion knew all, who he was.

"Nadia," replied he, "we must separate!"

"We separate? How so, Michael?"

"I must not be an obstacle to your journey! Your
father is waiting for you at Irkutsk! You must rejoin
your father!"

"My father would curse me, Michael, were I to abandon
you now, after all you have done for me!"

"Nadia, Nadia," replied Michael, "you should think
only of your father!"

"Michael," replied Nadia, "you have more need of me
than my father.  Do you mean to give up going to
Irkutsk?"

"Never!" cried Michael, in a tone which plainly showed
that none of his energy was gone.

"But you have not the letter!"

"That letter of which Ivan Ogareff robbed me! Well!
I shall manage without it, Nadia! They have treated me as
a spy! I will act as a spy! I will go and repeat at Irkutsk
all I have seen, all I have heard; I swear it by Heaven above!
The traitor shall meet me one day face to face! But I must
arrive at Irkutsk before him."

"And yet you speak of our separating, Michael?"

"Nadia, they have taken everything from me!"

"I have some roubles still, and my eyes! I can see for
you, Michael; and I will lead you thither, where you could
not go alone!"

"And how shall we go?"

"On foot."

"And how shall we live?"

"By begging."

"Let us start, Nadia."

"Come, Michael."

The two young people no longer kept the names
"brother" and "sister." In their common misfortune,
they felt still closer united. They left the house after an
hour's repose. Nadia had procured in the town some mor-
sels of "tchornekhleb," a sort of barley bread, and a little
mead, called "meod" in Russia. This had cost her noth-
ing, for she had already begun her plan of begging. The
bread and mead had in some degree appeased Michael's
hunger and thirst. Nadia gave him the lion's share of this
scanty meal. He ate the pieces of bread his companion
gave him, drank from the gourd she held to his lips.

"Are you eating, Nadia?" he asked several times.

"Yes, Michael," invariably replied the young girl, who
contented herself with what her companion left.

Michael and Nadia quitted Semilowskoe, and once more
set out on the laborious road to Irkutsk. The girl bore up
in a marvelous way against fatigue. Had Michael seen
her, perhaps he would not have had the courage to go on.
But Nadia never complained, and Michael, hearing no sigh,
walked at a speed he was unable to repress. And why?
Did he still expect to keep before the Tartars? He was
on foot, without money; he was blind, and if Nadia, his
only guide, were to be separated from him, he could only
lie down by the side of the road and there perish miserably.
But if, on the other hand, by energetic perseverance he could
reach Krasnoiarsk, all was perhaps not lost, since the gover-
nor, to whom he would make himself known, would not
hesitate to give him the means of reaching Irkutsk.

Michael walked on, speaking little, absorbed in his own
thoughts. He held Nadia's hand. The two were in in-
cessant communication. It seemed to them that they had
no need of words to exchange their thoughts. From time
to time Michael said, "Speak to me, Nadia."

"Why should I, Michael? We are thinking together!"
the young girl would reply, and contrived that her voice
should not betray her extreme fatigue.

But sometimes, as if her heart had ceased to beat for an
instant, her limbs tottered, her steps flagged, her arms fell
to her sides, she dropped behind. Michael then stopped, he
fixed his eyes on the poor girl, as though he would try to
pierce the gloom which surrounded him; his breast heaved;
then, supporting his companion more than before, he started
on afresh.

However, amidst these continual miseries, a fortunate cir-
cumstance on that day occurred which it appeared likely
would considerably ease their fatigue. They had been
walking from Semilowskoe for two hours when Michael
stopped.

"Is there no one on the road?"

"Not a single soul," replied Nadia.

"Do you not hear some noise behind us? If they are
Tartars we must hide. Keep a good look-out!"

"Wait, Michael!" replied Nadia, going back a few steps
to where the road turned to the right.

Michael Strogoff waited alone for a minute, listening
attentively.

Nadia returned almost immediately and said, "It is a
cart. A young man is leading it."

"Is he alone?"

"Alone."

Michael hesitated an instant. Should he hide? or should
he, on the contrary, try to find a place in the vehicle, if not
for himself, at least for her? For himself, he would be
quite content to lay one hand on the cart, to push it if neces-
sary, for his legs showed no sign of failing him; but he
felt sure that Nadia, compelled to walk ever since they
crossed the Obi, that is, for eight days, must be almost ex-
hausted. He waited.

The cart was soon at the corner of the road. It was a
very dilapidated vehicle, known in the country as a kibitka,
just capable of holding three persons. Usually the kibitka
is drawn by three horses, but this had but one, a beast with
long hair and a very long tail. It was of the Mongol breed,
known for strength and courage.

A young man was leading it, with a dog beside him.
Nadia saw at once that the young man was Russian; his
face was phlegmatic, but pleasant, and at once inspired con-
fidence. He did not appear to be in the slightest hurry;
he was not walking fast that he might spare his horse, and,
to look at him, it would not have been believed that he was
following a road which might at any instant be swarming
with Tartars.

Nadia, holding Michael by the hand, made way for the
vehicle.  The kibitka stopped, and the driver smilingly
looked at the young girl.

"And where are you going to in this fashion?" he asked,
opening wide his great honest eyes.

At the sound of his voice, Michael said to himself that
he had heard it before. And it was satisfactory to him to
recognize the man for his brow at once cleared.

"Well, where are you going?" repeated the young man,
addressing himself more directly to Michael.

"We are going to Irkutsk," he replied.

"Oh! little father, you do not know that there are still
versts and versts between you and Irkutsk?"

"I know it."

"And you are going on foot?"

"On foot."

"You, well! but the young lady?"

"She is my sister," said Michael, who judged it prudent
to give again this name to Nadia.

"Yes, your sister, little father! But, believe me, she
will never be able to get to Irkutsk!"

"Friend," returned Michael, approaching him, "the Tar-
tars have robbed us of everything, and I have not a copeck
to offer you; but if you will take my sister with you, I will
follow your cart on foot; I will run when necessary, I will
not delay you an hour!"

"Brother," exclaimed Nadia, "I will not! I will not!
Sir, my brother is blind!"

"Blind!" repeated the young man, much moved.

"The Tartars have burnt out his eyes!" replied Nadia,
extending her hands, as if imploring pity.

"Burnt out his eyes! Oh! poor little father! I am
going to Krasnoiarsk. Well, why should not you and your
sister mount in the kibitka? By sitting a little close, it will
hold us all three. Besides, my dog will not refuse to go on
foot; only I don't go fast, I spare my horse."

"Friend, what is your name?" asked Michael.

"My name is Nicholas Pigassof."

"It is a name that I will never forget," said Michael.

"Well, jump up, little blind father. Your sister will be
beside you, in the bottom of the cart; I sit in front to drive.
There is plenty of good birch bark and straw in the bot-
tom; it's like a nest. Serko, make room!"

The dog jumped down without more telling. He was
an animal of the Siberian race, gray hair, of medium size,
with an honest big head, just made to pat, and he, more-
over, appeared to be much attached to his master.

In a moment more, Michael and Nadia were seated in
the kibitka. Michael held out his hands as if to feel for
those of Pigassof. "You wish to shake my hands!" said
Nicholas. "There they are, little father! shake them as
long as it will give you any pleasure."

The kibitka moved on; the horse, which Nicholas never
touched with the whip, ambled along. Though Michael did
not gain any in speed, at least some fatigue was spared to
Nadia.

Such was the exhaustion of the young girl, that, rocked
by the monotonous movement of the kibitka, she soon fell
into a sleep, its soundness proving her complete prostra-
tion. Michael and Nicholas laid her on the straw as com-
fortably as possible. The compassionate young man was
greatly moved, and if a tear did not escape from Michael's
eyes, it was because the red-hot iron had dried up the last!

"She is very pretty," said Nicholas.

"Yes," replied Michael.

"They try to be strong, little father, they are brave, but
they are weak after all, these dear little things! Have you
come from far."

"Very far."

"Poor young people! It must have hurt you very much
when they burnt your eyes!"

"Very much," answered Michael, turning towards
Nicholas as if he could see him.

"Did you not weep?"

"Yes."

"I should have wept too. To think that one could never
again see those one loves. But they can see you, however;
that's perhaps some consolation!"

"Yes, perhaps. Tell me, my friend," continued Michael,
"have you never seen me anywhere before?"

"You, little father? No, never."

"The sound of your voice is not unknown to me."

"Why!" returned Nicholas, smiling, "he knows the
sound of my voice! Perhaps you ask me that to find out
where I come from. I come from Kolyvan."

"From Kolyvan?" repeated Michael. "Then it was
there I met you; you were in the telegraph office?"

"That may be," replied Nicholas. "I was stationed
there. I was the clerk in charge of the messages."

"And you stayed at your post up to the last moment?"

"Why, it's at that moment one ought to be there!"

"It was the day when an Englishman and a Frenchman
were disputing, roubles in hand, for the place at your wicket,
and the Englishman telegraphed some poetry."

"That is possible, but I do not remember it."

"What! you do not remember it?"

"I never read the dispatches I send. My duty being to
forget them, the shortest way is not to know them."

This reply showed Nicholas Pigassof's character. In
the meanwhile the kibitka pursued its way, at a pace which
Michael longed to render more rapid. But Nicholas and
his horse were accustomed to a pace which neither of them
would like to alter. The horse went for two hours and
rested one -- so on, day and night. During the halts the
horse grazed, the travelers ate in company with the faithful
Serko. The kibitka was provisioned for at least twenty
persons, and Nicholas generously placed his supplies at the
disposal of his two guests, whom he believed to be brother
and sister.

After a day's rest, Nadia recovered some strength.
Nicholas took the best possible care of her. The journey
was being made under tolerable circumstances, slowly cer-
tainly, but surely. It sometimes happened that during the
night, Nicholas, although driving, fell asleep, and snored
with a clearness which showed the calmness of his con-
science. Perhaps then, by looking close, Michael's hand
might have been seen feeling for the reins, and giving the
horse a more rapid pace, to the great astonishment of Serko,
who, however, said nothing. The trot was exchanged for
the amble as soon as Nicholas awoke, but the kibitka had
not the less gained some versts.

Thus they passed the river Ichirnsk, the villages of
Ichisnokoe, Berikylokoe, Kuskoe, the river Marunsk, the
village of the same name, Bogostowskoe, and, lastly, the
Ichoula, a little stream which divides Western from Eastern
Siberia. The road now lay sometimes across wide moors,
which extended as far as the eye could reach, sometimes
through thick forests of firs, of which they thought they
should never get to the end. Everywhere was a desert; the
villages were almost entirely abandoned. The peasants had
fled beyond the Yenisei, hoping that this wide river would
perhaps stop the Tartars.

On the 22d of August, the kibitka entered the town of
Atchinsk, two hundred and fifty miles from Tomsk. Eighty
miles still lay between them and Krasnoiarsk.

No incident had marked the journey. For the six days
during which they had been together, Nicholas, Michael,
and Nadia had remained the same, the one in his unchange-
able calm, the other two, uneasy, and thinking of the time
when their companion would leave them.

Michael saw the country through which they traveled
with the eyes of Nicholas and the young girl. In turns,
they each described to him the scenes they passed. He
knew whether he was in a forest or on a plain, whether a
hut was on the steppe, or whether any Siberian was in sight.
Nicholas was never silent, he loved to talk, and, from his
peculiar way of viewing things, his friends were amused
by his conversation. One day, Michael asked him what
sort of weather it was.

"Fine enough, little father," he answered, "but soon we
shall feel the first winter frosts. Perhaps the Tartars will
go into winter quarters during the bad season."

Michael Strogoff shook his head with a doubtful air.

"You do not think so, little father?" resumed Nicholas.
"You think that they will march on to Irkutsk?"

"I fear so," replied Michael.

"Yes . . . you are right; they have with them a bad
man, who will not let them loiter on the way. You have
heard speak of Ivan Ogareff?"

"Yes."

"You know that it is not right to betray one's country!"

"No . . . it is not right . . ." answered Michael, who
wished to remain unmoved.

"Little father," continued Nicholas, "it seems to me that
you are not half indignant enough when Ivan Ogareff is
spoken of. Your Russian heart ought to leap when his
name is uttered."

"Believe me, my friend, I hate him more than you can
ever hate him," said Michael.

"It is not possible," replied Nicholas; "no, it is not pos-
sible! When I think of Ivan Ogareff, of the harm which
he is doing to our sacred Russia, I get into such a rage
that if I could get hold of him --"

"If you could get hold of him, friend?"

"I think I should kill him."

"And I, I am sure of it," returned Michael quietly.


CHAPTER VII
THE PASSAGE OF THE YENISEI

AT nightfall, on the 25th of August, the kibitka came in
sight of Krasnoiarsk. The journey from Tomsk had taken
eight days. If it had not been accomplished as rapidly as it
might, it was because Nicholas had slept little. Con-
sequently, it was impossible to increase his horse's pace,
though in other hands, the journey would not have taken
sixty hours.

Happily, there was no longer any fear of Tartars. Not
a scout had appeared on the road over which the kibitka
had just traveled. This was strange enough, and evidently
some serious cause had prevented the Emir's troops from
marching without delay upon Irkutsk. Something had oc-
curred. A new Russian corps, hastily raised in the govern-
ment of Yeniseisk, had marched to Tomsk to endeavor to
retake the town. But, being too weak to withstand the
Emir's troops, now concentrated there, they had been forced
to effect a retreat. Feofar-Khan, including his own sol-
diers, and those of the Khanats of Khokhand and Koun-
douze, had now under his command two hundred and fifty
thousand men, to which the Russian government could not
as yet oppose a sufficient force. The invasion could not,
therefore, be immediately stopped, and the whole Tartar
army might at once march upon Irkutsk. The battle of
Tomsk was on the 22nd of August, though this Michael
did not know, but it explained why the vanguard of the
Emir's army had not appeared at Krasnoiarsk by the 25th.

However, though Michael Strogoff could not know the
events which had occurred since his departure, he at least
knew that he was several days in advance of the Tartars,
and that he need not despair of reaching before them the
town of Irkutsk, still six hundred miles distant.

Besides, at Krasnoiarsk, of which the population is about
twelve thousand souls, he depended upon obtaining some
means of transport. Since Nicholas Pigassof was to stop
in that town, it would be necessary to replace him by a
guide, and to change the kibitka for another more rapid
vehicle. Michael, after having addressed himself to the
governor of the town, and established his identity and qual-
ity as Courier of the Czar -- which would be easy -- doubted
not that he would be enabled to get to Irkutsk in the short-
est possible time. He would thank the good Nicholas
Pigassof, and set out immediately with Nadia, for he did
not wish to leave her until he had placed her in her father's
arms.   Though Nicholas had resolved to stop at Kras-
noiarsk, it was only as he said, "on condition of finding
employment there." In fact, this model clerk, after having
stayed to the last minute at his post in Kolyvan, was en-
deavoring to place himself again at the disposal of the gov-
ernment. "Why should I receive a salary which I have
not earned?" he would say.

In the event of his services not being required at Kras-
noiarsk, which it was expected would be still in telegraphic
communication with Irkutsk, he proposed to go to Oudinsk,
or even to the capital of Siberia itself. In the latter case,
he would continue to travel with the brother and sister;
and where would they find a surer guide, or a more devoted
friend?

The kibitka was now only half a verst from Krasnoiarsk.
The numerous wooden crosses which are erected at the ap-
proaches to the town, could be seen to the right and left
of the road. It was seven in the evening; the outline of
the churches and of the houses built on the high bank of
the Yenisei were clearly defined against the evening sky,
and the waters of the river reflected them in the twilight.

"Where are we, sister?" asked Michael.

"Half a verst from the first houses," replied Nadia.

"Can the town be asleep?" observed Michael. "Not a
sound strikes my ear."

"And I cannot see the slightest light, nor even smoke
mounting into the air," added Nadia.

"What a queer town!" said Nicholas. "They make no
noise in it, and go to bed uncommonly early!"

A presentiment of impending misfortune passed across
Michael's heart. He had not said to Nadia that he had
placed all his hopes on Krasnoiarsk, where he expected to
find the means of safely finishing his journey. He much
feared that his anticipations would again be disappointed.

But Nadia had guessed his thoughts, although she could
not understand why her companion should be so anxious
to reach Irkutsk, now that the Imperial letter was gone.
She one day said something of the sort to him. "I have
sworn to go to Irkutsk," he replied.

But to accomplish his mission, it was necessary that at
Krasnoiarsk he should find some more rapid mode of loco-
motion. "Well, friend," said he to Nicholas, "why are
we not going on?"

"Because I am afraid of waking up the inhabitants of
the town with the noise of my carriage!" And with a
light fleck of the whip, Nicholas put his horse in motion.

Ten minutes after they entered the High Street. Kras-
noiarsk was deserted; there was no longer an Athenian in
this "Northern Athens," as Madame de Bourboulon has
called it. Not one of their dashing equipages swept
through the wide, clean streets. Not a pedestrian enlivened
the footpaths raised at the bases of the magnificent wooden
houses, of monumental aspect! Not a Siberian belle,
dressed in the last French fashion, promenaded the beauti-
ful park, cleared in a forest of birch trees, which stretches
away to the banks of the Yenisei! The great bell of the
cathedral was dumb; the chimes of the churches were silent.
Here was complete desolation. There was no longer a liv-
ing being in this town, lately so lively!

The last telegram sent from the Czar's cabinet, before
the rupture of the wire, had ordered the governor, the
garrison, the inhabitants, whoever they might be, to leave
Krasnoiarsk, to carry with them any articles of value, or
which might be of use to the Tartars, and to take refuge at
Irkutsk. The same injunction was given to all the villages
of the province. It was the intention of the Muscovite gov-
ernment to lay the country desert before the invaders. No
one thought for an instant of disputing these orders. They
were executed, and this was the reason why not a single
human being remained in Krasnoiarsk.

Michael Strogoff, Nadia, and Nicholas passed silently
through the streets of the town. They felt half-stupefied.
They themselves made the only sound to be heard in this
dead city. Michael allowed nothing of what he felt to ap-
pear, but he inwardly raged against the bad luck which
pursued him, his hopes being again disappointed.

"Alack, alack!" cried Nicholas, "I shall never get any
employment in this desert!"

"Friend," said Nadia, "you must go on with us."

"I must indeed!" replied Nicholas. "The wire is no
doubt still working between Oudinsk and Irkutsk, and
there -- Shall we start, little father?"

"Let us wait till to-morrow," answered Michael.

"You are right," said Nicholas. "We have the Yenisei
to cross, and need light to see our way there!"

"To see!" murmured Nadia, thinking of her blind com-
panion.

Nicholas heard her, and turning to Michael, "Forgive
me, little father," said he. "Alas! night and day, it is true,
are all the same to you!"

"Do not reproach yourself, friend," replied Michael,
pressing his hand over his eyes. "With you for a guide I
can still act. Take a few hours' repose. Nadia must rest
too. To-morrow we will recommence our journey!"

Michael and his friends had not to search long for a place
of rest. The first house, the door of which they pushed
open, was empty, as well as all the others. Nothing could
be found within but a few heaps of leaves. For want of
better fodder the horse had to content himself with this
scanty nourishment. The provisions of the kibitka were
not yet exhausted, so each had a share. Then, after having
knelt before a small picture of the Panaghia, hung on the
wall, and still lighted up by a flickering lamp, Nicholas and
the young girl slept, whilst Michael, over whom sleep had
no influence, watched.

Before daybreak the next morning, the 26th of August,
the horse was drawing the kibitka through the forests of
birch trees towards the banks of the Yenisei. Michael was
in much anxiety. How was he to cross the river, if, as
was probable, all boats had been destroyed to retard the
Tartars' march? He knew the Yenisei, its width was con-
siderable, its currents strong.   Ordinarily by means of
boats specially built for the conveyance of travelers, car-
riages, and horses, the passage of the Yenisei takes about
three hours, and then it is with extreme difficulty that the
boats reach the opposite bank. Now, in the absence of any
ferry, how was the kibitka to get from one bank to the
other?

Day was breaking when the kibitka reached the left bank,
where one of the wide alleys of the park ended. They were
about a hundred feet above the Yenisei, and could therefore
survey the whole of its wide course.

"Do you see a boat?" asked Michael, casting his eyes
eagerly about from one side to the other, mechanically, no
doubt, as if he could really see.

"It is scarcely light yet, brother," replied Nadia. "The
fog is still thick, and we cannot see the water."

"But I hear it roaring," said Michael.

Indeed, from the fog issued a dull roaring sound. The
waters being high rushed down with tumultuous violence.
All three waited until the misty curtain should rise. The
sun would not be long in dispersing the vapors.

"Well?" asked Michael.

"The fog is beginning to roll away, brother," replied
Nadia, "and it will soon be clear."

"Then you do not see the surface of the water yet?"

"Not yet."

"Have patience, little father," said Nicholas. "All this
will soon disappear. Look! here comes the breeze! It is
driving away the fog. The trees on the opposite hills are
already appearing. It is sweeping, flying away. The
kindly rays of the sun have condensed all that mass of mist.
Ah! how beautiful it is, my poor fellow, and how unfor-
tunate that you cannot see such a lovely sight!"

"Do you see a boat?" asked Michael.

"I see nothing of the sort," answered Nicholas.

"Look well, friend, on this and the opposite bank, as far
as your eye can reach. A raft, even a canoe?"

Nicholas and Nadia, grasping the bushes on the edge of
the cliff, bent over the water. The view they thus obtained
was extensive. At this place the Yenisei is not less than a
mile in width, and forms two arms, of unequal size, through
which the waters flow swiftly. Between these arms lie sev-
eral islands, covered with alders, willows, and poplars, look-
ing like verdant ships, anchored in the river. Beyond rise
the high hills of the Eastern shore, crowned with forests,
whose tops were then empurpled with light. The Yenisei
stretched on either side as far as the eye could reach. The
beautiful panorama lay before them for a distance of fifty
versts.

But not a boat was to be seen. All had been taken away
or destroyed, according to order. Unless the Tartars
should bring with them materials for building a bridge of
boats, their march towards Irkutsk would certainly be
stopped for some time by this barrier, the Yenisei.

"I remember," said Michael, "that higher up, on the out-
skirts of Krasnoiarsk, there is a little quay. There the boats
touch. Friend, let us go up the river, and see if some boat
has not been forgotten on the bank."

Nadia seized Michael's hand and started off at a rapid
pace in the direction indicated. If only a boat or a barge
large enough to hold the kibitka could be found, or even
one that would carry just themselves, Michael would not
hesitate to attempt the passage! Twenty minutes after, all
three had reached the little quay, with houses on each side
quite down to the water's edge. It was like a village stand-
ing beyond the town of Krasnoiarsk.

But not a boat was on the shore, not a barge at the little
wharf, nothing even of which a raft could be made large
enough to carry three people. Michael questioned Nicholas,
who made the discouraging reply that the crossing appeared
to him absolutely impracticable.

"We shall cross!" answered Michael.

The search was continued. They examined the houses
on the shore, abandoned like all the rest of Krasnoiarsk.
They had merely to push open the doors and enter. The
cottages were evidently those of poor people, and quite
empty. Nicholas visited one, Nadia entered another, and
even Michael went here and there and felt about, hoping
to light upon some article that might be useful.

Nicholas and the girl had each fruitlessly rummaged these
cottages and were about to give up the search, when they
heard themselves called. Both ran to the bank and saw
Michael standing on the threshold of a door.

"Come!" he exclaimed.  Nicholas and Nadia went
towards him and followed him into the cottage.

"What are these?" asked Michael, touching several ob-
jects piled up in a corner.

"They are leathern bottles," answered Nicholas.

"Are they full?"

"Yes, full of koumyss. We have found them very op-
portunely to renew our provisions!"

"Koumyss" is a drink made of mare's or camel's milk,
and is very sustaining, and even intoxicating; so that
Nicholas and his companions could not but congratulate
themselves on the discovery.

"Save one," said Michael, "but empty the others."

"Directly, little father."

"These will help us to cross the Yenisei."

"And the raft?"

"Will be the kibitka itself, which is light enough to float.
Besides, we will sustain it, as well as the horse, with these
bottles."

"Well thought of, little father," exclaimed Nicholas,
"and by God's help we will get safely over . . . though
perhaps not in a straight line, for the current is very
rapid!"

"What does that matter?" replied Michael. "Let us
get across first, and we shall soon find out the road to Ir-
kutsk on the other side of the river."

"To work, then," said Nicholas, beginning to empty the
bottles.

One full of koumyss was reserved, and the rest, with
the air carefully fastened in, were used to form a float-
ing apparatus. Two bottles were fastened to the horse's
sides to support it in the water. Two others were attached
to the shafts to keep them on a level with the body of the
machine, thus transformed into a raft. This work was
soon finished.

"You will not be afraid, Nadia?" asked Michael.

"No, brother," answered the girl.

"And you, friend?"

"I?" cried Nicholas. "I am now going to have one of
my dreams realized -- that of sailing in a cart."

At the spot where they were now standing, the bank
sloped, and was suitable for the launching of the kibitka.
The horse drew it into the water, and they were soon both
floating. As to Serko, he was swimming bravely.

The three passengers, seated in the vehicle, had with due
precaution taken off their shoes and stockings; but, thanks
to the bottles, the water did not even come over their ankles.
Michael held the reins, and, according to Nicholas's direc-
tions, guided the animal obliquely, but cautiously, so as not
to exhaust him by struggling against the current. So long
as the kibitka went with the current all was easy, and in
a few minutes it had passed the quays of Krasnoiarsk. It
drifted northwards, and it was soon evident that it would
only reach the opposite bank far below the town. But that
mattered little. The crossing would have been made with-
out great difficulty, even on this imperfect apparatus, had
the current been regular; but, unfortunately, there were
whirlpools in numbers, and soon the kibitka, notwithstand-
ing all Michael's efforts, was irresistibly drawn into one of
these.

There the danger was great. The kibitka no longer
drifted, but spun rapidly round, inclining towards the center
of the eddy, like a rider in a circus.   The horse could
scarcely keep his head above water, and ran a great risk of
being suffocated. Serko had been obliged to take refuge
in the carriage.

Michael knew what was happening.   He felt himself
drawn round in a gradually narrowing line, from which
they could not get free. How he longed to see, to be bet-
ter able to avoid this peril, but that was no longer possible.
Nadia was silent, her hands clinging to the sides of the cart,
which was inclining more and more towards the center of
depression.

And Nicholas, did he not understand the gravity of the
situation? Was it with him phlegm or contempt of dan-
ger, courage or indifference? Was his life valueless in his
eyes, and, according to the Eastern expression, "an hotel
for five days," which, whether one is willing or not, must
be left the sixth? At any rate, the smile on his rosy face
never faded for an instant.

The kibitka was thus in the whirlpool, and the horse was
nearly exhausted, when, all at once, Michael, throwing off
such of his garments as might impede him, jumped into the
water; then, seizing with a strong hand the bridle of the
terrified horse, he gave him such an impulse that he managed
to struggle out of the circle, and getting again into the cur-
rent, the kibitka drifted along anew.

"Hurrah!" exclaimed Nicholas.

Two hours after leaving the wharf, the kibitka had
crossed the widest arm of the river, and had landed on an
island more than six versts below the starting point.

There the horse drew the cart onto the bank, and an
hour's rest was given to the courageous animal; then the
island having been crossed under the shade of its mag-
nificent birches, the kibitka found itself on the shore of the
smaller arm of the Yenisei.

This passage was much easier; no whirlpools broke the
course of the river in this second bed; but the current was so
rapid that the kibitka only reached the opposite side five
versts below. They had drifted eleven versts in all.

These great Siberian rivers across which no bridges have
as yet been thrown, are serious obstacles to the facility of
communication. All had been more or less unfortunate to
Michael Strogoff. On the Irtych, the boat which carried
him and Nadia had been attacked by Tartars. On the Obi,
after his horse had been struck by a bullet, he had only by a
miracle escaped from the horsemen who were pursuing him.
In fact, this passage of the Yenisei had been performed the
least disastrously.

"That would not have been so amusing," exclaimed
Nicholas, rubbing his hands, as they disembarked on the
right bank of the river, "if it had not been so difficult."

"That which has only been difficult to us, friend," an-
swered Michael Strogoff, "will, perhaps, be impossible to the
Tartars."


CHAPTER VIII
A HARE CROSSES THE ROAD

MICHAEL STROGOFF might at last hope that the road to
Irkutsk was clear. He had distanced the Tartars, now de-
tained at Tomsk, and when the Emir's soldiers should arrive
at Krasnoiarsk they would find only a deserted town.
There being no communication between the two banks of
the Yenisei, a delay of some days would be caused until a
bridge of boats could be established, and to accomplish this
would be a difficult undertaking. For the first time since
the encounter with Ivan Ogareff at Omsk, the courier of the
Czar felt less uneasy, and began to hope that no fresh
obstacle would delay his progress.

The road was good, for that part of it which extends
between Krasnoiarsk and Irkutsk is considered the best in
the whole journey; fewer jolts for travelers, large trees to
shade them from the heat of the sun, sometimes forests of
pines or cedars covering an extent of a hundred versts. It
was no longer the wide steppe with limitless horizon; but
the rich country was empty. Everywhere they came upon
deserted villages. The Siberian peasantry had vanished.
It was a desert, but a desert by order of the Czar.

The weather was fine, but the air, which cooled during
the night, took some time to get warm again. Indeed it
was now near September, and in this high region the days
were sensibly shortening. Autumn here lasts but a very
little while, although this part of Siberian territory is not
situated above the fifty-fifth parallel, that of Edinburgh
and Copenhagen. However, winter succeeds summer al-
most unexpectedly. These winters of Asiatic Russia may
be said to be precocious, considering that during them the
thermometer falls until the mercury is frozen nearly 42
degrees below zero, and that 20 degrees below zero is con-
sidered an unsupportable temperature.

The weather favored our travelers. It was neither
stormy nor rainy. The health of Nadia and Michael was
good, and since leaving Tomsk they had gradually recovered
from their past fatigues.

As to Nicholas Pigassof, he had never been better in his
life. To him this journey was a trip, an agreeable excur-
sion in which he employed his enforced holiday.

"Decidedly," said he, "this is pleasanter than sitting
twelve hours a day, perched on a stool, working the manip-
ulator!"

Michael had managed to get Nicholas to make his horse
quicken his pace. To obtain this result, he had confided
to Nicholas that Nadia and he were on their way to join
their father, exiled at Irkutsk, and that they were very
anxious to get there. Certainly, it would not do to over-
work the horse, for very probably they would not be able
to exchange him for another; but by giving him frequent
rests -- every ten miles, for instance -- forty miles in twenty-
four hours could easily be accomplished. Besides, the ani-
mal was strong, and of a race calculated to endure great
fatigue. He was in no want of rich pasturage along the
road, the grass being thick and abundant. Therefore, it
was possible to demand an increase of work from him.

Nicholas gave in to all these reasons. He was much
moved at the situation of these two young people, going to
share their father's exile. Nothing had ever appeared so
touching to him. With what a smile he said to Nadia:
"Divine goodness! what joy will Mr. Korpanoff feel, when
his eyes behold you, when his arms open to receive you! If
I go to Irkutsk -- and that appears very probable now -- will
you permit me to be present at that interview! You will,
will you not?" Then, striking his forehead: "But, I for-
got, what grief too when he sees that his poor son is blind!
Ah! everything is mingled in this world!"

However, the result of all this was the kibitka went
faster, and, according to Michael's calculations, now made
almost eight miles an hour.

After crossing the little river Biriousa, the kibitka reached
Biriousensk on the morning of the 4th of September.
There, very fortunately, for Nicholas saw that his provisions
were becoming exhausted, he found in an oven a dozen
"pogatchas," a kind of cake prepared with sheep's fat and
a large supply of plain boiled rice. This increase was very
opportune, for something would soon have been needed to
replace the koumyss with which the kibitka had been stored
at Krasnoiarsk.

After a halt, the journey was continued in the afternoon.
The distance to Irkutsk was not now much over three hun-
dred miles. There was not a sign of the Tartar vanguard.
Michael Strogoff had some grounds for hoping that his
journey would not be again delayed, and that in eight days,
or at most ten, he would be in the presence of the Grand
Duke.

On leaving Biriousinsk, a hare ran across the road, in
front of the kibitka. "Ah!" exclaimed Nicholas.

"What is the matter, friend?" asked Michael quickly,
like a blind man whom the least sound arouses.

"Did you not see?" said Nicholas, whose bright face
had become suddenly clouded. Then he added, "Ah! no!
you could not see, and it's lucky for you, little father!"

"But I saw nothing," said Nadia.

"So much the better! So much the better! But I -- I
saw!"

"What was it then?" asked Michael.

"A hare crossing our road!" answered Nicholas.

In Russia, when a hare crosses the path, the popular belief
is that it is the sign of approaching evil. Nicholas, super-
stitious like the greater number of Russians, stopped the
kibitka.

Michael understood his companion's hesitation, without
sharing his credulity, and endeavored to reassure him,
"There is nothing to fear, friend," said he.

"Nothing for you, nor for her, I know, little father," an-
swered Nicholas, "but for me!"

"It is my fate," he continued. And he put his horse in
motion again. However, in spite of these forebodings the
day passed without any accident.

At twelve o'clock the next day, the 6th of September,
the kibitka halted in the village of Alsalevok, which was
as deserted as the surrounding country. There, on a door-
step, Nadia found two of those strong-bladed knives used
by Siberian hunters. She gave one to Michael, who con-
cealed it among his clothes, and kept the other herself.

Nicholas had not recovered his usual spirits. The ill-
omen had affected him more than could have been believed,
and he who formerly was never half an hour without speak-
ing, now fell into long reveries from which Nadia found it
difficult to arouse him. The kibitka rolled swiftly along
the road. Yes, swiftly! Nicholas no longer thought of
being so careful of his horse, and was as anxious to arrive
at his journey's end as Michael himself. Notwithstanding
his fatalism, and though resigned, he would not believe him-
self in safety until within the walls of Irkutsk. Many Rus-
sians would have thought as he did, and more than one
would have turned his horse and gone back again, after a
hare had crossed his path.

Some observations made by him, the justice of which was
proved by Nadia transmitting them to Michael, made them
fear that their trials were not yet over. Though the land
from Krasnoiarsk had been respected in its natural produc-
tions, its forests now bore trace of fire and steel; and it was
evident that some large body of men had passed that way.

Twenty miles before Nijni-Oudinsk, the indications of
recent devastation could not be mistaken, and it was im-
possible to attribute them to others than the Tartars. It
was not only that the fields were trampled by horse's feet,
and that trees were cut down. The few houses scattered
along the road were not only empty, some had been partly
demolished, others half burnt down. The marks of bullets
could be seen on their walls.

Michael's anxiety may be imagined. He could no longer
doubt that a party of Tartars had recently passed that way,
and yet it was impossible that they could be the Emir's
soldiers, for they could not have passed without being seen.
But then, who were these new invaders, and by what out-
of-the-way path across the steppe had they been able to join
the highroad to Irkutsk? With what new enemies was the
Czar's courier now to meet?

He did not communicate his apprehensions either to
Nicholas or Nadia, not wishing to make them uneasy. Be-
sides, he had resolved to continue his way, as long as no in-
surmountable obstacle stopped him. Later, he would see
what it was best to do. During the ensuing day, the recent
passage of a large body of foot and horse became more and
more apparent. Smoke was seen above the horizon. The
kibitka advanced cautiously. Several houses in deserted
villages still burned, and could not have been set on fire more
than four and twenty hours before.

At last, during the day, on the 8th of September, the
kibitka stopped suddenly. The horse refused to advance.
Serko barked furiously.

"What is the matter?" asked Michael.

"A corpse!" replied Nicholas, who had leapt out of the
kibitka. The body was that of a moujik, horribly mutilated,
and already cold. Nicholas crossed himself. Then,
aided by Michael, he carried the body to the side of the road.
He would have liked to give it decent burial, that the wild
beasts of the steppe might not feast on the miserable re-
mains, but Michael could not allow him the time.

"Come, friend, come!" he exclaimed, "we must not de-
lay, even for an hour!" And the kibitka was driven on.

Besides, if Nicholas had wished to render the last duties
to all the dead bodies they were now to meet with on the
Siberian highroad, he would have had enough to do! As
they approached Nijni-Oudinsk, they were found by
twenties, stretched on the ground.

It was, however, necessary to follow this road until it
was manifestly impossible to do so longer without falling
into the hands of the invaders. The road they were follow-
ing could not be abandoned, and yet the signs of devastation
and ruin increased at every village they passed through.
The blood of the victims was not yet dry. As to gaining
information about what had occurred, that was impossible.
There was not a living being left to tell the tale.

About four o'clock in the afternoon of this day, Nicholas
caught sight of the tall steeples of the churches of Nijni-
Oudinsk. Thick vapors, which could not have been clouds,
were floating around them.

Nicholas and Nadia looked, and communicated the result
of their observations to Michael. They must make up their
minds what to do. If the town was abandoned, they could
pass through without risk, but if, by some inexplicable
maneuver, the Tartars occupied it, they must at every cost
avoid the place.

"Advance cautiously," said Michael Strogoff, "but ad-
vance!"

A verst was soon traversed.

"Those are not clouds, that is smoke!" exclaimed Nadia.
"Brother, they are burning the town!"

It was, indeed, only too plain. Flashes of light appeared
in the midst of the vapor. It became thicker and thicker as
it mounted upwards. But were they Tartars who had done
this? They might be Russians, obeying the orders of the
Grand Duke. Had the government of the Czar determined
that from Krasnoiarsk, from the Yenisei, not a town, not a
village should offer a refuge to the Emir's soldiers? What
was Michael to do?

He was undecided. However, having weighed the pros
and cons, he thought that whatever might be the difficulties
of a journey across the steppe without a beaten path, he
ought not to risk capture a second time by the Tartars. He
was just proposing to Nicholas to leave the road, when a
shot was heard on their right. A ball whistled, and the
horse of the kibitka fell dead, shot through the head.

A dozen horsemen dashed forward, and the kibitka was
surrounded. Before they knew where they were, Michael,
Nadia, and Nicholas were prisoners, and were being dragged
rapidly towards Nijni-Oudinsk.

Michael, in this second attack, had lost none of his pres-
ence of mind. Being unable to see his enemies, he had not
thought of defending himself. Even had he possessed the
use of his eyes, he would not have attempted it. The con-
sequences would have been his death and that of his com-
panions. But, though he could not see, he could listen and
understand what was said.

From their language he found that these soldiers were
Tartars, and from their words, that they preceded the in-
vading army.

In short, what Michael learnt from the talk at the present
moment, as well as from the scraps of conversation he over-
heard later, was this. These men were not under the direct
orders of the Emir, who was now detained beyond the
Yenisei. They made part of a third column chiefly com-
posed of Tartars from the khanats of Khokland and Koon-
dooz, with which Feofar's army was to affect a junction in
the neighborhood of Irkutsk.

By Ogareff's advice, in order to assure the success of the
invasion in the Eastern provinces, this column had skirted
the base of the Altai Mountains. Pillaging and ravaging,
it had reached the upper course of the Yenisei. There,
guessing what had been done at Krasnoiarsk by order of the
Czar, and to facilitate the passage of the river to the Emir's
troops, this column had launched a flotilla of boats, which
would enable Feofar to cross and r‚sum‚ the road to Irkutsk.
Having done this, it had descended the valley of the Yenisei
and struck the road on a level with Alsalevsk. From this
little town began the frightful course of ruin which forms
the chief part of Tartar warfare. Nijni-Oudinsk had
shared the common fate, and the Tartars, to the number of
fifty thousand, had now quitted it to take up a position be-
fore Irkutsk. Before long, they would be reinforced by the
Emir's troops.

Such was the state of affairs at this date, most serious
for this isolated part of Eastern Siberia, and for the com-
paratively few defenders of its capital.

It can be imagined with what thoughts Michael's mind
was now occupied! Who could have been astonished had
he, in his present situation, lost all hope and all courage?
Nothing of the sort, however; his lips muttered no other
words than these: "I will get there!"

Half an hour after the attack of the Tartar horsemen,
Michael Strogoff, Nadia, and Nicholas entered Nijni-
Oudinsk. The faithful dog followed them, though at a
distance. They could not stay in the town, as it was in
flames, and about to be left by the last of the marauders.
The prisoners were therefore thrown on horses and hurried
away; Nicholas resigned as usual, Nadia, her faith in
Michael unshaken, and Michael himself, apparently indiffer-
ent, but ready to seize any opportunity of escaping.

The Tartars were not long in perceiving that one of their
prisoners was blind, and their natural barbarity led them to
make game of their unfortunate victim. They were travel-
ing fast. Michael's horse, having no one to guide him,
often started aside, and so made confusion among the ranks.
This drew on his rider such abuse and brutality as wrung
Nadia's heart, and filled Nicholas with indignation. But
what could they do? They could not speak the Tartar lan-
guage, and their assistance was mercilessly refused. Soon
it occurred to these men, in a refinement of cruelty, to ex-
change the horse Michael was riding for one which was
blind. The motive of the change was explained by a re-
mark which Michael overheard, "Perhaps that Russian can
see, after all!"

Michael was placed on this horse, and the reins ironically
put into his hand. Then, by dint of lashing, throwing
stones, and shouting, the animal was urged into a gallop.
The horse, not being guided by his rider, blind as himself,
sometimes ran into a tree, sometimes went quite off the road
-- in consequence, collisions and falls, which might have
been extremely dangerous.

Michael did not complain. Not a murmur escaped him.
When his horse fell, he waited until it got up. It was, in-
deed, soon assisted up, and the cruel fun continued. At
sight of this wicked treatment, Nicholas could not contain
himself; he endeavored to go to his friend's aid. He was
prevented, and treated brutally.

This game would have been prolonged, to the Tartars'
great amusement, had not a serious accident put an end to it.
On the 10th of September the blind horse ran away, and
made straight for a pit, some thirty or forty feet deep, at
the side of the road.

Nicholas tried to go after him. He was held back. The
horse, having no guide, fell with his rider to the bottom.
Nicholas and Nadia uttered a piercing cry! They believed
that their unfortunate companion had been killed.

However, when they went to his assistance, it was found
that Michael, having been able to throw himself out of the
saddle, was unhurt, but the miserable horse had two legs
broken, and was quite useless. He was left there to die
without being put out of his suffering, and Michael, fastened
to a Tartar's saddle, was obliged to follow the detachment
on foot.

Even now, not a protest, not a complaint! He marched
with a rapid step, scarcely drawn by the cord which tied
him. He was still "the Man of Iron," of whom General
Kissoff had spoken to the Czar!

The next day, the 11th of September, the detachment
passed through the village of Chibarlinskoe. Here an in-
cident occurred which had serious consequences. It was
nightfall. The Tartar horsemen, having halted, were more
or less intoxicated. They were about to start. Nadia,
who till then, by a miracle, had been respectfully treated by
the soldiers, was insulted by one of them.

Michael could not see the insult, nor the insulter, but
Nicholas saw for him. Then, quietly, without thinking,
without perhaps knowing what he was doing, Nicholas
walked straight up to the man, and, before the latter could
make the least movement to stop him, had seized a pistol
from his holster and discharged it full at his breast.

The officer in command of the detachment hastened up on
hearing the report. The soldiers would have cut the unfor-
tunate Nicholas to pieces, but at a sign from their officer, he
was bound instead, placed across a horse, and the detach-
ment galloped off.

The rope which fastened Michael, gnawed through by
him, broke by the sudden start of the horse, and the half-
tipsy rider galloped on without perceiving that his prisoner
had escaped.

Michael and Nadia found themselves alone on the road.


CHAPTER IX
IN THE STEPPE

MICHAEL STROGOFF and Nadia were once more as free as
they had been in the journey from Perm to the banks of
the Irtych. But how the conditions under which they trav-
eled were altered! Then, a comfortable tarantass, fresh
horses, well-kept post-horses assured the rapidity of their
journey. Now they were on foot; it was utterly impossible
to procure any other means of locomotion, they were with-
out resources, not knowing how to obtain even food, and
they had still nearly three hundred miles to go! Moreover,
Michael could now only see with Nadia's eyes.

As to the friend whom chance had given them, they had
just lost him, and fearful might be his fate. Michael had
thrown himself down under the brushwood at the side of
the road. Nadia stood beside him, waiting for the word
from him to continue the march.

It was ten o'clock. The sun had more than three hours
before disappeared below the horizon. There was not a
house in sight. The last of the Tartars was lost in the dis-
tance. Michael and Nadia were quite alone.

"What will they do with our friend?" exclaimed the
girl. "Poor Nicholas! Our meeting will have been fatal
to him!" Michael made no response.

"Michael," continued Nadia, "do you not know that he
defended you when you were the Tartars' sport; that he
risked his life for me?"

Michael was still silent. Motionless, his face buried in
his hands; of what was he thinking? Perhaps, although
he did not answer, he heard Nadia speak.

Yes! he heard her, for when the young girl added,
"Where shall I lead you, Michael?"

"To Irkutsk!" he replied.

"By the highroad?"

"Yes, Nadia."

Michael was still the same man who had sworn, what-
ever happened, to accomplish his object. To follow the
highroad, was certainly to go the shortest way. If the
vanguard of Feofar-Khan's troops appeared, it would then
be time to strike across the country.

Nadia took Michael's hand, and they started.

The next morning, the 13th of September, twenty versts
further, they made a short halt in the village of Joulounov-
skoe. It was burnt and deserted. All night Nadia had
tried to see if the body of Nicholas had not been left on the
road, but it was in vain that she looked among the ruins, and
searched among the dead. Was he reserved for some cruel
torture at Irkutsk?

Nadia, exhausted with hunger, was fortunate enough to
find in one of the houses a quantity of dried meat and
"soukharis," pieces of bread, which, dried by evaporation,
preserve their nutritive qualities for an indefinite time.

Michael and the girl loaded themselves with as much
as they could carry. They had thus a supply of food for
several days, and as to water, there would be no want of
that in a district rendered fertile by the numerous little
affluents of the Angara.

They continued their journey. Michael walked with a
firm step, and only slackened his pace for his companion's
sake. Nadia, not wishing to retard him, obliged herself to
walk. Happily, he could not see to what a miserable state
fatigue had reduced her.

However, Michael guessed it. "You are quite done up,
poor child," he said sometimes.

"No," she would reply.

"When you can no longer walk, I will carry you."

"Yes, Michael."

During this day they came to the little river Oka, but it
was fordable, and they had no difficulty in crossing. The
sky was cloudy and the temperature moderate. There was
some fear that the rain might come on, which would much
have increased their misery. A few showers fell, but they
did not last.

They went on as before, hand in hand, speaking little,
Nadia looking about on every side; twice a day they halted.
Six hours of the night were given to sleep. In a few huts
Nadia again found a little mutton; but, contrary to Michael's
hopes, there was not a single beast of burden in the country;
horses, camels -- all had been either killed or carried off.
They must still continue to plod on across this weary steppe
on foot.

The third Tartar column, on its way to Irkutsk, had left
plain traces: here a dead horse, there an abandoned cart.
The bodies of unfortunate Siberians lay along the road,
principally at the entrances to villages. Nadia, overcoming
her repugnance, looked at all these corpses!

The chief danger lay, not before, but behind. The ad-
vance guard of the Emir's army, commanded by Ivan
Ogareff, might at any moment appear. The boats sent
down the lower Yenisei must by this time have reached
Krasnoiarsk and been made use of. The road was there-
fore open to the invaders. No Russian force could be op-
posed to them between Krasnoiarsk and Lake Baikal,
Michael therefore expected before long the appearance of
the Tartar scouts.

At each halt, Nadia climbed some hill and looked anx-
iously to the Westward, but as yet no cloud of dust had
signaled the approach of a troop of horse.

Then the march was resumed; and when Michael felt that
he was dragging poor Nadia forward too rapidly, he went
at a slower pace. They spoke little, and only of Nicholas.
The young girl recalled all that this companion of a few days
had done for them.

In answering, Michael tried to give Nadia some hope
of which he did not feel a spark himself, for he well knew
that the unfortunate fellow would not escape death.

One day Michael said to the girl, "You never speak to me
of my mother, Nadia."

His mother! Nadia had never wished to do so. Why
renew his grief? Was not the old Siberian dead? Had
not her son given the last kiss to her corpse stretched on
the plain of Tomsk?

"Speak to me of her, Nadia," said Michael. "Speak --
you will please me."

And then Nadia did what she had not done before. She
told all that had passed between Marfa and herself since
their meeting at Omsk, where they had seen each other for
the first time. She said how an inexplicable instinct had led
her towards the old prisoner without knowing who she was,
and what encouragement she had received in return. At
that time Michael Strogoff had been to her but Nicholas
Korpanoff.

"Whom I ought always to have been," replied Michael,
his brow darkening.

Then later he added, "I have broken my oath, Nadia. I
had sworn not to see my mother!"

"But you did not try to see her, Michael," replied Nadia.
"Chance alone brought you into her presence."

"I had sworn, whatever might happen, not to betray
myself."

"Michael, Michael! at sight of the lash raised upon
Marfa, could you refrain? No! No oath could prevent a
son from succoring his mother!"

"I have broken my oath, Nadia," returned Michael.
"May God and the Father pardon me!"

"Michael," resumed the girl, "I have a question to ask
you. Do not answer it if you think you ought not. Noth-
ing from you would vex me!"

"Speak, Nadia."

"Why, now that the Czar's letter has been taken from
you, are you so anxious to reach Irkutsk?"

Michael tightly pressed his companion's hand, but he did
not answer.

"Did you know the contents of that letter before you
left Moscow?"

"No, I did not know."

"Must I think, Michael, that the wish alone to place me
in my father's hands draws you toward Irkutsk?"

"No, Nadia," replied Michael, gravely. "I should de-
ceive you if I allowed you to believe that it was so. I go
where duty orders me to go. As to taking you to Irkutsk,
is it not you, Nadia, who are now taking me there? Do I
not see with your eyes; and is it not your hand that guides
me? Have you not repaid a hundred-fold the help which
I was able to give you at first? I do not know if fate will
cease to go against us; but the day on which you thank me
for having placed you in your father's hands, I in my turn
will thank you for having led me to Irkutsk."

"Poor Michael!" answered Nadia, with emotion. "Do
not speak so. That does not answer me. Michael, why,
now, are you in such haste to reach Irkutsk?"

"Because I must be there before Ivan Ogareff," ex-
claimed Michael.

"Even now?"

"Even now, and I will be there, too!"

In uttering these words, Michael did not speak solely
through hatred to the traitor. Nadia understood that her
companion had not told, or could not tell, her all.

On the 15th of September, three days later, the two
reached the village of Kouitounskoe. The young girl suf-
fered dreadfully. Her aching feet could scarcely support
her; but she fought, she struggled, against her weariness,
and her only thought was this: "Since he cannot see me,
I will go on till I drop."

There were no obstacles on this part of the journey, no
danger either since the departure of the Tartars, only much
fatigue. For three days it continued thus. It was plain
that the third invading column was advancing rapidly in the
East; that could be seen by the ruins which they left
after them -- the cold cinders and the already decomposing
corpses.

There was nothing to be seen in the West; the Emir's
advance-guard had not yet appeared. Michael began to
consider the various reasons which might have caused this
delay. Was a sufficient force of Russians directly mena-
cing Tomsk or Krasnoiarsk? Did the third column, isolated
from the others, run a risk of being cut off? If this was
the case, it would be easy for the Grand Duke to defend
Irkutsk, and any time gained against an invasion was a step
towards repulsing it. Michael sometimes let his thoughts
run on these hopes, but he soon saw their improbability, and
felt that the preservation of the Grand Duke depended alone
on him.

Nadia dragged herself along. Whatever might be her
moral energy, her physical strength would soon fail her.
Michael knew it only too well. If he had not been blind,
Nadia would have said to him, "Go, Michael, leave me in
some hut! Reach Irkutsk! Accomplish your mission!
See my father! Tell him where I am! Tell him that I
wait for him, and you both will know where to find me!
Start! I am not afraid! I will hide myself from the
Tartars! I will take care of myself for him, for you! Go,
Michael! I can go no farther!"

Many times Nadia was obliged to stop. Michael then
took her in his strong arms and, having no longer to think
of her fatigue, walked more rapidly and with his indefat-
igable step.

On the 18th of September, at ten in the evening,
Kimilteiskoe was at last entered. From the top of a hill,
Nadia saw in the horizon a long light line. It was the
Dinka River. A few lightning flashes were reflected in the
water; summer lightning, without thunder. Nadia led her
companion through the ruined village. The cinders were
quite cold. The last of the Tartars had passed through at
least five or six days before.

Beyond the village, Nadia sank down on a stone bench.
"Shall we make a halt?" asked Michael.

"It is night, Michael," answered Nadia. "Do you not
want to rest a few hours?"

"I would rather have crossed the Dinka," replied
Michael, "I should like to put that between us and the
Emir's advance-guard. But you can scarcely drag yourself
along, my poor Nadia!"

"Come, Michael," returned Nadia, seizing her com-
panion's hand and drawing him forward.

Two or three versts further the Dinka flowed across the
Irkutsk road. The young girl wished to attempt this last
effort asked by her companion. She found her way by the
light from the flashes. They were then crossing a bound-
less desert, in the midst of which was lost the little river.
Not a tree nor a hillock broke the flatness. Not a breath
disturbed the atmosphere, whose calmness would allow the
slightest sound to travel an immense distance.

Suddenly, Michael and Nadia stopped, as if their feet had
been fast to the ground. The barking of a dog came across
the steppe. "Do you hear?" said Nadia.

Then a mournful cry succeeded it -- a despairing cry, like
the last appeal of a human being about to die.

"Nicholas! Nicholas!" cried the girl, with a foreboding
of evil. Michael, who was listening, shook his head.

"Come, Michael, come," said Nadia. And she who just
now was dragging herself with difficulty along, suddenly
recovered strength, under violent excitement.

"We have left the road," said Michael, feeling that he
was treading no longer on powdery soil but on short grass.

"Yes, we must!" returned Nadia. "It was there, on the
right, from which the cry came!"

In a few minutes they were not more than half a verst
from the river. A second bark was heard, but, although
more feeble, it was certainly nearer. Nadia stopped.

"Yes!" said Michael. "It is Serko barking! . . . He
has followed his master!"

"Nicholas!" called the girl. Her cry was unanswered.

Michael listened. Nadia gazed over the plain illumined
now and again with electric light, but she saw nothing.
And yet a voice was again raised, this time murmuring
in a plaintive tone, "Michael!"

Then a dog, all bloody, bounded up to Nadia.

It was Serko! Nicholas could not be far off! He alone
could have murmured the name of Michael! Where was
he? Nadia had no strength to call again. Michael, crawl-
ing on the ground, felt about with his hands.

Suddenly Serko uttered a fresh bark and darted towards
a gigantic bird which had swooped down. It was a vulture.
When Serko ran towards it, it rose, but returning struck at
the dog. The latter leapt up at it. A blow from the
formidable beak alighted on his head, and this time Serko
fell back lifeless on the ground.

At the same moment a cry of horror escaped Nadia.
"There . . . there!" she exclaimed.

A head issued from the ground! She had stumbled
against it in the darkness.

Nadia fell on her knees beside it. Nicholas buried up to
his neck, according to the atrocious Tartar custom, had been
left in the steppe to die of thirst, and perhaps by the teeth
of wolves or the beaks of birds of prey!

Frightful torture for the victim imprisoned in the ground
-- the earth pressed down so that he cannot move, his arms
bound to his body like those of a corpse in its coffin! The
miserable wretch, living in the mold of clay from which
he is powerless to break out, can only long for the death
which is so slow in coming!

There the Tartars had buried their prisoner three days
before! For three days, Nicholas waited for the help
which now came too late! The vultures had caught sight
of the head on a level with the ground, and for some hours
the dog had been defending his master against these
ferocious birds!

Michael dug at the ground with his knife to release his
friend! The eyes of Nicholas, which till then had been
closed, opened.

He recognized Michael and Nadia. "Farewell, my
friends!" he murmured. "I am glad to have seen you
again! Pray for me!"

Michael continued to dig, though the ground, having been
tightly rammed down, was as hard as stone, and he managed
at last to get out the body of the unhappy man. He listened
if his heart was still beating. . . . It was still!

He wished to bury him, that he might not be left exposed;
and the hole into which Nicholas had been placed when liv-
ing, was enlarged, so that he might be laid in it -- dead! The
faithful Serko was laid by his master.

At that moment, a noise was heard on the road, about
half a verst distant. Michael Strogoff listened. It was evi-
dently a detachment of horse advancing towards the Dinka.
"Nadia, Nadia!" he said in a low voice.

Nadia, who was kneeling in prayer, arose. "Look,
look!" said he.

"The Tartars!" she whispered.

It was indeed the Emir's advance-guard, passing rapidly
along the road to Irkutsk.

"They shall not prevent me from burying him!" said
Michael. And he continued his work.

Soon, the body of Nicholas, the hands crossed on the
breast, was laid in the grave. Michael and Nadia, kneeling,
prayed a last time for the poor fellow, inoffensive and good,
who had paid for his devotion towards them with his life.

"And now," said Michael, as he threw in the earth, "the
wolves of the steppe will not devour him."

Then he shook his fist at the troop of horsemen who were
passing. "Forward, Nadia!" he said.

Michael could not follow the road, now occupied by the
Tartars. He must cross the steppe and turn to Irkutsk.
He had not now to trouble himself about crossing the Dinka.
Nadia could not move, but she could see for him. He
took her in his arms and went on towards the southwest of
the province.

A hundred and forty miles still remained to be traversed.
How was the distance to be performed? Should they not
succumb to such fatigue? On what were they to live on the
way? By what superhuman energy were they to pass the
slopes of the Sayansk Mountains? Neither he nor Nadia
could answer this!

And yet, twelve days after, on the 2d of October, at six
o'clock in the evening, a wide sheet of water lay at Michael
Strogoff's feet. It was Lake Baikal.


CHAPTER X
BAIKAL AND ANGARA

LAKE BAIKAL is situated seventeen hundred feet above
the level of the sea. Its length is about six hundred miles,
its breadth seventy. Its depth is not known. Madame de
Bourboulon states that, according to the boatmen, it likes to
be spoken of as "Madam Sea." If it is called "Sir Lake,"
it immediately lashes itself into fury. However, it is re-
ported and believed by the Siberians that a Russian is never
drowned in it.

This immense basin of fresh water, fed by more than
three hundred rivers, is surrounded by magnificent volcanic
mountains. It has no other outlet than the Angara, which
after passing Irkutsk throws itself into the Yenisei, a little
above the town of Yeniseisk. As to the mountains which
encase it, they form a branch of the Toungouzes, and are
derived from the vast system of the Altai.

In this territory, subject to peculiar climatical conditions,
the autumn appears to be absorbed in the precocious winter.
It was now the beginning of October. The sun set at five
o'clock in the evening, and during the long nights the tem-
perature fell to zero. The first snows, which would last till
summer, already whitened the summits of the neighboring
hills. During the Siberian winter this inland sea is frozen
over to a thickness of several feet, and is crossed by the
sleighs of caravans.

Either because there are people who are so wanting in
politeness as to call it "Sir Lake," or for some more
meteorological reason, Lake Baikal is subject to violent
tempests. Its waves, short like those of all inland seas, are
much feared by the rafts, prahms, and steamboats, which
furrow it during the summer.

It was the southwest point of the lake which Michael
had now reached, carrying Nadia, whose whole life, so to
speak, was concentrated in her eyes. But what could these
two expect, in this wild region, if it was not to die of ex-
haustion and famine? And yet, what remained of the long
journey of four thousand miles for the Czar's courier to
reach his end? Nothing but forty miles on the shore of
the lake up to the mouth of the Angara, and sixty miles
from the mouth of the Angara to Irkutsk; in all, a hundred
miles, or three days' journey for a strong man, even on foot.

Could Michael Strogoff still be that man?

Heaven, no doubt, did not wish to put him to this trial.
The fatality which had hitherto pursued his steps seemed
for a time to spare him. This end of the Baikal, this part
of the steppe, which he believed to be a desert, which it
usually is, was not so now. About fifty people were col-
lected at the angle formed by the end of the lake.

Nadia immediately caught sight of this group, when
Michael, carrying her in his arms, issued from the mountain
pass. The girl feared for a moment that it was a Tartar
detachment, sent to beat the shores of the Baikal, in which
case flight would have been impossible to them both. But
Nadia was soon reassured.

"Russians!" she exclaimed. And with this last effort,
her eyes closed and her head fell on Michael's breast.

But they had been seen, and some of these Russians,
running to them, led the blind man and the girl to a little
point at which was moored a raft.

The raft was just going to start. These Russians were
fugitives of different conditions, whom the same interest
had united at Lake Baikal. Driven back by the Tartar
scouts, they hoped to obtain a refuge at Irkutsk, but not
being able to get there by land, the invaders having occupied
both banks of the Angara, they hoped to reach it by descend-
ing the river which flows through the town.

Their plan made Michael's heart leap; a last chance was
before him, but he had strength to conceal this, wishing to
keep his incognito more strictly than ever.

The fugitives' plan was very simple. A current in the
lake runs along by the upper bank to the mouth of the
Angara; this current they hoped to utilize, and with its as-
sistance to reach the outlet of Lake Baikal. From this point
to Irkutsk, the rapid waters of the river would bear them
along at a rate of eight miles an hour. In a day and a half
they might hope to be in sight of the town.

No kind of boat was to be found; they had been obliged
to make one; a raft, or rather a float of wood, similar to
those which usually are drifted down Siberian rivers, was
constructed. A forest of firs, growing on the bank, had
supplied the necessary materials; the trunks, fastened to-
gether with osiers, made a platform on which a hundred
people could have easily found room.

On board this raft Michael and Nadia were taken. The
girl had returned to herself; some food was given to her as
well as to her companion. Then, lying on a bed of leaves,
she soon fell into a deep sleep.

To those who questioned him, Michael Strogoff said
nothing of what had taken place at Tomsk. He gave him-
self out as an inhabitant of Krasnoiarsk, who had not been
able to get to Irkutsk before the Emir's troops arrived on
the left bank of the Dinka, and he added that, very prob-
ably, the bulk of the Tartar forces had taken up a position
before the Siberian capital.

There was not a moment to be lost; besides, the cold
was becoming more and more severe. During the night
the temperature fell below zero; ice was already forming
on the surface of the Baikal. Although the raft managed
to pass easily over the lake, it might not be so easy between
the banks of the Angara, should pieces of ice be found to
block up its course.

At eight in the evening the moorings were cast off, and
the raft drifted in the current along the shore. It was
steered by means of long poles, under the management of
several muscular moujiks. An old Baikal boatman took
command of the raft. He was a man of sixty-five, browned
by the sun, and lake breezes. A thick white beard flowed
over his chest; a fur cap covered his head; his aspect was
grave and austere. His large great-coat, fastened in at the
waist, reached down to his heels. This taciturn old fellow
was seated in the stern, and issued his commands by ges-
tures. Besides, the chief work consisted in keeping the raft
in the current, which ran along the shore, without drifting
out into the open.

It has been already said that Russians of all conditions
had found a place on the raft. Indeed, to the poor moujiks,
the women, old men, and children, were joined two or three
pilgrims, surprised on their journey by the invasion; a few
monks, and a priest. The pilgrims carried a staff, a gourd
hung at the belt, and they chanted psalms in a plaintive voice:
one came from the Ukraine, another from the Yellow sea,
and a third from the Finland provinces. This last, who was
an aged man, carried at his waist a little padlocked collecting-
box, as if it had been hung at a church door. Of all that
he collected during his long and fatiguing pilgrimage, noth-
ing was for himself; he did not even possess the key of the
box, which would only be opened on his return.

The monks came from the North of the Empire. Three
months before they had left the town of Archangel. They
had visited the sacred islands near the coast of Carelia, the
convent of Solovetsk, the convent of Troitsa, those of Saint
Antony and Saint Theodosia, at Kiev, that of Kazan, as well
as the church of the Old Believers, and they were now on
their way to Irkutsk, wearing the robe, the cowl, and the
clothes of serge.

As to the papa, or priest, he was a plain village pastor,
one of the six hundred thousand popular pastors which the
Russian Empire contains. He was clothed as miserably as
the moujiks, not being above them in social position; in
fact, laboring like a peasant on his plot of ground; baptis-
ing, marrying, burying. He had been able to protect his
wife and children from the brutality of the Tartars by
sending them away into the Northern provinces. He him-
self had stayed in his parish up to the last moment; then
he was obliged to fly, and, the Irkutsk road being stopped,
had come to Lake Baikal.

These priests, grouped in the forward part of the raft,
prayed at regular intervals, raising their voices in the silent
night, and at the end of each sentence of their prayer, the
"Slava Bogu," Glory to God! issued from their lips.

No incident took place during the night. Nadia re-
mained in a sort of stupor, and Michael watched beside
her; sleep only overtook him at long intervals, and even
then his brain did not rest. At break of day, the raft,
delayed by a strong breeze, which counteracted the course
of the current, was still forty versts from the mouth of the
Angara. It seemed probable that the fugitives could not
reach it before three or four o'clock in the evening. This
did not trouble them; on the contrary, for they would then
descend the river during the night, and the darkness would
also favor their entrance into Irkutsk.

The only anxiety exhibited at times by the old boatman was
concerning the formation of ice on the surface of the water.
The night had been excessively cold; pieces of ice could
be seen drifting towards the West. Nothing was to be
dreaded from these, since they could not drift into the
Angara, having already passed the mouth; but pieces from
the Eastern end of the lake might be drawn by the current
between the banks of the river; this would cause difficulty,
possibly delay, and perhaps even an insurmountable obstacle
which would stop the raft.

Michael therefore took immense interest in ascertaining
what was the state of the lake, and whether any large num-
ber of ice blocks appeared. Nadia being now awake, he
questioned her often, and she gave him an account of all
that was going on.

Whilst the blocks were thus drifting, curious phenomena
were taking place on the surface of the Baikal. Magnifi-
cent jets, from springs of boiling water, shot up from some
of those artesian wells which Nature has bored in the very
bed of the lake. These jets rose to a great height and
spread out in vapor, which was illuminated by the solar
rays, and almost immediately condensed by the cold. This
curious sight would have assuredly amazed a tourist travel-
ing in peaceful times on this Siberian sea.

At four in the evening, the mouth of the Angara was
signaled by the old boatman, between the high granite rocks
of the shore. On the right bank could be seen the little
port of Livenitchnaia, its church, and its few houses built
on the bank. But the serious thing was that the ice blocks
from the East were already drifting between the banks of
the Angara, and consequently were descending towards
Irkutsk. However, their number was not yet great enough
to obstruct the course of the raft, nor the cold great enough
to increase their number.

The raft arrived at the little port and there stopped.
The old boatman wished to put into harbor for an hour, in
order to make some repairs. The trunks threatened to
separate, and it was important to fasten them more securely
together to resist the rapid current of the Angara.

The old boatman did not expect to receive any fresh
fugitives at Livenitchnaia, and yet, the moment the raft
touched, two passengers, issuing from a deserted house,
ran as fast as they could towards the beach.

Nadia seated on the raft, was abstractedly gazing at the
shore.  A cry was about to escape her.   She seized
Michael's hand, who at that moment raised his head.

"What is the matter, Nadia?" he asked.

"Our two traveling companions, Michael."

"The Frenchman and the Englishman whom we met in
the defiles of the Ural?"

"Yes."

Michael started, for the strict incognito which he wished
to keep ran a risk of being betrayed. Indeed, it was no
longer as Nicholas Korpanoff that Jolivet and Blount would
now see him, but as the true Michael Strogoff, Courier of
the Czar. The two correspondents had already met him
twice since their separation at the Ichim post-house -- the
first time at the Zabediero camp, when he laid open Ivan
Ogareff's face with the knout; the second time at Tomsk,
when he was condemned by the Emir. They therefore
knew who he was and what depended on him.

Michael Strogoff rapidly made up his mind. "Nadia,"
said he, "when they step on board, ask them to come to
me!"

It was, in fact, Blount and Jolivet, whom the course of
events had brought to the port of Livenitchnaia, as it had
brought Michael Strogoff. As we know, after having been
present at the entry of the Tartars into Tomsk, they had
departed before the savage execution which terminated the
fete. They had therefore never suspected that their former
traveling companion had not been put to death, but blinded
by order of the Emir.

Having procured horses they had left Tomsk the same
evening, with the fixed determination of henceforward dat-
ing their letters from the Russian camp of Eastern Siberia.
They proceeded by forced marches towards Irkutsk. They
hoped to distance Feofar-Khan, and would certainly have
done so, had it not been for the unexpected apparition of
the third column, come from the South, up the valley of
the Yenisei. They had been cut off, as had been Michael,
before being able even to reach the Dinka, and had been
obliged to go back to Lake Baikal.

They had been in the place for three days in much per-
plexity, when the raft arrived. The fugitives' plan was
explained to them. There was certainly a chance that they
might be able to pass under cover of the night, and penetrate
into Irkutsk. They resolved to make the attempt.

Alcide directly communicated with the old boatman, and
asked a passage for himself and his companion, offering to
pay anything he demanded, whatever it might be.

"No one pays here," replied the old man gravely; "every
one risks his life, that is all!"

The two correspondents came on board, and Nadia saw
them take their places in the forepart of the raft. Harry
Blount was still the reserved Englishman, who had scarcely
addressed a word to her during the whole passage over the
Ural Mountains. Alcide Jolivet seemed to be rather more
grave than usual, and it may be acknowledged that his
gravity was justified by the circumstances.

Jolivet had, as has been said, taken his seat on the raft,
when he felt a hand laid on his arm. Turning, he recog-
nized Nadia, the sister of the man who was no longer
Nicholas Korpanoff, but Michael Strogoff, Courier of the
Czar. He was about to make an exclamation of surprise
when he saw the young girl lay her finger on her lips.

"Come," said Nadia. And with a careless air, Alcide
rose and followed her, making a sign to Blount to accom-
pany him.

But if the surprise of the correspondents had been great
at meeting Nadia on the raft it was boundless when they
perceived Michael Strogoff, whom they had believed to be
no longer living.

Michael had not moved at their approach. Jolivet turned
towards the girl. "He does not see you, gentlemen," said
Nadia. "The Tartars have burnt out his eyes! My poor
brother is blind!"

A feeling of lively compassion exhibited itself on the
faces of Blount and his companion. In a moment they
were seated beside Michael, pressing his hand and waiting
until he spoke to them.

"Gentlemen," said Michael, in a low voice, "you ought
not to know who I am, nor what I am come to do in Siberia.
I ask you to keep my secret. Will you promise me to do
so?"

"On my honor," answered Jolivet.

"On my word as a gentleman," added Blount.

"Good, gentlemen."

"Can we be of any use to you?" asked Harry Blount.
"Could we not help you to accomplish your task?"

"I prefer to act alone," replied Michael.

"But those blackguards have destroyed your sight," said
Alcide.

"I have Nadia, and her eyes are enough for me!"

In half an hour the raft left the little port of Livenitch-
naia, and entered the river. It was five in the evening
and getting dusk. The night promised to be dark and very
cold also, for the temperature was already below zero.

Alcide and Blount, though they had promised to keep
Michael's secret, did not leave him. They talked in a low
voice, and the blind man, adding what they told him to
what he already knew, was able to form an exact idea of
the state of things. It was certain that the Tartars had
actually invested Irkutsk, and that the three columns had
effected a junction. There was no doubt that the Emir
and Ivan Ogareff were before the capital.

But why did the Czar's courier exhibit such haste to get
there, now that the Imperial letter could no longer be given
by him to the Grand Duke, and when he did not even know
the contents of it? Alcide Jolivet and Blount could not
understand it any more than Nadia had done.

No one spoke of the past, except when Jolivet thought
it his duty to say to Michael, "We owe you some apology
for not shaking hands with you when we separated at
Ichim."

"No, you had reason to think me a coward!"

"At any rate," added the Frenchman, "you knouted the
face of that villain finely, and he will carry the mark of it
for a long time!"

"No, not a long time!" replied Michael quietly.

Half an hour after leaving Livenitchnaia, Blount and
his companion were acquainted with the cruel trials through
which Michael and his companion had successively passed.
They could not but heartily admire his energy, which was
only equaled by the young girl's devotion. Their opinion
of Michael was exactly what the Czar had expressed at
Moscow: "Indeed, this is a Man!"

The raft swiftly threaded its way among the blocks of
ice which were carried along in the current of the Angara.
A moving panorama was displayed on both sides of the
river, and, by an optical illusion, it appeared as if it was
the raft which was motionless before a succession of pic-
turesque scenes. Here were high granite cliffs, there wild
gorges, down which rushed a torrent; sometimes appeared
a clearing with a still smoking village, then thick pine forests
blazing. But though the Tartars had left their traces on
all sides, they themselves were not to be seen as yet, for they
were more especially massed at the approaches to Irkutsk.

All this time the pilgrims were repeating their prayers
aloud, and the old boatman, shoving away the blocks of
ice which pressed too near them, imperturbably steered the
raft in the middle of the rapid current of the Angara.


CHAPTER XI
BETWEEN TWO BANKS

BY eight in the evening, the country, as the state of the
sky had foretold, was enveloped in complete darkness. The
moon being new had not yet risen. From the middle of the
river the banks were invisible. The cliffs were confounded
with the heavy, low-hanging clouds. At intervals a puff of
wind came from the east, but it soon died away in the
narrow valley of the Angara.

The darkness could not fail to favor in a considerable
degree the plans of the fugitives. Indeed, although the
Tartar outposts must have been drawn up on both banks,
the raft had a good chance of passing unperceived. It was
not likely either that the besiegers would have barred the
river above Irkutsk, since they knew that the Russians
could not expect any help from the south of the province.
Besides this, before long Nature would herself establish a
barrier, by cementing with frost the blocks of ice accumu-
lated between the two banks.

Perfect silence now reigned on board the raft. The
voices of the pilgrims were no longer heard. They still
prayed, but their prayer was but a murmur, which could
not reach as far as either bank. The fugitives lay flat on
the platform, so that the raft was scarcely above the level
of the water. The old boatman crouched down forward
among his men, solely occupied in keeping off the ice blocks,
a maneuver which was performed without noise.

The drifting of the ice was a favorable circumstance so
long as it did not offer an insurmountable obstacle to the
passage of the raft. If that object had been alone on the
water, it would have run a risk of being seen, even in the
darkness, but, as it was, it was confounded with these mov-
ing masses, of all shapes and sizes, and the tumult caused
by the crashing of the blocks against each other concealed
likewise any suspicious noises.

There was a sharp frost. The fugitives suffered cruelly,
having no other shelter than a few branches of birch. They
cowered down together, endeavoring to keep each other
warm, the temperature being now ten degrees below freezing
point. The wind, though slight, having passed over the
snow-clad mountains of the east, pierced them through and
through.

Michael and Nadia, lying in the afterpart of the raft,
bore this increase of suffering without complaint. Jolivet
and Blount, placed near them, stood these first assaults of
the Siberian winter as well as they could. No one now
spoke, even in a low voice. Their situation entirely ab-
sorbed them. At any moment an incident might occur,
which they could not escape unscathed.

For a man who hoped soon to accomplish his mission,
Michael was singularly calm. Even in the gravest con-
junctures, his energy had never abandoned him. He al-
ready saw the moment when he would be at last allowed
to think of his mother, of Nadia, of himself! He now only
dreaded one final unhappy chance; this was, that the raft
might be completely barred by ice before reaching Irkutsk.
He thought but of this, determined beforehand, if neces-
sary, to attempt some bold stroke.

Restored by a few hours' rest, Nadia had regained the
physical energy which misery had sometimes overcome, al-
though without ever having shaken her moral energy. She
thought, too, that if Michael had to make any fresh effort
to attain his end, she must be there to guide him. But in
proportion as she drew nearer to Irkutsk, the image of her
father rose more and more clearly before her mind. She
saw him in the invested town, far from those he loved,
but, as she never doubted, struggling against the invaders
with all the spirit of his patriotism. In a few hours, if
Heaven favored them, she would be in his arms, giving
him her mother's last words, and nothing should ever sep-
arate them again. If the term of Wassili Fedor's exile
should never come to an end, his daughter would remain
exiled with him. Then, by a natural transition, she came
back to him who would have enabled her to see her father
once more, to that generous companion, that "brother,"
who, the Tartars driven back, would retake the road to
Moscow, whom she would perhaps never meet again!

As to Alcide Jolivet and Harry Blount, they had one and
the same thought, which was, that the situation was ex-
tremely dramatic, and that, well worked up, it would fur-
nish a most deeply interesting article. The Englishman
thought of the readers of the Daily Telegraph, and the
Frenchman of those of his Cousin Madeleine. At heart,
both were not without feeling some emotion.

"Well, so much the better!" thought Alcide Jolivet, "to
move others, one must be moved one's self! I believe there
is some celebrated verse on the subject, but hang me if I
can recollect it!" And with his well-practiced eyes he en-
deavored to pierce the gloom of the river.

Every now and then a burst of light dispelling the dark-
ness for a time, exhibited the banks under some fantastic
aspect -- either a forest on fire, or a still burning village.
The Angara was occasionally illuminated from one bank to
the other. The blocks of ice formed so many mirrors,
which, reflecting the flames on every point and in every
color, were whirled along by the caprice of the current.
The raft passed unperceived in the midst of these floating
masses.

The danger was not at these points.

But a peril of another nature menaced the fugitives.
One that they could not foresee, and, above all, one that
they could not avoid.   Chance discovered it to Alcide
Jolivet in this way: -- Lying at the right side of the raft,
he let his hand hang over into the water. Suddenly he
was surprised by the impression made on it by the current.
It seemed to be of a slimy consistency, as if it had been
made of mineral oil. Alcide, aiding his touch by his sense
of smell, could not be mistaken. It was really a layer of
liquid naphtha, floating on the surface of the river!

Was the raft really floating on this substance, which is
in the highest degree combustible? Where had this naphtha
come from? Was it a natural phenomenon taking place on
the surface of the Angara, or was it to serve as an engine
of destruction, put in motion by the Tartars? Did they
intend to carry conflagration into Irkutsk?

Such were the questions which Alcide asked himself, but
he thought it best to make this incident known only to Harry
Blount, and they both agreed in not alarming their compan-
ions by revealing to them this new danger.

It is known that the soil of Central Asia is like a sponge
impregnated with liquid hydrogen. At the port of Bakou,
on the Persian frontier, on the Caspian Sea, in Asia Minor,
in China, on the Yuen-Kiang, in the Burman Empire,
springs of mineral oil rise in thousands to the surface of
the ground. It is an "oil country," similar to the one
which bears this name in North America.

During certain religious festivals, principally at the port
of Bakou, the natives, who are fire-worshipers, throw
liquid naphtha on the surface of the sea, which buoys it up,
its density being inferior to that of water. Then at night-
fall, when a layer of mineral oil is thus spread over the
Caspian, they light it, and exhibit the matchless spectacle
of an ocean of fire undulating and breaking into waves
under the breeze.

But what is only a sign of rejoicing at Bakou, might
prove a fearful disaster on the waters of the Angara.
Whether it was set on fire by malevolence or imprudence,
in the twinkling of an eye a conflagration might spread be-
yond Irkutsk. On board the raft no imprudence was to be
feared; but everything was to be dreaded from the con-
flagrations on both banks of the Angara, for should a lighted
straw or even a spark blow into the water, it would in-
evitably set the whole current of naphtha in a blaze.

The apprehensions of Jolivet and Blount may be better
understood than described. Would it not be prudent, in
face of this new danger, to land on one of the banks and
wait there? "At any rate," said Alcide, "whatever the
danger may be, I know some one who will not land!"

He alluded to Michael Strogoff.

In the meantime, on glided the raft among the masses
of ice which were gradually getting closer and closer to-
gether. Up till then, no Tartar detachment had been seen,
which showed that the raft was not abreast of the outposts.
At about ten o'clock, however, Harry Blount caught sight
of a number of black objects moving on the ice blocks.
Springing from one to the other, they rapidly approached.

"Tartars!" he thought. And creeping up to the old boat-
man, he pointed out to him the suspicious objects.

The old man looked attentively.   "They are only
wolves!" said he. "I like them better than Tartars. But
we must defend ourselves, and without noise!"

The fugitives would indeed have to defend themselves
against these ferocious beasts, whom hunger and cold had
sent roaming through the province. They had smelt out
the raft, and would soon attack it. The fugitives must
struggle without using firearms, for they could not now be
far from the Tartar posts. The women and children were
collected in the middle of the raft, and the men, some armed
with poles, others with their knives, stood prepared to re-
pulse their assailants. They did not make a sound, but the
howls of the wolves filled the air.

Michael did not wish to remain inactive. He lay down
at the side attacked by the savage pack. He drew his
knife, and every time that a wolf passed within his reach,
his hand found out the way to plunge his weapon into its
throat. Neither were Jolivet and Blount idle, but fought
bravely with the brutes.  Their companions gallantly
seconded them. The battle was carried on in silence, al-
though many of the fugitives received severe bites.

The struggle did not appear as if it would soon termi-
nate. The pack was being continually reinforced from the
right bank of the Angara. "This will never be finished!"
said Alcide, brandishing his dagger, red with blood.

In fact, half an hour after the commencement of the
attack, the wolves were still coming in hundreds across the
ice. The exhausted fugitives were getting weaker. The
fight was going against them. At that moment, a group of
ten huge wolves, raging with hunger, their eyes glowing in
the darkness like red coals, sprang onto the raft. Jolivet
and his companion threw themselves into the midst of the
fierce beasts, and Michael was finding his way towards them,
when a sudden change took place.

In a few moments the wolves had deserted not only the
raft, but also the ice on the river. All the black bodies dis-
persed, and it was soon certain that they had in all haste
regained the shore. Wolves, like other beasts of prey, re-
quire darkness for their proceedings, and at that moment a
bright light illuminated the entire river.

It was the blaze of an immense fire. The whole of the
small town of Poshkavsk was burning. The Tartars were
indeed there, finishing their work. From this point, they
occupied both banks beyond Irkutsk. The fugitives had
by this time reached the dangerous part of their voyage,
and they were still twenty miles from the capital.

It was now half past eleven. The raft continued to glide
on amongst the ice, with which it was quite mingled, but
gleams of light sometimes fell upon it. The fugitives
stretched on the platform did not permit themselves to
make a movement by which they might be betrayed.

The conflagration was going on with frightful rapidity.
The houses, built of fir-wood, blazed like torches -- a hun-
dred and fifty flaming at once. With the crackling of
the fire was mingled the yells of the Tartars. The old
boatman, getting a foothold on a near piece of ice, managed
to shove the raft towards the right bank, by doing which a
distance of from three to four hundred feet divided it from
the flames of Poshkavsk.

Nevertheless, the fugitives, lighted every now and then
by the glare, would have been undoubtedly perceived had
not the incendiaries been too much occupied in their work
of destruction.

It may be imagined what were the apprehensions of
Jolivet and Blount, when they thought of the combustible
liquid on which the raft floated. Sparks flew in millions
from the houses, which resembled so many glowing fur-
naces. They rose among the volumes of smoke to a height
of five or six hundred feet. On the right bank, the trees
and cliffs exposed to the fire looked as if they likewise were
burning. A spark falling on the surface of the Angara
would be sufficient to spread the flames along the current,
and to carry disaster from one bank to the other. The re-
sult of this would be in a short time the destruction of the
raft and of all those which it carried.

But, happily, the breeze did not blow from that side. It
came from the east, and drove the flames towards the left.
It was just possible that the fugitives would escape this
danger. The blazing town was at last passed. Little by
little the glare grew dimmer, the crackling became fainter,
and the flames at last disappeared behind the high cliffs
which arose at an abrupt turn of the river.

By this time it was nearly midnight. The deep gloom
again threw its protecting shadows over the raft. The
Tartars were there, going to and fro near the river. They
could not be seen, but they could be heard. The fires of
the outposts burned brightly.

In the meantime it had become necessary to steer more
carefully among the blocks of ice. The old boatman stood
up, and the moujiks resumed their poles. They had plenty
of work, the management of the raft becoming more and
more difficult as the river was further obstructed.

Michael had crept forward; Jolivet followed; both lis-
tened to what the old boatman and his men were saying.

"Look out on the right!"

"There are blocks drifting on to us on the left!"

"Fend! fend off with your boat-hook!"

"Before an hour is past we shall be stopped!"

"If it is God's will!" answered the old man. "Against
His will there is nothing to be done."

"You hear them," said Alcide.

"Yes," replied Michael, "but God is with us!"

The situation became more and more serious. Should
the raft be stopped, not only would the fugitives not reach
Irkutsk, but they would be obliged to leave their floating
platform, for it would be very soon smashed to pieces in
the ice. The osier ropes would break, the fir trunks torn
asunder would drift under the hard crust, and the unhappy
people would have no refuge but the ice blocks themselves.
Then, when day came, they would be seen by the Tartars,
and massacred without mercy!

Michael returned to the spot where Nadia was waiting
for him. He approached the girl, took her hand, and put
to her the invariable question: "Nadia, are you ready?" to
which she replied as usual, "I am ready!"

For a few versts more the raft continued to drift amongst
the floating ice. Should the river narrow, it would soon
form an impassable barrier. Already they seemed to drift
slower. Every moment they encountered severe shocks or
were compelled to make detours; now, to avoid running
foul of a block, there to enter a channel, of which it was
necessary to take advantage. At length the stoppages be-
came still more alarming. There were only a few more
hours of night. Could the fugitives not reach Irkutsk by
five o'clock in the morning, they must lose all hope of ever
getting there at all.

At half-past one, notwithstanding all efforts, the raft
came up against a thick barrier and stuck fast. The ice,
which was drifting down behind it, pressed it still closer,
and kept it motionless, as though it had been stranded.

At this spot the Angara narrowed, it being half its usual
breadth. This was the cause of the accumulation of ice,
which became gradually soldered together, under the double
influence of the increased pressure and of the cold. Five
hundred feet beyond, the river widened again, and the
blocks, gradually detaching themselves from the floe, con-
tinued to drift towards Irkutsk. It was probable that had
the banks not narrowed, the barrier would not have formed.
But the misfortune was irreparable, and the fugitives must
give up all hope of attaining their object.

Had they possessed the tools usually employed by whalers
to cut channels through the ice-fields -- had they been able
to get through to where the river widened -- they might have
been saved. But they had nothing which could make the
least incision in the ice, hard as granite in the excessive
frost. What were they to do?

At that moment several shots on the right bank startled
the unhappy fugitives. A shower of balls fell on the raft.
The devoted passengers had been seen. Immediately after-
wards shots were heard fired from the left bank. The
fugitives, taken between two fires, became the mark of the
Tartar sharpshooters. Several were wounded, although in
the darkness it was only by chance that they were hit.

"Come, Nadia," whispered Michael in the girl's ear.

Without making a single remark, "ready for anything,"
Nadia took Michael's hand.

"We must cross the barrier," he said in a low tone.
"Guide me, but let no one see us leave the raft."

Nadia obeyed. Michael and she glided rapidly over the
floe in the obscurity, only broken now and again by the
flashes from the muskets. Nadia crept along in front of
Michael. The shot fell around them like a tempest of hail,
and pattered on the ice. Their hands were soon covered
with blood from the sharp and rugged ice over which they
clambered, but still on they went.

In ten minutes, the other side of the barrier was reached.
There the waters of the Angara again flowed freely. Sev-
eral pieces of ice, detached gradually from the floe, were
swept along in the current down towards the town. Nadia
guessed what Michael wished to attempt. One of the blocks
was only held on by a narrow strip.

"Come," said Nadia. And the two crouched on the
piece of ice, which their weight detached from the floe.

It began to drift. The river widened, the way was open.
Michael and Nadia heard the shots, the cries of distress, the
yells of the Tartars. Then, little by little, the sounds of
agony and of ferocious joy grew faint in the distance.

"Our poor companions!" murmured Nadia.

For half an hour the current hurried along the block of
ice which bore Michael and Nadia. They feared every
moment that it would give way beneath them. Swept
along in the middle of the current, it was unnecessary to
give it an oblique direction until they drew near the quays
of Irkutsk. Michael, his teeth tight set, his ear on the
strain, did not utter a word. Never had he been so near
his object. He felt that he was about to attain it!

Towards two in the morning a double row of lights
glittered on the dark horizon in which were confounded
the two banks of the Angara. On the right hand were the
lights of Irkutsk; on the left, the fires of the Tartar camp.

Michael Strogoff was not more than half a verst from
the town. "At last!" he murmured.

But suddenly Nadia uttered a cry.

At the cry Michael stood up on the ice, which was waver-
ing. His hand was extended up the Angara. His face, on
which a bluish light cast a peculiar hue, became almost fear-
ful to look at, and then, as if his eyes had been opened to
the bright blaze spreading across the river, "Ah!" he ex-
claimed, "then Heaven itself is against us!"


CHAPTER XII
IRKUTSK

IRKUTSK, the capital of Eastern Siberia, is a populous
town, containing, in ordinary times, thirty thousand inhabi-
tants. On the right side of the Angara rises a hill, on
which are built numerous churches, a lofty cathedral, and
dwellings disposed in picturesque disorder.

Seen at a distance, from the top of the mountain which
rises at about twenty versts off along the Siberian highroad,
this town, with its cupolas, its bell-towers, its steeples slender
as minarets, its domes like pot-bellied Chinese jars, presents
something of an oriental aspect. But this similarity van-
ishes as the traveler enters.

The town, half Byzantine, half Chinese, becomes Euro-
pean as soon as he sees its macadamized roads, bordered
with pavements, traversed by canals, planted with gigantic
birches, its houses of brick and wood, some of which have
several stories, the numerous equipages which drive along,
not only tarantasses but broughams and coaches; lastly, its
numerous inhabitants far advanced in civilization, to whom
the latest Paris fashions are not unknown.

Being the refuge for all the Siberians of the province,
Irkutsk was at this time very full. Stores of every kind
had been collected in abundance. Irkutsk is the emporium
of the innumerable kinds of merchandise which are ex-
changed between China, Central Asia, and Europe. The
authorities had therefore no fear with regard to admitting
the peasants of the valley of the Angara, and leaving a
desert between the invaders and the town.

Irkutsk is the residence of the governor-general of East-
ern Siberia. Below him acts a civil governor, in whose
hands is the administration of the province; a head of police,
who has much to do in a town where exiles abound; and,
lastly, a mayor, chief of the merchants, and a person of
some importance, from his immense fortune and the in-
fluence which he exercises over the people.

The garrison of Irkutsk was at that time composed of an
infantry regiment of Cossacks, consisting of two thousand
men, and a body of police wearing helmets and blue uniforms
laced with silver. Besides, as has been said, in consequence
of the events which had occurred, the brother of the Czar
had been shut up in the town since the beginning of the in-
vasion.

A journey of political importance had taken the Grand
Duke to these distant provinces of Central Asia. After
passing through the principal Siberian cities, the Grand
Duke, who traveled en militaire rather than en prince, with-
out any parade, accompanied by his officers, and escorted
by a regiment of Cossacks, arrived in the Trans-Baikalcine
provinces. Nikolaevsk, the last Russian town situated on
the shore of the Sea of Okhotsk, had been honored by a
visit from him. Arrived on the confines of the immense
Muscovite Empire, the Grand Duke was returning towards
Irkutsk, from which place he intended to retake the road to
Moscow, when, sudden as a thunder clap, came the news of
the invasion.

He hastened to the capital, but only reached it just
before communication with Russia had been interrupted.
There was time to receive only a few telegrams from St.
Petersburg and Moscow, and with difficulty to answer them
before the wire was cut. Irkutsk was isolated from the rest
of the world.

The Grand Duke had now only to prepare for resistance,
and this he did with that determination and coolness of
which, under other circumstances, he had given incontest-
able proofs. The news of the taking of Ichim, Omsk, and
Tomsk, successively reached Irkutsk. It was necessary at
any price to save the capital of Siberia. Reinforcements
could not be expected for some time. The few troops scat-
tered about in the provinces of Siberia could not arrive in
sufficiently large numbers to arrest the progress of the Tar-
tar columns. Since therefore it was impossible for Irkutsk
to escape attack, the most important thing to be done was to
put the town in a state to sustain a siege of some duration.

The preparations were begun on the day Tomsk fell into
the hands of the Tartars. At the same time with this last
news, the Grand Duke heard that the Emir of Bokhara
and the allied Khans were directing the invasion in person,
but what he did not know was, that the lieutenant of these
barbarous chiefs was Ivan Ogareff, a Russian officer whom
he had himself reduced to the ranks, but with whose person
he was not acquainted.

First of all, as we have seen, the inhabitants of the prov-
ince of Irkutsk were compelled to abandon the towns and
villages. Those who did not take refuge in the capital had
to retire beyond Lake Baikal, a district to which the invasion
would probably not extend its ravages. The harvests of
corn and fodder were collected and stored up in the town,
and Irkutsk, the last bulwark of the Muscovite power in the
Far East, was put in a condition to resist the enemy for a
lengthened period.

Irkutsk, founded in 1611, is situated at the confluence
of the Irkut and the Angara, on the right bank of the latter
river. Two wooden draw-bridges, built on piles, connected
the town with its suburbs on the left bank. On this side,
defence was easy. The suburbs were abandoned, the
bridges destroyed. The Angara being here very wide, it
would not be possible to pass it under the fire of the besieged.

But the river might be crossed both above and below the
town, and consequently, Irkutsk ran a risk of being attacked
on its east side, on which there was no wall to protect it.

The whole population were immediately set to work on
the fortifications. They labored day and night. The
Grand Duke observed with satisfaction the zeal exhibited
by the people in the work, whom ere long he would find
equally courageous in the defense. Soldiers, merchants,
exiles, peasants, all devoted themselves to the common
safety. A week before the Tartars appeared on the Angara,
earth-works had been raised. A fosse, flooded by the
waters of the Angara, was dug between the scarp and
counterscarp. The town could not now be taken by a coup
de main. It must be invested and besieged.

The third Tartar column -- the one which came up the
valley of the Yenisei on the 24th of September -- appeared
in sight of Irkutsk. It immediately occupied the deserted
suburbs, every building in which had been destroyed so as
not to impede the fire of the Grand Duke's guns, unfor-
tunately but few in number and of small caliber. The Tar-
tar troops as they arrived organized a camp on the bank of
the Angara, whilst waiting the arrival of the two other
columns, commanded by the Emir and his allies.

The junction of these different bodies was effected on
the 25th of September, in the Angara camp, and the whole
of the invading army, except the garrisons left in the prin-
cipal conquered towns, was concentrated under the command
of Feofar-Khan.

The passage of the Angara in front of Irkutsk having
been regarded by Ogareff as impracticable, a strong body of
troops crossed, several versts up the river, by means of
bridges formed with boats. The Grand Duke did not at-
tempt to oppose the enemy in their passage. He could only
impede, not prevent it, having no field-artillery at his dis-
posal, and he therefore remained in Irkutsk.

The Tartars now occupied the right bank of the river;
then, advancing towards the town, they burnt, in passing,
the summer-house of the governor-general, and at last hav-
ing entirely invested Irkutsk, took up their positions for the
siege.

Ivan Ogareff, who was a clever engineer, was perfectly
competent to direct a regular siege; but he did not possess
the materials for operating rapidly. He was disappointed
too in the chief object of all his efforts -- the surprise of
Irkutsk. Things had not turned out as he hoped. First,
the march of the Tartar army was delayed by the battle of
Tomsk; and secondly, the preparations for the defense were
made far more rapidly than he had supposed possible; these
two things had balked his plans. He was now under the
necessity of instituting a regular siege of the town.

However, by his suggestion, the Emir twice attempted
the capture of the place, at the cost of a large sacrifice of
men. He threw soldiers on the earth-works which pre-
sented any weak point; but these two assaults were repulsed
with the greatest courage. The Grand Duke and his officers
did not spare themselves on this occasion. They appeared
in person; they led the civil population to the ramparts.
Citizens and peasants both did their duty.

At the second attack, the Tartars managed to force one
of the gates. A fight took place at the head of Bolchaia
Street, two versts long, on the banks of the Angara. But
the Cossacks, the police, the citizens, united in so fierce a
resistance that the Tartars were driven out.

Ivan Ogareff then thought of obtaining by stratagem
what he could not gain by force. We have said that his
plan was to penetrate into the town, make his way to the
Grand Duke, gain his confidence, and, when the time came,
give up the gates to the besiegers; and, that done, wreak his
vengeance on the brother of the Czar. The Tsigane San-
garre, who had accompanied him to the Angara, urged him
to put this plan in execution.

Indeed, it was necessary to act without delay. The Rus-
sian troops from the government of Yakutsk were advanc-
ing towards Irkutsk. They had concentrated along the
upper course of the Lena. In six days they would arrive.
Therefore, before six days had passed, Irkutsk must be be-
trayed. Ogareff hesitated no longer.

One evening, the 2d of October, a council of war was
held in the grand saloon of the palace of the governor-gen-
eral. This palace, standing at the end of Bolchaia Street,
overlooked the river. From its windows could be seen the
camp of the Tartars, and had the invaders possessed guns
of wider range, they would have rendered the palace un-
inhabitable.

The Grand Duke, General Voranzoff, the governor of the
town, and the chief of the merchants, with several officers,
had collected to determine upon various proposals.

"Gentlemen," said the Grand Duke, "you know our
situation exactly. I have the firm hope that we shall be
able to hold out until the arrival of the Yakutsk troops.
We shall then be able to drive off these barbarian hordes,
and it will not be my fault if they do not pay dearly for
this invasion of the Muscovite territory."

"Your Highness knows that all the population of Irkutsk
may be relied on," said General Voranzoff.

"Yes, general," replied the Grand Duke, "and I do
justice to their patriotism. Thanks to God, they have not
yet been subjected to the horrors of epidemic and famine,
and I have reason to hope that they will escape them; but
I cannot admire their courage on the ramparts enough.
You hear my words, Sir Merchant, and I beg you to repeat
such to them."

"I thank your Highness in the name of the town," an-
swered the merchant chief. "May I ask you what is the
most distant date when we may expect the relieving army?"

"Six days at most, sir," replied the Grand Duke. "A
brave and clever messenger managed this morning to get
into the town, and he told me that fifty thousand Russians
under General Kisselef, are advancing by forced marches.
Two days ago, they were on the banks of the Lena, at
Kirensk, and now, neither frost nor snow will keep them
back. Fifty thousand good men, taking the Tartars on the
flank, will soon set us free."

"I will add," said the chief of the merchants, "that we
shall be ready to execute your orders, any day that your
Highness may command a sortie."

"Good, sir," replied the Grand Duke. "Wait till the
heads of the relieving columns appear on the heights, and
we will speedily crush these invaders."

Then turning to General Voranzoff, "To-morrow," said
he, "we will visit the works on the right bank. Ice is drift-
ing down the Angara, which will not be long in freezing, and
in that case the Tartars might perhaps cross."

"Will your Highness allow me to make an observation?"
said the chief of the merchants.

"Do so, sir."

"I have more than once seen the temperature fall to
thirty and forty degrees below zero, and the Angara has
still carried down drifting ice without entirely freezing.
This is no doubt owing to the swiftness of its current. If
therefore the Tartars have no other means of crossing the
river, I can assure your Highness that they will not enter
Irkutsk in that way."

The governor-general confirmed this assertion.

"It is a fortunate circumstance," responded the Grand
Duke. "Nevertheless, we must hold ourselves ready for
any emergency."

He then, turning towards the head of the police, asked,
"Have you nothing to say to me, sir?"

"I have your Highness," answered the head of police, "a
petition which is addressed to you through me."

"Addressed by whom?"

"By the Siberian exiles, whom, as your Highness knows,
are in the town to the number of five hundred."

The political exiles, distributed over the province, had
been collected in Irkutsk, from the beginning of the inva-
sion. They had obeyed the order to rally in the town, and
leave the villages where they exercised their different profes-
sions, some doctors, some professors, either at the Gymna-
sium, or at the Japanese School, or at the School of Naviga-
tion. The Grand Duke, trusting like the Czar in their
patriotism, had armed them, and they had thoroughly proved
their bravery.

"What do the exiles ask?" said the Grand Duke.

"They ask the consent of your Highness," answered the
head of police, "to their forming a special corps and being
placed in the front of the first sortie."

"Yes," replied the Grand Duke with an emotion which
he did not seek to hide, "these exiles are Russians, and it
is their right to fight for their country!"

"I believe I may assure your Highness," said the gover-
nor-general, "you will have no better soldiers."

"But they must have a chief," said the Grand Duke,
"who will he be?"

"They wish to recommend to your Highness," said the
head of police, "one of their number, who has distinguished
himself on several occasions."

"Is he a Russian?"

"Yes, a Russian from the Baltic provinces."

"His name?"

"Is Wassili Fedor."

This exile was Nadia's father. Wassili Fedor, as we
have already said, followed his profession of a medical man
in Irkutsk. He was clever and charitable, and also pos-
sessed the greatest courage and most sincere patriotism. All
the time which he did not devote to the sick he employed in
organizing the defense. It was he who had united his com-
panions in exile in the common cause. The exiles, till then
mingled with the population, had behaved in such a way as
to draw on themselves the attention of the Grand Duke.
In several sorties, they had paid with their blood their debt
to holy Russia -- holy as they believe, and adored by her
children! Wassili Fedor had behaved heroically; his name
had been mentioned several times, but he never asked either
thanks or favors, and when the exiles of Irkutsk thought of
forming themselves into a special corps, he was ignorant of
their intention of choosing him for their captain.

When the head of police mentioned this name, the Grand
Duke answered that it was not unknown to him.

"Indeed," remarked General Voranzoff, "Wassili Fedor
is a man of worth and courage. His influence over his com-
panions has always been very great."

"How long has he been at Irkutsk?" asked the Duke.

"For two years."

"And his conduct?"

"His conduct," answered the head of police, "is that of a
man obedient to the special laws which govern him."

"General," said the Grand Duke, "General, be good
enough to present him to me immediately."

The orders of the Grand Duke were obeyed, and before
half an hour had passed, Fedor was introduced into
his presence. He was a man over forty, tall, of a stern and
sad countenance. One felt that his whole life was summed
up in a single word -- strife -- he had striven and suffered.
His features bore a marked resemblance to those of his
daughter, Nadia Fedor.

This Tartar invasion had severely wounded him in his
tenderest affections, and ruined the hope of the father,
exiled eight thousand versts from his native town. A letter
had apprised him of the death of his wife, and at the same
time of the departure of his daughter, who had obtained
from the government an authorization to join him at
Irkutsk. Nadia must have left Riga on the 10th of July.
The invasion had begun on the 15th of July; if at that time
Nadia had passed the frontier, what could have become of
her in the midst of the invaders? The anxiety of the un-
happy father may be supposed when, from that time, he
had no further news of his daughter.

Wassili Fedor entered the presence of the Grand Duke,
bowed, and waited to be questioned.

"Wassili Fedor," said the Grand Duke, "your com-
panions in exile have asked to be allowed to form a select
corps. They are not ignorant that in this corps they must
make up their minds to be killed to the last man?"

"They are not ignorant of it," replied Fedor.

"They wish to have you for their captain."

"I, your Highness?"

"Do you consent to be placed at their head?"

"Yes, if it is for the good of Russia."

"Captain Fedor," said the Grand Duke, "you are no
longer an exile."

"Thanks, your Highness, but can I command those who
are so still?"

"They are so no longer!" The brother of the Czar had
granted a pardon to all Fedor's companions in exile, now
his companions in arms!

Wassili Fedor wrung, with emotion, the hand which the
Grand Duke held out to him, and retired.

The latter, turned to his officers, "The Czar will not re-
fuse to ratify that pardon," said he, smiling; "we need
heroes to defend the capital of Siberia, and I have just made
some."

This pardon, so generously accorded to the exiles of
Irkutsk, was indeed an act of real justice and sound
policy.

It was now night. Through the windows of the palace
burned the fires of the Tartar camp, flickering beyond the
Angara. Down the river drifted numerous blocks of ice,
some of which stuck on the piles of the old bridges; others
were swept along by the current with great rapidity. It
was evident, as the merchant had observed, that it would
be very difficult for the Angara to freeze all over. The
defenders of Irkutsk had not to dread being attacked on
that side. Ten o'clock had just struck. The Grand Duke
was about to dismiss his officers and retire to his apartments,
when a tumult was heard outside the palace.

Almost immediately the door was thrown open, an aide-
de-camp appeared, and advanced rapidly towards the Grand
Duke.

"Your Highness," said he, "a courier from the Czar!"


CHAPTER XIII
THE CZAR'S COURIER

ALL the members of the council simultaneously started
forward. A courier from the Czar arrived in Irkutsk! Had
these officers for a moment considered the improbability of
this fact, they would certainly not have credited what they
heard.

The Grand Duke advanced quickly to his aide-de-camp.
"This courier!" he exclaimed.

A man entered. He appeared exhausted with fatigue.
He wore the dress of a Siberian peasant, worn into tatters,
and exhibiting several shot-holes. A Muscovite cap was
on his head. His face was disfigured by a recently-healed
scar. The man had evidently had a long and painful jour-
ney; his shoes being in a state which showed that he had
been obliged to make part of it on foot.

"His Highness the Grand Duke?" he asked.

The Grand Duke went up to him. "You are a courier
from the Czar?" he asked.

"Yes, your Highness."

"You come?"

"From Moscow."

"You left Moscow?"

"On the 15th of July."

"Your name?"

"Michael Strogoff."

It was Ivan Ogareff. He had taken the designation of
the man whom he believed that he had rendered powerless.
Neither the Grand Duke nor anyone knew him in Irkutsk,
and he had not even to disguise his features. As he was
in a position to prove his pretended identity, no one could
have any reason for doubting him. He came, therefore,
sustained by his iron will, to hasten by treason and assassi-
nation the great object of the invasion.

After Ogareff had replied, the Grand Duke signed to all
his officers to withdraw. He and the false Michael Strogoff
remained alone in the saloon.

The Grand Duke looked at Ivan Ogareff for some mo-
ments with extreme attention. Then he said, "On the 15th
of July you were at Moscow?"

"Yes, your Highness; and on the night of the 14th I
saw His Majesty the Czar at the New Palace."

"Have you a letter from the Czar?"

"Here it is."

And Ivan Ogareff handed to the Grand Duke the Imperial
letter, crumpled to almost microscopic size.

"Was the letter given you in this state?"

"No, your Highness, but I was obliged to tear the en-
velope, the better to hide it from the Emir's soldiers."

"Were you taken prisoner by the Tartars?"

"Yes, your Highness, I was their prisoner for several
days," answered Ogareff. "That is the reason that, having
left Moscow on the 15th of July, as the date of that letter
shows, I only reached Irkutsk on the 2d of October, after
traveling seventy-nine days."

The Grand Duke took the letter. He unfolded it and
recognized the Czar's signature, preceded by the decisive
formula, written by his brother's hand. There was no pos-
sible doubt of the authenticity of this letter, nor of the
identity of the courier. Though Ogareff's countenance had
at first inspired the Grand Duke with some distrust, he let
nothing of it appear, and it soon vanished.

The Grand Duke remained for a few minutes without
speaking. He read the letter slowly, so as to take in its
meaning fully. "Michael Strogoff, do you know the con-
tents of this letter?" he asked.

"Yes, your Highness. I might have been obliged to
destroy it, to prevent its falling into the hands of the
Tartars, and should such have been the case, I wished to
be able to bring the contents of it to your Highness."

"You know that this letter enjoins us all to die, rather
than give up the town?"

"I know it."

"You know also that it informs me of the movements of
the troops which have combined to stop the invasion?"

"Yes, your Highness, but the movements have failed."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that Ichim, Omsk, Tomsk, to speak only of the
more important towns of the two Siberias, have been suc-
cessively occupied by the soldiers of Feofar-Khan."

"But there has been fighting? Have not our Cossacks
met the Tartars?"

"Several times, your Highness."

"And they were repulsed?"

"They were not in sufficient force to oppose the enemy."

"Where did the encounters take place?"

"At Kolyvan, at Tomsk." Until now, Ogareff had only
spoken the truth, but, in the hope of troubling the defenders
of Irkutsk by exaggerating the defeats, he added, "And a
third time before Krasnoiarsk."

"And what of this last engagement?" asked the Grand
Duke, through whose compressed lips the words could
scarcely pass.

"It was more than an engagement, your Highness," an-
swered Ogareff; "it was a battle."

"A battle?"

"Twenty thousand Russians, from the frontier prov-
inces and the government of Tobolsk, engaged with a hun-
dred and fifty thousand Tartars, and, notwithstanding their
courage, were overwhelmed."

"You lie!" exclaimed the Grand Duke, endeavoring in
vain to curb his passion.

"I speak the truth, your Highness," replied Ivan Ogareff
coldly. "I was present at the battle of Krasnoiarsk, and it
was there I was made prisoner!"

The Grand Duke grew calmer, and by a significant ges-
ture he gave Ogareff to understand that he did not doubt
his veracity. "What day did this battle of Krasnoiarsk
take place?" he asked.

"On the 2d of September."

"And now all the Tartar troops are concentrated here?"

"All."

"And you estimate them?"

"At about four hundred thousand men."

Another exaggeration of Ogareff's in the estimate of the
Tartar army, with the same object as before.

"And I must not expect any help from the West prov-
inces?" asked the Grand Duke.

"None, your Highness, at any rate before the end of the
winter."

"Well, hear this, Michael Strogoff. Though I must ex-
pect no help either from the East or from the West, even
were these barbarians six hundred thousand strong, I will
never give up Irkutsk!"

Ogareff's evil eye slightly contracted. The traitor
thought to himself that the brother of the Czar did not
reckon the result of treason.

The Grand Duke, who was of a nervous temperament,
had great difficulty in keeping calm whilst hearing this
disastrous news. He walked to and fro in the room, under
the gaze of Ogareff, who eyed him as a victim reserved for
vengeance. He stopped at the windows, he looked forth at
the fires in the Tartar camp, he listened to the noise of the
ice-blocks drifting down the Angara.

A quarter of an hour passed without his putting any
more questions. Then taking up the letter, he re-read a
passage and said, "You know that in this letter I am warned
of a traitor, of whom I must beware?"

"Yes, your Highness."

"He will try to enter Irkutsk in disguise; gain my con-
fidence, and betray the town to the Tartars."

"I know all that, your Highness, and I know also that
Ivan Ogareff has sworn to revenge himself personally on
the Czar's brother."

"Why?"

"It is said that the officer in question was condemned
by the Grand Duke to a humiliating degradation."

"Yes, I remember. But it is a proof that the villain,
who could afterwards serve against his country and head an
invasion of barbarians, deserved it."

"His Majesty the Czar," said Ogareff, "was particularly
anxious that you should be warned of the criminal projects
of Ivan Ogareff against your person."

"Yes; of that the letter informs me."

"And His Majesty himself spoke to me of it, telling me
I was above all things to beware of the traitor."

"Did you meet with him?"

"Yes, your Highness, after the battle of Krasnoiarsk.
If he had only guessed that I was the bearer of a letter
addressed to your Highness, in which his plans were re-
vealed, I should not have got off so easily."

"No; you would have been lost!" replied the Grand
Duke. "And how did you manage to escape?"

"By throwing myself into the Irtych."

"And how did you enter Irkutsk?"

"Under cover of a sortie, which was made this evening
to repulse a Tartar detachment. I mingled with the de-
fenders of the town, made myself known, and was imme-
diately conducted before your Highness."

"Good, Michael Strogoff," answered the Grand Duke.
"You have shown courage and zeal in your difficult mission.
I will not forget you. Have you any favor to ask?"

"None; unless it is to be allowed to fight at the side of
your Highness," replied Ogareff.

"So be it, Strogoff. I attach you from to-day to my
person, and you shall be lodged in the palace."

"And if according to his intention, Ivan Ogareff should
present himself to your Highness under a false name?"

"We will unmask him, thanks to you, who know him, and
I will make him die under the knout. Go!"

Ogareff gave a military salute, not forgetting that he was
a captain of the couriers of the Czar, and retired.

Ogareff had so far played his unworthy part with suc-
cess. The Grand Duke's entire confidence had been ac-
corded him. He could now betray it whenever it suited
him. He would inhabit the very palace. He would be in
the secret of all the operations for the defense of the town.
He thus held the situation in his hand, as it were. No one
in Irkutsk knew him, no one could snatch off his mask. He
resolved therefore to set to work without delay.

Indeed, time pressed. The town must be captured before
the arrival of the Russians from the North and East, and
that was only a question of a few days. The Tartars once
masters of Irkutsk, it would not be easy to take it again from
them. At any rate, even if they were obliged to abandon
it later, they would not do so before they had utterly de-
stroyed it, and before the head of the Grand Duke had
rolled at the feet of Feofar-Khan.

Ivan Ogareff, having every facility for seeing, observing,
and acting, occupied himself the next day with visiting the
ramparts. He was everywhere received with cordial con-
gratulations from officers, soldiers, and citizens. To them
this courier from the Czar was a link which connected them
with the empire.

Ogareff recounted, with an assurance which never failed,
numerous fictitious events of his journey. Then, with the
cunning for which he was noted, without dwelling too much
on it at first, he spoke of the gravity of the situation, ex-
aggerating the success of the Tartars and the numbers of
the barbarian forces, as he had when speaking to the Grand
Duke. According to him, the expected succors would be
insufficient, if ever they arrived at all, and it was to be
feared that a battle fought under the walls of Irkutsk would
be as fatal as the battles of Kolyvan, Tomsk, and Kras-
noiarsk.

Ogareff was not too free in these insinuations. He
wished to allow them to sink gradually into the minds of
the defenders of Irkutsk. He pretended only to answer
with reluctance when much pressed with questions. He
always added that they must fight to the last man, and
blow up the town rather than yield!

These false statements would have done more harm had
it been possible; but the garrison and the population of
Irkutsk were too patriotic to let themselves be moved. Of
all the soldiers and citizens shut up in this town, isolated at
the extremity of the Asiatic world, not one dreamed of even
speaking of a capitulation. The contempt of the Russians
for these barbarians was boundless.

No one suspected the odious part played by Ivan Ogareff;
no one guessed that the pretended courier of the Czar was a
traitor. It occurred very naturally that on his arrival in
Irkutsk, a frequent intercourse was established between
Ogareff and one of the bravest defenders of the town,
Wassili Fedor.  We know what anxiety this unhappy
father suffered. If his daughter, Nadia Fedor, had left
Russia on the date fixed by the last letter he had received
from Riga, what had become of her? Was she still trying
to cross the invaded provinces, or had she long since been
taken prisoner? The only alleviation to Wassili Fedor's
anxiety was when he could obtain an opportunity of engag-
ing in battle with the Tartars -- opportunities which came too
seldom for his taste. The very evening the pretended
courier arrived, Wassili Fedor went to the governor-gen-
eral's palace and, acquainting Ogareff with the circum-
stances under which his daughter must have left European
Russia, told him all his uneasiness about her. Ogareff did
not know Nadia, although he had met her at Ichim on the
day she was there with Michael Strogoff; but then, he had
not paid more attention to her than to the two reporters, who
at the same time were in the post-house; he therefore could
give Wassili Fedor no news of his daughter.

"But at what time," asked Ogareff, "must your daughter
have left the Russian territory?"

"About the same time that you did," replied Fedor.

"I left Moscow on the 15th of July."

"Nadia must also have quitted Moscow at that time.
Her letter told me so expressly."

"She was in Moscow on the 15th of July?"

"Yes, certainly, by that date."

"Then it was impossible for her -- But no, I am mistaken --
I was confusing dates. Unfortunately, it is too probable
that your daughter must have passed the frontier, and you
can only have one hope, that she stopped on learning the
news of the Tartar invasion!"

The father's head fell! He knew Nadia, and he knew
too well that nothing would have prevented her from setting
out. Ivan Ogareff had just committed gratuitously an act
of real cruelty. With a word he might have reassured
Fedor. Although Nadia had passed the frontier under cir-
cumstances with which we are acquainted, Fedor, by com-
paring the date on which his daughter would have been at
Nijni-Novgorod, and the date of the proclamation which
forbade anyone to leave it, would no doubt have concluded
thus: that Nadia had not been exposed to the dangers of the
invasion, and that she was still, in spite of herself, in the
European territory of the Empire.

Ogareff obedient to his nature, a man who was never
touched by the sufferings of others, might have said that
word. He did not say it. Fedor retired with his heart
broken. In that interview his last hope was crushed.

During the two following days, the 3rd and 4th of Octo-
ber, the Grand Duke often spoke to the pretended Michael
Strogoff, and made him repeat all that he had heard in the
Imperial Cabinet of the New Palace. Ogareff, prepared for
all these questions, replied without the least hesitation. He
intentionally did not conceal that the Czar's government had
been utterly surprised by the invasion, that the insurrection
had been prepared in the greatest possible secrecy, that the
Tartars were already masters of the line of the Obi when
the news reached Moscow, and lastly, that none of the neces-
sary preparations were completed in the Russian provinces
for sending into Siberia the troops requisite for repulsing
the invaders.

Ivan Ogareff, being entirely free in his movements, be-
gan to study Irkutsk, the state of its fortifications, their
weak points, so as to profit subsequently by his observations,
in the event of being prevented from consummating his act
of treason. He examined particularly the Bolchaia Gate,
the one he wished to deliver up.

Twice in the evening he came upon the glacis of this gate.
He walked up and down, without fear of being discovered
by the besiegers, whose nearest posts were at least a mile
from the ramparts. He fancied that he was recognized
by no one, till he caught sight of a shadow gliding along
outside the earthworks. Sangarre had come at the risk of
her life for the purpose of putting herself in communica-
tion with Ivan Ogareff.

For two days the besieged had enjoyed a tranquillity to
which the Tartars had not accustomed them since the com-
mencement of the investment. This was by Ogareff's or-
ders. Feofar-Khan's lieutenant wished that all attempts to
take the town by force should be suspended. He hoped the
watchfulness of the besieged would relax. At any rate,
several thousand Tartars were kept in readiness at the out-
posts, to attack the gate, deserted, as Ogareff anticipated
that it would be, by its defenders, whenever he should sum-
mon the besiegers to the assault.

This he could not now delay in doing. All must be over
by the time that the Russian troops should come in sight of
Irkutsk. Ogareff's arrangements were made, and on this
evening a note fell from the top of the earthworks into
Sangarre's hands.

On the next day, that is to say during the hours of dark-
ness from the 5th to the 6th of October, at two o'clock in
the morning, Ivan Ogareff had resolved to deliver up
Irkutsk.


CHAPTER XIV
THE NIGHT OF THE FIFTH OF OCTOBER

IVAN OGAREFF'S plan had been contrived with the great-
est care, and except for some unforeseen accident he believed
that it must succeed. It was of importance that the
Bolchaia Gate should be unguarded or only feebly held when
he gave it up. The attention of the besieged was therefore
to be drawn to another part of the town. A diversion was
agreed upon with the Emir.

This diversion was to be effected both up and down the
river, on the Irkutsk bank. The attack on these two points
was to be conducted in earnest, and at the same time a
feigned attempt at crossing the Angara from the left bank
was to be made. The Bolchaia Gate, would be probably
deserted, so much the more because on this side the Tartar
outposts having drawn back, would appear to have broken
up.

It was the 5th of October. In four and twenty hours,
the capital of Eastern Siberia would be in the hands of the
Emir, and the Grand Duke in the power of Ivan Ogareff.

During the day, an unusual stir was going on in the
Angara camp. From the windows of the palace important
preparations on the opposite shore could be distinctly seen.
Numerous Tartar detachments were converging towards the
camp, and from hour to hour reinforced the Emir's troops.
These movements, intended to deceive the besieged, were
conducted in the most open manner possible before their
eyes.

Ogareff had warned the Grand Duke that an attack was
to be feared. He knew, he said, that an assault was to be
made, both above and below the town, and he counselled the
Duke to reinforce the two directly threatened points. Ac-
cordingly, after a council of war had been held in the palace,
orders were issued to concentrate the defense on the bank
of the Angara and at the two ends of the town, where the
earthworks protected the river.

This was exactly what Ogareff wished. He did not ex-
pect that the Bolchaia Gate would be left entirely without
defenders, but that there would only be a small number.
Besides, Ogareff meant to give such importance to the diver-
sion, that the Grand Duke would be obliged to oppose it with
all his available forces. The traitor planned also to pro-
duce so frightful a catastrophe that terror must inevitably
overwhelm the hearts of the besieged.

All day the garrison and population of Irkutsk were on
the alert. The measures to repel an attack on the points
hitherto unassailed had been taken. The Grand Duke and
General Voranzoff visited the posts, strengthened by their
orders. Wassili Fedor's corps occupied the North of the
town, but with orders to throw themselves where the danger
was greatest. The right bank of the Angara had been pro-
tected with the few guns possessed by the defenders. With
these measures, taken in time, thanks to the advice so op-
portunely given by Ivan Ogareff, there was good reason to
hope that the expected attack would be repulsed. In that
case the Tartars, momentarily discouraged, would no doubt
not make another attempt against the town for several days.
Now the troops expected by the Grand Duke might arrive
at any hour. The safety or the loss of Irkutsk hung only
by a thread.

On this day, the sun which had risen at twenty minutes
to six, set at forty minutes past five, having traced its
diurnal arc for eleven hours above the horizon. The
twilight would struggle with the night for another two
hours. Then it would be intensely dark, for the sky was
cloudy, and there would be no moon. This gloom would
favor the plans of Ivan Ogareff.

For a few days already a sharp frost had given warning
of the approaching rigor of the Siberian winter, and this
evening it was especially severe. The Russians posted by
the bank of the Angara, obliged to conceal their position,
lighted no fires. They suffered cruelly from the low tem-
perature. A few feet below them, the ice in large masses
drifted down the current. All day these masses had been
seen passing rapidly between the two banks.

This had been considered by the Grand Duke and his
officers as fortunate. Should the channel of the Angara
continue to be thus obstructed, the passage must be im-
practicable. The Tartars could use neither rafts nor boats.
As to their crossing the river on the ice, that was not pos-
sible. The newly-frozen plain could not bear the weight of
an assaulting column.

This circumstance, as it appeared favorable to the de-
fenders of Irkutsk, Ogareff might have regretted. He did
not do so, however. The traitor knew well that the Tar-
tars would not try to pass the Angara, and that, on its side
at least, their attempt was only a feint.

About ten in the evening, the state of the river sensibly
improved, to the great surprise of the besieged and still
more to their disadvantage. The passage till then imprac-
ticable, became all at once possible. The bed of the Angara
was clear. The blocks of ice, which had for some days
drifted past in large numbers, disappeared down the cur-
rent, and five or six only now occupied the space between
the banks. The Russian officers reported this change in
the river to the Grand Duke. They suggested that it was
probably caused by the circumstance that in some narrower
part of the Angara, the blocks had accumulated so as to
form a barrier.

We know this was the case. The passage of the Angara
was thus open to the besiegers. There was great reason
for the Russians to be on their guard.

Up to midnight nothing had occurred. On the Eastern
side, beyond the Bolchaia Gate, all was quiet.  Not a
glimmer was seen in the dense forest, which appeared con-
founded on the horizon with the masses of clouds hanging
low down in the sky. Lights flitting to and fro in the
Angara camp, showed that a considerable movement was
taking place. From a verst above and below the point
where the scarp met the river's bank, came a dull murmur,
proving that the Tartars were on foot, expecting some
signal. An hour passed. Nothing new.

The bell of the Irkutsk cathedral was about to strike two
o'clock in the morning, and not a movement amongst the
besiegers had yet shown that they were about to commence
the assault. The Grand Duke and his officers began to
suspect that they had been mistaken. Had it really been
the Tartars' plan to surprise the town? The preceding
nights had not been nearly so quiet -- musketry rattling from
the outposts, shells whistling through the air; and this time,
nothing. The officers waited, ready to give their orders,
according to circumstances.

We have said that Ogareff occupied a room in the palace.
It was a large chamber on the ground floor, its windows
opening on a side terrace. By taking a few steps along
this terrace, a view of the river could be obtained.

Profound darkness reigned in the room. Ogareff stood
by a window, awaiting the hour to act. The signal, of
course, could come from him, alone. This signal once given,
when the greater part of the defenders of Irkutsk would
be summoned to the points openly attacked, his plan was
to leave the palace and hurry to the Bolchaia Gate. If it
was unguarded, he would open it; or at least he would direct
the overwhelming mass of its assailants against the few de-
fenders.

He now crouched in the shadow, like a wild beast ready
to spring on its prey. A few minutes before two o'clock,
the Grand Duke desired that Michael Strogoff -- which was
the only name they could give to Ivan Ogareff -- should be
brought to him. An aide-de-camp came to the room, the
door of which was closed. He called.

Ogareff, motionless near the window, and invisible in
the shade did not answer. The Grand Duke was therefore
informed that the Czar's courier was not at that moment in
the palace.

Two o'clock struck. Now was the time to cause the
diversion agreed upon with the Tartars, waiting for the
assault. Ivan Ogareff opened the window and stationed
himself at the North angle of the side terrace.

Below him flowed the roaring waters of the Angara.
Ogareff took a match from his pocket, struck it and lighted
a small bunch of tow, impregnated with priming powder,
which he threw into the river.

It was by the orders of Ivan Ogareff that the torrents of
mineral oil had been thrown on the surface of the Angara!
There are numerous naphtha springs above Irkutsk, on the
right bank, between the suburb of Poshkavsk and the town.
Ogareff had resolved to employ this terrible means to carry
fire into Irkutsk. He therefore took possession of the im-
mense reservoirs which contained the combustible liquid.
It was only necessary to demolish a piece of wall in order
to allow it to flow out in a vast stream.

This had been done that night, a few hours previously,
and this was the reason that the raft which carried the
true Courier of the Czar, Nadia, and the fugitives, floated
on a current of mineral oil. Through the breaches in these
reservoirs of enormous dimensions rushed the naphtha in
torrents, and, following the inclination of the ground, it
spread over the surface of the river, where its density
allowed it to float. This was the way Ivan Ogareff carried
on warfare! Allied with Tartars, he acted like a Tartar,
and against his own countrymen!

The tow had been thrown on the waters of the Angara.
In an instant, with electrical rapidity, as if the current had
been of alcohol, the whole river was in a blaze above and
below the town. Columns of blue flames ran between the
two banks. Volumes of vapor curled up above. The few
pieces of ice which still drifted were seized by the burning
liquid, and melted like wax on the top of a furnace, the
evaporated water escaping in shrill hisses.

At the same moment, firing broke out on the North and
South of the town. The enemy's batteries discharged their
guns at random. Several thousand Tartars rushed to the
assault of the earth-works. The houses on the bank, built
of wood, took fire in every direction. A bright light dis-
sipated the darkness of the night.

"At last!" said Ivan Ogareff.

He had good reason for congratulating himself. The
diversion which he had planned was terrible. The defenders
of Irkutsk found themselves between the attack of the Tar-
tars and the fearful effects of fire. The bells rang, and
all the able-bodied of the population ran, some towards the
points attacked, and others towards the houses in the grasp
of the flames, which it seemed too probable would ere long
envelop the whole town.

The Gate of Bolchaia was nearly free. Only a very small
guard had been left there. And by the traitor's suggestion,
and in order that the event might be explained apart from
him, as if by political hate, this small guard had been chosen
from the little band of exiles.

Ogareff re-entered his room, now brilliantly lighted by
the flames from the Angara; then he made ready to go out.
But scarcely had he opened the door, when a woman rushed
into the room, her clothes drenched, her hair in disorder.

"Sangarre!" exclaimed Ogareff, in the first moment of
surprise, and not supposing that it could be any other
woman than the gypsy.

It was not Sangarre; it was Nadia!

At the moment when, floating on the ice, the girl had
uttered a cry on seeing the fire spreading along the current,
Michael had seized her in his arms, and plunged with her
into the river itself to seek a refuge in its depths from the
flames. The block which bore them was not thirty fathoms
from the first quay of Irkutsk.

Swimming beneath the water, Michael managed to get
a footing with Nadia on the quay. Michael Strogoff had
reached his journey's end! He was in Irkutsk!

"To the governor's palace!" said he to Nadia.

In less than ten minutes, they arrived at the entrance
to the palace. Long tongues of flame from the Angara
licked its walls, but were powerless to set it on fire. Be-
yond the houses on the bank were in a blaze.

The palace being open to all, Michael and Nadia entered
without difficulty. In the confusion, no one remarked them,
although their garments were dripping.  A crowd of
officers coming for orders, and of soldiers running to ex-
ecute them, filled the great hall on the ground floor. There,
in a sudden eddy of the confused multitude, Michael and the
young girl were separated from each other.

Nadia ran distracted through the passages, calling her
companion, and asking to be taken to the Grand Duke. A
door into a room flooded with light opened before her.
She entered, and found herself suddenly face to face with
the man whom she had met at Ichim, whom she had seen
at Tomsk; face to face with the one whose villainous hand
would an instant later betray the town!

"Ivan Ogareff!" she cried.

On hearing his name pronounced, the wretch started.
His real name known, all his plans would be balked. There
was but one thing to be done: to kill the person who had
just uttered it. Ogareff darted at Nadia; but the girl, a
knife in her hand, retreated against the wall, determined to
defend herself.

"Ivan Ogareff!" again cried Nadia, knowing well that
so detested a name would soon bring her help.

"Ah! Be silent!" hissed out the traitor between his
clenched teeth.

"Ivan Ogareff!" exclaimed a third time the brave young
girl, in a voice to which hate had added ten-fold strength.

Mad with fury, Ogareff, drawing a dagger from his belt,
again rushed at Nadia and compelled her to retreat into a
corner of the room. Her last hope appeared gone, when the
villain, suddenly lifted by an irresistible force, was dashed
to the ground.

"Michael!" cried Nadia.

It was Michael Strogoff. Michael had heard Nadia's
call. Guided by her voice, he had just in time reached Ivan
Ogareff's room, and entered by the open door.

"Fear nothing, Nadia," said he, placing himself between
her and Ogareff.

"Ah!" cried the girl, "take care, brother! The traitor
is armed! He can see!"

Ogareff rose, and, thinking he had an immeasurable ad-
vantage over the blind man leaped upon him. But with
one hand, the blind man grasped the arm of his enemy,
seized his weapon, and hurled him again to the ground.

Pale with rage and shame, Ogareff remembered that he
wore a sword. He drew it and returned a second time to
the charge. A blind man! Ogareff had only to deal with
a blind man! He was more than a match for him!

Nadia, terrified at the danger which threatened her com-
panion ran to the door calling for help!

"Close the door, Nadia!" said Michael. "Call no one,
and leave me alone! The Czar's courier has nothing to fear
to-day from this villain! Let him come on, if he dares!
I am ready for him."

In the mean time, Ogareff, gathering himself together
like a tiger about to spring, uttered not a word. The noise
of his footsteps, his very breathing, he endeavored to con-
ceal from the ear of the blind man. His object was to strike
before his opponent was aware of his approach, to strike
him with a deadly blow.

Nadia, terrified and at the same time confident, watched
this terrible scene with involuntary admiration. Michael's
calm bearing seemed to have inspired her. Michael's sole
weapon was his Siberian knife. He did not see his adver-
sary armed with a sword, it is true; but Heaven's support
seemed to be afforded him. How, almost without stirring,
did he always face the point of the sword?

Ivan Ogareff watched his strange adversary with visible
anxiety. His superhuman calm had an effect upon him.
In vain, appealing to his reason, did he tell himself that in
so unequal a combat all the advantages were on his side.
The immobility of the blind man froze him. He had
settled on the place where he would strike his victim. He
had fixed upon it! What, then, hindered him from putting
an end to his blind antagonist?

At last, with a spring he drove his sword full at Michael's
breast. An imperceptible movement of the blind man's
knife turned aside the blow. Michael had not been touched,
and coolly he awaited a second attack.

Cold drops stood on Ogareff's brow. He drew back a
step, then again leaped forward. But as had the first, this
second attempt failed. The knife had simply parried the
blow from the traitor's useless sword.

Mad with rage and terror before this living statue, he
gazed into the wide-open eyes of the blind man. Those
eyes which seemed to pierce to the bottom of his soul, and
yet which did not, could not, see -- exercised a sort of dread-
ful fascination over him.

All at once, Ogareff uttered a cry. A sudden light
flashed across his brain. "He sees!" he exclaimed, "he
sees!" And like a wild beast trying to retreat into its den,
step by step, terrified, he drew back to the end of the room.

Then the statue became animated, the blind man walked
straight up to Ivan Ogareff, and placing himself right before
him, "Yes, I see!" said he. "I see the mark of the knout
which I gave you, traitor and coward! I see the place
where I am about to strike you! Defend your life! It is
a duel I deign to offer you! My knife against your
sword!"

"He sees!" said Nadia. "Gracious Heaven, is it pos-
sible!"

Ogareff felt that he was lost. But mustering all his
courage, he sprang forward on his impassible adversary.
The two blades crossed, but at a touch from Michael's knife,
wielded in the hand of the Siberian hunter, the sword flew
in splinters, and the wretch, stabbed to the heart, fell life-
less on the ground.

At the same moment, the door was thrown open. The
Grand Duke, accompanied by some of his officers, appeared
on the threshold. The Grand Duke advanced. In the
body lying on the ground, he recognized the man whom he
believed to be the Czar's courier.

Then, in a threatening voice, "Who killed that man?"
he asked.

"I," replied Michael.

One of the officers put a pistol to his temple, ready to fire.

"Your name?" asked the Grand Duke, before giving
the order for his brains to be blown out.

"Your Highness," answered Michael, "ask me rather
the name of the man who lies at your feet!"

"That man, I know him! He is a servant of my brother!
He is the Czar's courier!"

"That man, your Highness, is not a courier of the Czar!
He is Ivan Ogareff!"

"Ivan Ogareff!" exclaimed the Grand Duke.

"Yes, Ivan the Traitor!"

"But who are you, then?"

"Michael Strogoff!"


CHAPTER XV
CONCLUSION

MICHAEL STROGOFF was not, had never been, blind. A
purely human phenomenon, at the same time moral and
physical, had neutralized the action of the incandescent
blade which Feofar's executioner had passed before his
eyes.

It may be remembered, that at the moment of the ex-
ecution, Marfa Strogoff was present, stretching out her
hands towards her son. Michael gazed at her as a son
would gaze at his mother, when it is for the last time. The
tears, which his pride in vain endeavored to subdue, welling
up from his heart, gathered under his eyelids, and volatiliz-
ing on the cornea, had saved his sight. The vapor formed
by his tears interposing between the glowing saber and his
eyeballs, had been sufficient to annihilate the action of the
heat. A similar effect is produced, when a workman
smelter, after dipping his hand in vapor, can with impunity
hold it over a stream of melted iron.

Michael had immediately understood the danger in which
he would be placed should he make known his secret to any-
one. He at once saw, on the other hand, that he might
make use of his supposed blindness for the accomplishment
of his designs. Because it was believed that he was blind,
he would be allowed to go free. He must therefore be
blind, blind to all, even to Nadia, blind everywhere, and
not a gesture at any moment must let the truth be sus-
pected. His resolution was taken. He must risk his life
even to afford to all he might meet the proof of his want of
sight. We know how perfectly he acted the part he had
determined on.

His mother alone knew the truth, and he had whispered
it to her in Tomsk itself, when bending over her in the dark
he covered her with kisses.

When Ogareff had in his cruel irony held the Imperial
letter before the eyes which he believed were destroyed,
Michael had been able to read, and had read the letter which
disclosed the odious plans of the traitor. This was the
reason of the wonderful resolution he exhibited during the
second part of his journey. This was the reason of his un-
alterable longing to reach Irkutsk, so as to perform his mis-
sion by word of mouth. He knew that the town would be
betrayed! He knew that the life of the Grand Duke was
threatened!  The safety of the Czar's brother and of
Siberia was in his hands.

This story was told in a few words to the Grand Duke,
and Michael repeated also -- and with what emotion! -- the
part Nadia had taken in these events.

"Who is this girl?" asked the Grand Duke.

"The daughter of the exile, Wassili Fedor," replied
Michael.

"The daughter of Captain Fedor," said the Grand Duke,
"has ceased to be the daughter of an exile. There are no
longer exiles in Irkutsk."

Nadia, less strong in joy than she had been in grief, fell
on her knees before the Grand Duke, who raised her with
one hand, while he extended the other to Michael.

An hour after, Nadia was in her father's arms. Michael
Strogoff, Nadia, and Wassili Fedor were united. This was
the height of happiness to them all.

The Tartars had been repulsed in their double attack on
the town. Wassili Fedor, with his little band, had driven
back the first assailants who presented themselves at the
Bolchaia Gate, expecting to find it open and which, by an
instinctive feeling, often arising from sound judgment,
he had determined to remain at and defend.

At the same time as the Tartars were driven back the
besieged had mastered the fire. The liquid naphtha having
rapidly burnt to the surface of the water, the flames did
not go beyond the houses on the shore, and left the other
quarters of the town uninjured.  Before daybreak the
troops of Feofar-Khan had retreated into their camp, leav-
ing a large number of dead on and below the ramparts.

Among the dead was the gypsy Sangarre, who had vainly
endeavored to join Ivan Ogareff.

For two days the besiegers attempted no fresh assault.
They were discouraged by the death of Ogareff. This man
was the mainspring of the invasion, and he alone, by his
plots long since contrived, had had sufficient influence over
the khans and their hordes to bring them to the conquest
of Asiatic Russia.

However, the defenders of Irkutsk kept on their guard,
and the investment still continued; but on the 7th of Octo-
ber, at daybreak, cannon boomed out from the heights
around Irkutsk. It was the succoring army under the com-
mand of General Kisselef, and it was thus that he made
known his welcome arrival to the Grand Duke.

The Tartars did not wait to be attacked. Not daring
to run the risk of a battle under the walls of Irkutsk, they
immediately broke up the Angara camp. Irkutsk was at
last relieved.

With the first Russian soldiers, two of Michael's friends
entered the city. They were the inseparable Blount and
Jolivet. On gaining the right bank of the Angara by
means of the icy barrier, they had escaped, as had the other
fugitives, before the flames had reached their raft. This
had been noted by Alcide Jolivet in his book in this way:
"Ran a narrow chance of being finished up like a lemon in
a bowl of punch!"

Their joy was great on finding Nadia and Michael safe
and sound; above all, when they learnt that their brave
companion was not blind. Harry Blount inscribed this ob-
servation: "Red-hot iron is insufficient in some cases to de-
stroy the sensibility of the optic nerve."

Then the two correspondents, settled for a time in
Irkutsk, busied themselves in putting the notes and impres-
sions of their journey in order. Thence were sent to Lon-
don and Paris two interesting articles relative to the Tartar
invasion, and which -- a rare thing -- did not contradict each
other even on the least important points.

The remainder of the campaign was unfortunate to the
Emir and his allies. This invasion, futile as all which at-
tack the Russian Colossus must be, was very fatal to them.
They soon found themselves cut off by the Czar's troops,
who retook in succession all the conquered towns. Besides
this, the winter was terrible, and, decimated by the cold,
only a small part of these hordes returned to the steppes
of Tartary.

The Irkutsk road, by way of the Ural Mountains, was
now open. The Grand Duke was anxious to return to
Moscow, but he delayed his journey to be present at a
touching ceremony, which took place a few days after the
entry of the Russian troops.

Michael Strogoff sought Nadia, and in her father's pres-
ence said to her, "Nadia, my sister still, when you left Riga
to come to Irkutsk, did you leave it with any other regret
than that for your mother?"

"No," replied Nadia, "none of any sort whatever."

"Then, nothing of your heart remains there?"

"Nothing, brother."

"Then, Nadia," said Michael, "I think that God, in al-
lowing us to meet, and to go through so many severe trials
together, must have meant us to be united forever."

"Ah!" said Nadia, falling into Michael's arms. Then
turning towards Wassili Fedor, "My father," said she,
blushing.

"Nadia," said Captain Fedor, "it will be my joy to call
you both my children!"

The marriage ceremony took place in Irkutsk cathedral.

Jolivet and Blount very naturally assisted at this mar-
riage, of which they wished to give an account to their
readers.

"And doesn't it make you wish to imitate them?" asked
Alcide of his friend.

"Pooh!" said Blount. "Now if I had a cousin like
you --"

"My cousin isn't to be married!" answered Alcide, laugh-
ing.

"So much the better," returned Blount, "for they speak
of difficulties arising between London and Pekin. Have
you no wish to go and see what is going on there?"

"By Jove, my dear Blount!" exclaimed Alcide Jolivet,
"I was just going to make the same proposal to you."

And that was how the two inseparables set off for China.

A few days after the ceremony, Michael and Nadia
Strogoff, accompanied by Wassili Fedor, took the route to
Europe. The road so full of suffering when going, was a
road of joy in returning. They traveled swiftly, in one
of those sleighs which glide like an express train across
the frozen steppes of Siberia.

However, when they reached the banks of the Dinka,
just before Birskoe, they stopped for a while. Michael
found the place where he had buried poor Nicholas. A
cross was erected there, and Nadia prayed a last time on
the grave of the humble and heroic friend, whom neither
of them would ever forget.

At Omsk, old Marfa awaited them in the little house of
the Strogoffs. She clasped passionately in her arms the
girl whom in her heart she had already a hundred times
called "daughter." The brave old Siberian, on that day,
had the right to recognize her son and say she was proud
of him.

After a few days passed at Omsk, Michael and Nadia
entered Europe, and, Wassili Fedor settling down in St.
Petersburg, neither his son nor his daughter had any occa-
sion to leave him, except to go and see their old mother.

The young courier was received by the Czar, who at-
tached him specially to his own person, and gave him the
Cross of St. George. In the course of time, Michael
Strogoff reached a high station in the Empire. But it is
not the history of his success, but the history of his trials,
which deserves to be related.





End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Michael Strogoff, by Jules Verne