Title:   Michael Strogoff

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Bookmarks





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Michael Strogoff

Jules Verne



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Table of Contents

Michael Strogoff or, The Courier of the Czar ..................................................................................................1

Jules Verne ...............................................................................................................................................1

BOOK I ....................................................................................................................................................1

CHAPTER I A FETE AT THE NEW PALACE .....................................................................................1

CHAPTER II RUSSIANS AND TARTARS..........................................................................................7

CHAPTER III MICHAEL STROGOFF MEETS THE CZAR.............................................................13

CHAPTER IV FROM MOSCOW TO NIJNINOVGOROD..............................................................17

CHAPTER V THE TWO ANNOUNCEMENTS ..................................................................................25

CHAPTER VI BROTHER AND SISTER............................................................................................29

CHAPTER VII GOING DOWN THE VOLGA ....................................................................................33

CHAPTER VIII GOING UP THE KAMA...........................................................................................38

CHAPTER IX DAY AND NIGHT IN A TARANTASS ......................................................................41

CHAPTER X A STORM IN THE URAL MOUNTAINS ....................................................................46

CHAPTER XI TRAVELERS IN DISTRESS.......................................................................................51

CHAPTER XII PROVOCATION.........................................................................................................58

CHAPTER XIII DUTY BEFORE EVERYTHING..............................................................................64

CHAPTER XIV MOTHER AND SON .................................................................................................69

CHAPTER XV THE MARSHES OF THE BARABA.........................................................................75

CHAPTER XVI A FINAL EFFORT .....................................................................................................80

CHAPTER XVII THE RIVALS ............................................................................................................85

BOOK II .................................................................................................................................................90

CHAPTER I A TARTAR CAMP ..........................................................................................................90

CHAPTER II CORRESPONDENTS IN TROUBLE...........................................................................95

CHAPTER III BLOW FOR BLOW ....................................................................................................104

CHAPTER IV THE TRIUMPHAL ENTRY .......................................................................................110

CHAPTER V "LOOK WHILE YOU MAY!" .....................................................................................113

CHAPTER VI A FRIEND ON THE HIGHWAY ...............................................................................118

CHAPTER VII THE PASSAGE OF THE YENISEI ..........................................................................125

CHAPTER VIII A HARE CROSSES THE ROAD............................................................................130

CHAPTER IX IN THE STEPPE.........................................................................................................135

CHAPTER X BAIKAL AND ANGARA ............................................................................................141

CHAPTER XI BETWEEN TWO BANKS.........................................................................................146

CHAPTER XII IRKUTSK..................................................................................................................151

CHAPTER XIII THE CZAR'S COURIER.........................................................................................157

CHAPTER XIV THE NIGHT OF THE FIFTH OF OCTOBER........................................................163

CHAPTER XV CONCLUSION ..........................................................................................................168


Michael Strogoff

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Michael Strogoff or, The Courier of the Czar

Jules Verne

Book One 

1  A Fete At The New Palace 

2  Russians And Tartars 

3  Michael Strogoff Meets The Czar 

4  From Moscow To NijniNovgorod 

5  The Two Announcements 

6  Brother And Sister 

7  Going Down The Volga 

8  Going Up The Kama 

9  Day And Night In A Tarantass 

10  A Storm In The Ural Mountains 

11  Travellers In Distress 

12  Provocation 

13  Duty Before Everything 

14  Mother And Son 

15  The Marshes Of The Baraba 

16  A Final Effort 

17  The Rivals 

Book Two 

1  A Tartar Camp 

2  Correspondents In Trouble 

3  Blow For Blow 

4  The Triumphal Entry 

5  "Look While You May!" 

6  A Friend On The Highway 

7  The Passage Of The Yenisei 

8  A Hare Crosses The Road 

9  In The Steppe 

10  Baikal And Angara 

11  Between Two Banks 

12  Irkutsk 

13  The Czar's Courier 

14  The Night Of The Fifth Of October 

15  Conclusion  

BOOK I

CHAPTER I A FETE AT THE NEW PALACE

"SIRE, a fresh dispatch."

"Whence?"

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"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 midnight, 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 Preobrajensky and Paulowsky regiments had played without

cessation polkas, mazurkas, schottisches, and waltzes from among the choicest of their repertoires.

Innumerable couples of dancers whirled through the magnificent saloons of the palace, 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 grandchamberlain of the court, was, besides, well seconded in his arduous and delicate duties. The

granddukes and their aidesdecamp, the chamberlainsinwaiting and other officers of the palace,

presided personally in the arrangement of the dances. The grand duchesses, covered with diamonds, the

ladiesinwaiting 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

personages and splendidly dressed women a frame worthy of the magnificence they displayed. The rich

ceiling, with its gilding already softened by the touch of time, appeared as if glittering with stars. The

embroidered drapery of the curtains 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 baywindows 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 countless towers, domes, and spires which adorn the ancient city. Below the sculptured

balconies were visible numerous sentries, pacing silently up and down, their rifles carried horizontally 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 beating 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


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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 Circassiansa brilliant band, splendidly clad in the

glittering 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

politiciansphysiognomists by virtue of their profession failed not to detect on the countenance of their

host symptoms of disquietude, the source of which eluded their penetration; but none ventured to interrogate

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 General Kissoff aside towards a window, "since yesterday

without 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 TransBalkan 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, Semipolatinsk, and Tobolskare 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

frontier."

"Let a description of him be immediately dispatched to NijniNovgorod, 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."


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"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 moments, 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 occasioned 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 officially, 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 apparently 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 supplementary sense, which enabled them to see

beyond that limited horizon which bounds all human gaze? Had they obtained 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 AngloNorman,

formal, cold, grave, parsimonious of gestures and words, appeared only to speak or gesticulate under the

influence of a spring operating 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 singularly 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 degree 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 affirming 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 vocation, 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 corresponded with "his

cousin Madeleine." This Frenchman, however, neath his careless surface, was wonderfully shrewd and


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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 worldthat they delighted to

throw themselves in the track of the most unexpected intelligencethat nothing terrified or discouraged

them from succeedingthat 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 pureblooded 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 interests were at stake. In a word, they made what has been for some years called "the great

political and military reports."

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

advantageously 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 expressing 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 surprise, 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.


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"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 notwithstanding 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 knowing 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 tomorrow."

"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

ballroom."

"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.


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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 chefd'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 supperrooms.

At that moment. General Kissoff, who had just reentered, 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: KitaiGorod, BeloiGorod, ZemlianaiGorodEuropean, 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 ballroom 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 taking 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 districts, Okhotsk and

Kamtschatka; and possesses two countries, 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.


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Two governorgenerals 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 summer 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 between the western and eastern frontiers of Siberia. On issuing from the Ural, it passes

through Ekaterenburg, Kasirnov, Tioumen, Ishim, Omsk, Elamsk, Kolyvan, Tomsk, Krasnoiarsk,

NijniUdinsk, Irkutsk, VerkneNertschink, Strelink, Albazine, Blagowstenks, Radde, Orlomskaya,

Alexandrowskoe, and Nikolaevsk; and six roubles and nineteen 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 fortnight.

It was this wire, extending from Ekaterenburg to Nikolaevsk, 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 impossible 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

Russian justice knew how to pardon.


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The head of the police did not reply to this observation, but it was evident that he did not approve of such

halfmeasures. 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 suspicious 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


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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 success, 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 thunderclap, 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 NijniUdinsk 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 NijniNovgorod, 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.


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"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 seeingand 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 terrible ukases, warranted the belief that he was

not mistaken. 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 largest, 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 countries 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

rebellion 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

caravans 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, perhaps 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 Western Siberia which is intended to overawe the Kirghiz

population. Here are the bounds, more than once infringed by the halfsubdued nomads, and there was every

reason to believe 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 endeavored, 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,"


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includes also the Turks and the Persians. The purely Mongolian race comprises the Mongols, Manchoux, and

Thibetans.

The Tartars who now threatened the Russian Empire, belonged to the Caucasian race, and occupied

Turkestan. This immense country is divided into different states, governed 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 interests, had supported the independence of the Kirghiz against the

Muscovite dominion. The present chief, FeofarKhan, 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

thousand men, trebled in time of war, and thirty thousand horsemen. It is a rich country, with varied animal,

vegetable, and mineral products, and has been increased by the accession 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, Ischardjoui is defended by a population of twenty thousand souls. Protected

by its mountains, and isolated by its steppes, the khanat of Bokhara 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

khansprincipally those of Khokhand and Koondooz, cruel and rapacious warriors, all ready to join an

enterprise so dear to Tartar instinctsaided 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 movement so as to attack Siberia. Mad indeed he was, if

he hoped to rupture the Muscovite Empire. Acting under his suggestion, the Emirwhich is the title taken

by the khans of Bokharahad 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 submitted, 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 slavesall with the cool audacity of a modern GhengisKhan. It was impossible to ascertain

where he now was; how far his soldiers had marched before 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 currentwas prevented from traversing the steppes, and it was no longer possible to warn the Grand

Duke, shut up in Irkutsk, of the danger threatening 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.


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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."


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"Is he ready to set out?"

"He awaits your majesty's orders in the guardroom."

"Let him come in," said the Czar.

In a few moments Michael Strogoff, the courier, entered the imperial library. He was a tall, vigorous,

broadshouldered, deepchested man. His powerful head possessed the fine features of the Caucasian race.

His wellknit 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 Muscovite 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 slightlycontracted eyebrows indicated lofty

heroism"the hero's cool courage," according to the definition of the physiologist. He possessed a fine nose,

with large nostrils; and a wellshaped mouth, with the slightlyprojecting 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 lightcavalry officer in

the field boots, spurs, half tightlyfitting 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 characteristicparticularly in his walk, his face, in the whole man, and

which the Czar perceived at a glancewas, that he was "a fulfiller of orders." He therefore possessed one of

the most serviceable qualities in Russiaone which, as the celebrated novelist 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 before, but because he was of Siberian origin.

His fatherold 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 zerohe 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 thirtynine bearsthat is to

say, the fortieth had fallen under his blows; and, according to Russian legends, most huntsmen who have

been lucky enough up to the thirtyninth bear, have succumbed to the fortieth.


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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

alonethat was nothing; but after stripping it he dragged the gigantic animal's skin to his father's house,

many versts distant, exhibiting 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 fourandtwenty 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 promising 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, wellconducted 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.

Having 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 expected 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 reread it attentively, then signed it, preceding his name with the words "Byt po

semou," which, signifying "So be it," constitutes the decisive formula of the Russian emperors.

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


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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."


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"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 NIJNINOVGOROD

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 traveled 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 transport 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 difficulties 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.


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Perhaps certain natural phenomena are most to be feared at that time, such as longcontinuing and dense

fogs, excessive cold, fearfully heavy snowstorms, 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

circumstances, 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 furnishing 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 persons, and, moreover, it was, by special

notification, made available in the event of the Muscovite government forbidding natives of any other

countries to leave Russia.

The podorojna is simply a permission to take posthorses; 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 somehow, 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 footsoldiers, twentyfive Baskir horsemen, three hundred camels, four hundred

horses, twentyfive 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 horsemen, nor footsoldiers, 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

Russian frontier. Railroads, postcarriages, steamboats, relays 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 costumetightlyfitting tunic, the traditional belt of the Moujik, wide

trousers, gartered at the knees, and high boots Michael Strogoff arrived at the station 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.


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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 proceed by the train, but by friends who come

to see them off. The station resembles, from the variety of characters assembled, a small news exchange.

The train in which Michael took his place was to set him down at NijniNovgorod. 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 NijniNovgorod, 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 traveling 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 NijniNovgorod;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

merchants seemed to fear lest the government should be led to take certain restrictive measures, especially in

the provinces bordering on the frontiermeasures 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 uniformand the importance of a uniform in Russia is greatwould have

certainly been enough to restrain the merchants' 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 Persian, 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

NijniNovgorod will be easily cleared off by the West; but, unfortunately, 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 exposed. 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."


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"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," observed the little Jew.

"Faith, no, worthy son of Abraham! I sell neither hops, nor eiderdown, nor honey, nor wax, nor hempseed,

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, interrupting 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 overparticular 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

provinces 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,

yesterday 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 NijniNovgorod 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 trainin all it might have been observed that the talkers used much circumspection. When they did


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happen to venture out of the region of facts, they never went so far as to attempt to divine the intentions of the

Muscovite government, or even to criticize them.

This was especially remarked by a traveler in a carriage at the front part of the train. This personevidently

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

fellowtravelers, 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 notebook, 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 observation 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 listening much, had not inspired his

companions with the suspicions which Alcide Jolivet had aroused. He was not taken for a spy, and therefore

his neighbors, without constraint, 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 Telegraph had thus

an opportunity of observing how much recent events preoccupied the merchants of NijniNovgorod, and to

what a degree the commerce with Central Asia was threatened in its transit.

He therefore noted in his book this perfectly correct observation, "My fellowtravelers extremely anxious.

Nothing 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

himself the trouble of looking at the right side, which was composed 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 country 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 FeofarKhan, or whether he was endeavoring to foment

a revolt in the government of NijniNovgorod, which at this time of year contained a population of such

diverse elements. Perhaps among the Persians, Armenians, or Kalmucks, 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 Russians, Poles, Lithuanians, Courlanders. Add to these, Finns, Laplanders, Esthonians,

several other northern tribes with unpronounceable names, the Permiaks, the Germans, the Greeks, the


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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, believed it to be certain that the

traitor had not yet been able to quit European Russia. If there appeared cause to suspect 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 NijniNovgorod, 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, Grouzinia, Kabardinia, and Armenia,

Hereditary Lord and Suzerain of the Scherkess princes, of those of the mountains, and of others; heir of

Norway, Duke of SchleswigHolstein, 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, Astrakhan, 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

correspondent 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

occupied by Michael Strogoff. A vacant place was found opposite the courier. The young girl took it, after

placing by her side a modest travelingbag of red leather, which seemed to constitute all her luggage. Then

seating herself with downcast eyes, not even glancing at the fellowtravelers 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 newlyarrived fellowtraveler. 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 seventeen 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 somewhat thin cheeks by delicately mobile nostrils. The lips were finely cut, but it seemed as

if they had long since forgotten how to smile.


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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 clearlycut 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 persistent, and

her calmness unalterable, even under circumstances in which a man would be likely to give way or lose his

selfcommand.

Such was the impression which she produced at first sight. Michael Strogoff, being himself of an energetic

temperament, was naturally struck by the character of her physiognomy, 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 richthat 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. Halfboots 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 NijniNovgorod, 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 incommode 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 shawlsbeing 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 understand 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 relieved 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 NijniNovgorod, 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.


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Travelers more or less shaken about, cries, confusion, general disorder in the carriagessuch was the effect

at first produced. It was to be feared that some serious accident had happened. Consequently, even before the

train had stopped, the doors were opened, and the panicstricken passengers thought only of getting out of

the carriages.

Michael Strogoff thought instantly of the young girl; but, while the passengers in her compartment were

precipitating themselves outside, screaming and struggling, she had remained quietly in her place, her face

scarcely changed by a slight pallor.

She waitedMichael Strogoff waited also.

Both remained quiet.

"A determined nature!" thought Michael Strogoff.

However, all danger had quickly disappeared. A breakage of the coupling of the luggagevan had first caused

the shock to, and then the stoppage of, the train, which in another 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 halfpast eight in the evening arrived at the station of NijniNovgorod.

Before anyone could get out of the carriages, the inspectors 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 NijniNovgorod, 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

permit 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

NijniNovgorod."

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 faroff 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


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reach it? What would become of her?

The inspection ended, the doors of the carriages were then opened, but, before Michael Strogoff could move

towards 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

NIJNINOVGOROD, Lower Novgorod, situate at the junction of the Volga and the Oka, is the chief town in

the district 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.

NijniNovgorod, the fixed population of which is only from thirty to thirtyfive 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

NijniNovgorod.

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 compose NijniNovgorod. 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 steamboat would start. He went to the office of the

company whose boats plied between NijniNovgorod and Perm. There, to his great annoyance, he found that

no boat started for Perm till the following day at twelve o'clock. Seventeen 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 better, 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 NijniNovgorod. 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 already 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


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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 protectionwhat right had he

"Alone," he said to himself, "alone, in the midst of these wandering tribes! And yet the present dangers are

nothing 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 soFor 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 determined 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 braveand she certainly is soher 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

merchant 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

necessary," 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 traveling 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."


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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 different, the Bohemian replied in words which signify,

"You are right, Sangarre! Besides, we start tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" repeated the woman in surprise.

"Yes, Sangarre," replied the Bohemian; "tomorrow, and the Father himself sends uswhere 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

before 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 under 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 NijniNovgorod; 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

breakfast, 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 imperial 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 Constantinople, 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

steampacket 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 reside 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 NijniNovgorod was held. In a vast plain rose the temporary palace of the

governorgeneral, where by imperial orders that great functionary resided during the whole of the fair,

which, thanks to the people who composed it, required an everwatchful 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.


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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 quarter, etc. Some booths were even built of fancy

materials, some of bricks of tea, others of masses of salt meatthat is to say, of samples of the goods which

the owners thus announced were there to the purchasersa singular, and somewhat American, mode of

advertisement.

In the avenues and long alleys there was already a large assemblage of peoplethe sun, which had risen at

four o'clock, being well above the horizonan 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 carpets, 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, malachite, lapislazuli,

spices, perfumes, medicinal herbs, wood, tar, rope, horn, pumpkins, watermelons, etc all the products 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 natives 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 merchandise across its vast plains, and who would not again see their shops and

countinghouses for another year to come. In short, of such importance is this fair of NijniNovgorod, 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 description; gypsies from the mountains, telling fortunes to the credulous fools who are ever to be

found in such assemblies; Zingaris or Tsiganes a name which the Russians give to the gypsies who are the

descendants of the ancient Coptssinging 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 accompanied their fourfooted dancers, menageries resounded

with the hoarse cries of animals under the influence of the stinging whip or redhot 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 timehonored observance in the fair of NijniNovgorod, above the heads of the vast

concourse 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 birdfanciers 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

NijniNovgorod 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

NijniNovgorod. Blount, on the contrary, having in vain hunted for a supper, had been obliged to find a

restingplace 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."


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Michael Strogoff, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his cherrystemmed 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,

aidesdecamp, leaving the governor's palace, galloped in every direction. 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 governorgeneral. An important dispatch from Moscow, it was

said, was the cause of it.

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

"The regiment of NijniNovgorod 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

subsided 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 announcements: "By order of the Governor of NijniNovgorod.

"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 twentyfour 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 province;" if Ivan Ogareff was still in the province, this

would at any rate prevent him, unless with the greatest difficulty, from rejoining FeofarKhan, and becoming

a very formidable lieutenant to the Tartar chief.

"All foreigners of Asiatic origin are ordered to leave the province in fourandtwenty 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


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expulsion.

It is easy to understand the effect produced by these two thunderclaps bursting over a town like

NijniNovgorod, 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 evasion 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 suppressed 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 brokenwinded 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 NijniNovgorod would, it was evident, be entirely evacuated

before the evening, and to the tumult of the great fair would succeed the silence of the desert.

It must again be repeatedfor it was a necessary aggravation of these severe measuresthat 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 coincidence," 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


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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 under

ordinary circumstances, how could she manage to accomplish 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

another idea flashed into his brain; the question presented itself 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 NijniNovgorod. I must look for her. And may God guide me!"

Michael left the great square of NijniNovgorod, 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 morning. 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 quarters on the other side, where the crowd was much

less considerable. 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 NijniNovgorod 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 orderthough this was improbable enough,

for such a thunderclap 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 measures 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 almost 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 foreseen 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,


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they had notwithstanding to go through certain forms before they could depart.

Without this precaution, some Russian more or less implicated in the Tartar movement would have been able,

in a disguise, to pass the frontierjust those whom the order 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 waitingroom, 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 instantly 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 authorizations, 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.


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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 escapepipe 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 NijniNovgorod 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 traveling 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 necessary. She had

been anxious to leave that town, in which, but for the providential intervention of this unexpected protector,

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 NijniNovgorod 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 NijniNovgorod 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. Powerful 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 NijniNovgorod

to Perm would take from between sixty to sixtytwo 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 firstclass cabins, so that his

young companion might retire into hers whenever she liked.

The Caucasus was loaded with passengers of every description. A number of Asiatic traders had thought it

best to leave NijniNovgorod immediately. In that part of the steamer reserved for the firstclass 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, Tartars, wearing boots, ornamented with manycolored 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 baggage would cost them dear, for, according to the

regulations, each person had only a right to twenty pounds' weight.


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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, rosecolored cotton shirts, drawn in by a cord, felt caps; a few women,

habited in flowerypatterned cotton dresses, gaycolored aprons, and bright handkerchiefs on their heads.

These were principally thirdclass 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 NijniNovgorod. Then passed rafts of wood interminably long, and barges loaded to the

gunwale, and nearly sinking under water. A bootless voyage they were making, 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 halfcultivated 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."

"Tomorrow, 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 today. Fatigue and sorrow have broken me."

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

"Yesyes; and tomorrow"

"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 authorized him to travel to

Siberia.


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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 themselves 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 possible 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

information.

Michael Strogoff thus could learn nothing here; but if mouths were often shut at his approachfor 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 NijniNovgorod?"

"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 permission to state our respective situations."

"State away."

"You are going to Permlike 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."


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"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 together, 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 wideopen 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

proclamation did not concern these two newshunters, as they were neither Russians nor foreigners of Asiatic

origin. However, being urged by the same instinct, they had left NijniNovgorod together. It was natural that

they should take the same means of transport, and that they should follow the same route to the Siberian

steppes. Traveling companions, 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.


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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 birchtrees 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 delight 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 vessels 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 intervals. 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 engineroom. He then found himself in the part

reserved for second and thirdclass 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 anyone. 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 forecastle, 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 importanceto him at leastbut they allowed him to recognize the

voices of the man and woman whom he had heard at NijniNovgorod. 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 distinctly 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 arrive 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.


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In a few moments Michael Strogoff had regained the stern of the vessel without having been perceived, and,

taking 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

apprehension: "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 university. The varied population preserves

an Asiatic character. Although the town was so far from the landingplace, a large crowd was collected on

the quay. They had come for news. The governor of the province had published an order identical with that of

NijniNovgorod. 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 expelled; 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 huntsmen should do. They went on shore and mingled with

the crowd, each keeping to his own peculiar mode of proceeding; Harry Blount, sketching different types, or

noting some observation; Alcide Jolivet contenting himself with asking questions, confiding in his memory,

which never failed him.

There was a report along all the frontier that the insurrection and invasion had reached considerable

proportions. Communication between Siberia and the empire was already 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 NijniNovgorod fair. There, on the deck of the steamboat were the old

Bohemian and the woman. With them, and no doubt under their direction, landed about twenty dancers and

singers, from fifteen to twenty years of age, wrapped in old cloaks, which covered their spangled dresses.

These dresses, just then glancing 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 attracted 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

according 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


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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 wrinkled 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, Sangarre, 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 clearcut 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 Strogoff 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 himself. "Could she have recognized me as the man

whom she saw at NijniNovgorod? 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 considered as the center of Siberian and Bokharian commerce;

for two roads begin here and lead across the Ural Mountains. 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 government, and is prolonged from Ishim to Irkutsk.

It is true that a second routethe 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 absence of posthouses, 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 second 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.


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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 horseback. 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 FeofarKhan at their head, have passed Semipolatinsk, and are

descending 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 himself 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.


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

The bell now announced the breakfast hour. Nadia followed 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 satisfied 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 special podorojna for Siberia, and that the Russian

authorities 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 muchesteemed 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 penniless. 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.


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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 supplied 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 programme. 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 wellapplied "na vodkou," or tips.

Unfortunately, in consequence of the measures taken against foreigners of Asiatic origin, a large number of

travelers had already left Perm, and therefore conveyances were extremely rare. Michael was obliged to

content himself 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 depend 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 nothing

but an open fourwheeled cart, made entirely of wood, the pieces fastened together by means of strong rope.

Nothing could be more primitive, nothing could be less comfortable; 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 axletrees grow naturally in forests. The post extraordinary, known by the name of

"perckladnoi," 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

forepart arrives at the posthouse 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

tarantass. It is to be hoped that the invention of Russian coachbuilders will devise some improvement in this

lastnamed 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 certain equilibrium over the jolting

rough roads. A splashboard 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."


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"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 posthorses were harnessed to the

tarantass. These animals, covered with long hair, were very like longlegged 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 tassels and bells; the two

others were simply fastened by ropes to the steps of the tarantass. This was the complete harness, 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 circumstances, 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 turnedup

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 appearance too. He looked

contemptuous.

"Crows," said he, without caring whether he was overheard 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 posthouses

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 posthouses, which are very comfortably provided

under direction of the State. The hood was pulled up, as it was insupportably 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 performed 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 conscientious 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!"


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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 traveling. 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?"

"Fortyeight 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

temperature in the Siberian steppes fall to more than forty degrees below freezing point! I have felt,

notwithstanding my reindeer coat, my heart growing chill, my limbs stiffening, 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


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snow and falling, never to rise again."

"How many times have you crossed the steppe in winter?" 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 prevented 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 posthouses could be found lodging and provision.

Besides, 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 whitewalled, greenroofed 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

preceded 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!"


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"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 separates 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 tomorrow morning."

CHAPTER X A STORM IN THE URAL MOUNTAINS

THE Ural Mountains extend in a length of over two thousand 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 Caspian. This was the barrier to be crossed by Michael Strogoff before he could enter

Siberian Russia. The mountains 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 explosion, 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 naveboxes 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.


Michael Strogoff

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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 expectation 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

postcarriages.

But what is easy enough in fine weather and broad daylight, offers difficulties and perils when the elements

are engaged 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 complete 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 encountered 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

charcoalburner 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 thenand 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 lookout for some time. About eleven o'clock lightning began to blaze

continuously in the sky. The shadows of huge pines appeared and disappeared 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 roughlyhewn 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, sometimes 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.


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"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 insulting 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 without difficulty, to master the horses.


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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 being blown down. The carriage, notwithstanding their efforts 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 allpowerful 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

hampered 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.


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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 cannonball,

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

thunderclaps 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 countercurrents,

directed 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 bearing the marks of a miner's pick, where the young girl could rest in safety until they could once

more start.

Just thenit was one o'clock in the morningthe rain began to fall in torrents, and this in addition to the

wind and lightning, made the storm truly frightful. To continue the journey at present was utterly impossible.

Besides, 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."


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"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 followed. 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 countershock, 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.


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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 starting 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 redoubled 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

account of the darkness, Michael could not see them, yet he heard distinctly their words.

This is what he heard, and what caused him some surprise: "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 reechoed 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 recognized them as the two reporters who had been his companions on board the Caucasus.

"Goodmorning 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.


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"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

confounded 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

posthorse."

"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 brokenwinded

snail and fainthearted tortoise if I don't take you over the ground at a rattling pace."

Alcide said all this with such perfect goodhumor 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 tomorhow, if no accident befalls us, we will

arrive together at Ekaterenburg."

"That, Mr. Korpanoff," said Alcide, "is indeed a generous 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 demitelga 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?"


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"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 goodhumor. "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 cannonballs 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

Ekaterenburg 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 moment'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 fellowtravelers 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?"


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"Indeed, sir," replied Alcide, "we only know what they said at Perm. FeofarKhan'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 NijniNovgorod, 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 Englishman.

"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

accompanied him, and then of the peculiar glance which she had cast at him. Suddenly, close by he heard a

pistolshot.

"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.


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"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

merchant, 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

increased his usual stiffness.


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At that moment the iemschik, who had succeeded in recapturing 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 turtledoves!" 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 imbedded 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 preceding 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 posthouse was their iemschik, who appeared to be

waiting for them. This worthy Russian had a fine open countenance, and he smilingly approached the

travelers, and, holding out his hand, in a quiet tone he demanded the usual "pourboire."

This very cool request roused Blount's ire to its highest pitch, and had not the iemschik prudently retreated, a

straightout 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 wetnurse 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?"


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"Colonel of the Imperial Guard!"

At this reply all burst into a laugh.

Alcide, enchanted with his own joke, drew out his notebook, 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 experience the slightest difficulty in obtaining means of

continuing 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 principally 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 leaving it; for under present circumstances

few travelers cared to venture on the Siberian roads.

So it happened that Blount and Alcide had not the slightest trouble in replacing, by a sound telga, the famous

demicarriage 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 NovoZaimskoe, this road has slight inclines, which gentle undulations

are the first signs of the slopes of the Ural Mountains. But after NovoZaimskoe 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

Ekaterenburg. There they intended to be guided by circumstances as to their route across the invaded country,

either together or separately, according as their newshunting instinct set them on one track or another.

This road from Ekaterenburg to Ichimwhich 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 invaders, 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 posthouses 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"


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"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

condemned 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 policestation, 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

generous 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 performance 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 intrepidity. 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 journeyfew 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 posthouses, 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 propriety, 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.


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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 overalways much too hurried to agree with Blount, who was a methodical eaterthey started, and

were driven as eagles, for they paid like princes.

It need scarcely be said that Blount did not trouble himself 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 discuss 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 indifference. "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 approach 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 depredations 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 station the clerks transmitted messages delivered to them, delaying 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

FeofarKhan's Tartars, 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 inhabitants, then contained double that number. This, the

first industrial town established by the Russians in Siberia, in which may be seen a fine metalrefining

factory and a bell foundry, had never before presented such an animated appearance. 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 FeofarKhan'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 government of Tobolsk were advancing by forced

marches towards Tomsk, in the hope of cutting off the Tartar columns.

At midnight the town of NovoSaimsk was reached; and the travelers now left behind them the country

broken by treecovered hills, the last remains of the Urals.


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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 themselves in a

desert.

Michael and his companions again pressed rapidly forward. 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 NovoSaimsk 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 carriagescarcely 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 overtaking it. This was neither a tarantass nor a telga, but a postberlin, 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 NovoSaimsk, 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 berlin 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 excited 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 carriages 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, looking only a speck on the horizon of the steppe.

It was eight o'clock in the evening when the two carriages 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.


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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 posthouse 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 militarylooking man, apparently about forty years of age, tall, robust in

figure, broadshouldered, with a stronglyset head, and thick mustaches meeting red whiskers. He wore a

plain uniform. A cavalry saber hung at his side, and in his hand he held a shorthandled whip.

"Horses," he demanded, with the air of a man accustomed to command.

"I have no more disposable horses," answered the postmaster, 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."


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"I have no time to lose either," replied Michael, restraining 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

exclaimed 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.


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The effect produced on the reporters by this incident was not to Michael's advantage. Their discomfiture was

visible. 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 skillful in finishing up Ural Mountain bears. Is it the case

that a man can be courageous at one time and a coward at another? 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 posthouse.

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 policestation at NijniNovgorod:

"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

companion's eye.

CHAPTER XIII DUTY BEFORE EVERYTHING

NADIA, with the clear perception of a rightminded 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 resentment 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 postmaster 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 goodnight.

"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 forgetting them.


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Michael Strogoff at last asked for the postmaster. The latter, a Siberian of the old type, came directly, and

looking 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 behind.

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 difficulties of crossing are sometimes great.


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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 invasion. Some of FeofarKhan's scouts

had already appeared 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 between the Siberian and Tartar

troops on the frontier of the great Kirghese hordean 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 FeofarKhan. 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. Perhaps 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 reduced to ashes;

and the boatmen even pointed out the smoke to Michael, rising in the southern horizon, and showing the

approach of the Tartar advanceguard.

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,

helping 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 impatience to get to her.

Nadia at last spoke to him of old Marfa, and of how unprotected 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 preserved 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 taking 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."


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"And when shall you see her?"

"I shall see heron 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 reason," 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 sentiment of a duty more sacredif there can be

onethan 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 public attention to himselfa 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 swimmer could not have crossed, however powerful; and even in a ferryboat there would be some

danger.


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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 towards the right bank.

They calculated on reaching it some five or six versts below the landing place; but, after all, that would not

matter so long as men and beasts could disembark without accident. 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

skillfulness 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.


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"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 manfully 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 distant. 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 warcry, 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 overboard.

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 GovernorGeneral of this the

first half of Asiatic Russia resides. Omsk, properly so called, is composed of two distinct towns: one which is

exclusively inhabited by the authorities and officials; the other more especially devoted to the Siberian

merchants, although, indeed, the trade of the town is of small importance.


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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, resisted 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 GovernorGeneral, 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 deceptive 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. FeofarKhan

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 FeofarKhan 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 necessarily 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 everything that has passed."

And the mujik related to Michael Strogoff the different incidents of the struggle which he had

witnessedthe attack upon the ferry by the Tartar boats, the pillage of the tarantass, and the massacre of the

boatmen.


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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, anticipating the anxiety which he read in the eyes of his guest.

"They have carried her off in their boat, and have continued 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,

notwithstanding 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 lancethrust 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, recovering 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.


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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 succumb under such a trifle. Before his eyes lay a single goalfardistant 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 mercantile quarter of the lower town. The surrounding

earthwork had been destroyed in many places, and there were the breaches through which the marauders who

followed the armies of FeofarKhan 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 accustomed. 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

haltingplace for this Tartar cavalry, which preferred the rich plains of Eastern Siberia, where the towns were

more wealthy, and, consequently, 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. Besidesand 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 postinghouse, 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 companion 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 precipitous 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 halfstifled cries, to which thrusts of the lance gave an instant reply, and the street was

immediately cleared.


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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 postinghouse 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 NijniNovgorod.

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 NijniNovgorod,

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 fairground 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 authority.

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 caseand now more

than everMichael Strogoff must avoid Ivan Ogareff, and contrive 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 postinghouse. 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

fortifications, but not desiring to show himself, remained in the postinghouse, 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

Muscovite troops, not at Omsk, but at Tomska corps intended to recapture that town from the Tartars of

FeofarKhan.

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?


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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! Completely 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 order 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 reechoed, "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 hastened to assist her, the aged woman raised herself.

Suddenly 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 certainly 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 appeared in the postinghouse. "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?"


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"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 postinghouse?"

"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 between 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 postinghouse 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


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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

situated 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 postinghouse, 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 detachments had passed along the highway of the steppe.

Everything had been stolen or requisitioned both in the villages and in the postinghouses. It was with

difficulty that Michael Strogoff was even able to obtain some refreshment 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

replace 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 devoid of doubt or hesitation, and in spite of

the melancholy thoughts which possessed him he had preserved his clearness 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. Nothing 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 natural 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 rainwater 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 difficult 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 exhalations, that the road winds, and entails upon the traveler the


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greatest fatigue and danger.

Michael Strogoff spurred his horse into the midst of a grassy prairie, differing greatly from the closecropped

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 swampplants, 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

marshplants; 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 seasickness.

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 however fast they traveled the horse and the

horseman were unable to escape from the sting of the twowinged 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 horsehair, 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, horseflies, 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 insects, 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 behind 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 Siberian 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.


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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

continued 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 Moscowto 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 semiinundated 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 invasion 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 himself 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


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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

entrance 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 extremely 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 warravaged countryMichael Strogoff felt

within himself a fierce desire to dash on across the steppe, to accomplish the distance which separated 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 watertight 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

nomenclatureTchang, 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 bifurcated, 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 FeofarKhan.

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 hesitate 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

wellmarked 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.


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One thousand miles still separated him from Irkutsk.

CHAPTER XVI A FINAL EFFORT

MICHAEL'S fear of meeting the Tartars in the plains beyond the Baraba was by no means ungrounded. The

fields, trodden down by horses' hoofs, afforded but too clear evidence that their hordes had passed that way;

the same, indeed, 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 boundaries of the province? Was

FeofarKhan 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 Siberian 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 desolation. 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 FeofarKhan 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?"


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"No."

"Goodby."

"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 nothing 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

leaving 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

profoundly 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 wellproved sagacity of his horse.

Just as Michael dismounted to discover the exact direction 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

attentively, 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, discovered 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 impracticable, 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


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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 slackened. 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 themselves by the side of the road, and partook of the provisions they produced from their

knapsacks.

Michael's selfpossession had never deserted him, and creeping amongst the high grass he endeavored not

only to examine the newcomers, but to hear what they said. It was a detachment from Omsk, composed of

Usbeck horsemen, a race of the Mongolian type. These men, well built, above the medium height, rough, and

wildfeatured, wore on their heads the "talpak," or black sheepskin cap, and on their feet yellow

highheeled boots with turnedup toes, like the shoes of the Middle Ages. Their tunics were closefitting,

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 saddlebow. From their shoulders hung

gaycolored 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 "pendjabaschi"; that is to say, a commander of fifty men, having

under him a "dehbaschi," or simple commander of ten men. These two officers wore helmets and half

coatsofmail; little trumpets fastened to their saddlebows were the distinctive signs of their rank.

The pendjabaschi had been obliged to let his men rest, fatigued with a long stage. He and the second officer,

smoking "beng," the leaf which forms the base of the "haschisch," 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 language.

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 pendjabaschi; "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 dehbaschi. "Perhaps he is still hidden in the town."


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"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 dehbaschi. "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 pendjabaschi; "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 dehbaschi.

At this remark Michael's heart beat violently.

"Yes," answered the pendjabaschi. "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 daggerthrusts for Michael. He was known to be a courier of the Czar! A

detachment 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 FeofarKhan's army, would be inevitably overwhelmed, and the Irkutsk

road would be in the entire possession of the invaders.

As to himself, Michael learnt, by some words from the pendjabaschi, 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 pendjabaschi 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.


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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 highroad.

To endeavor to reach it by creeping round the edge of the wood, without attracting 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 before 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 dehbaschi. Being better mounted, this

officer had distanced his detachment.


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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 without waiting to assist the dehbaschi, 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 terminate to Michael's disadvantage. His

horse was almost exhausted. He managed to reach the bank of the river. The Usbeck detachment was now not

more than fifty paces behind him.

The Obi was desertednot 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 pendjabaschi 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 stirrups, 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 situation 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 devastated by the invasion, overrun by the Emir's scouts, and

still at a considerable distance from the place he was striving to reach. "By Heaven, I will get there!" he

exclaimed, 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 posthouse, where


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he could procure a horse. A horse once found, he would throw himself 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

picturesque 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 thisto reach Kolyvan 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 neighborhood 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, dreading 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 Russian 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 collectednot 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

Russians 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 better to try, even on foot, to reach some small town, and there procure a horse at

any price? This was the only thing to be done; and Michael, leaving the Obi, went forward to the right of

Kolyvan.

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

one entire quarter of Kolyvan.


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Michael was running across the steppe endeavoring to gain the covert of some trees when a detachment of

Tartar cavalry appeared on the right. He dared not continue in that direction. The horsemen advanced rapidly,

and it would have been difficult to escape them.

Suddenly, in a thick clump of trees, he saw an isolated house, which it would be possible to reach before he

was perceived. Michael had no choice but to run there, hide himself and ask or take something to recruit his

strength, for he was exhausted with hunger and fatigue.

He accordingly ran on towards this house, still about half a verst distant. As he approached, he could see that

it was a telegraph office. Two wires left it in westerly and easterly directions, and a third went towards

Kolyvan.

It was to be supposed that under the circumstances this station was abandoned; but even if it was, Michael

could take refuge there, and wait till nightfall, if necessary, to again set out across the steppe covered with

Tartar scouts.

He ran up to the door and pushed it open.

A single person was in the room whence the telegraphic messages were dispatched. This was a clerk, calm,

phlegmatic, indifferent to all that was passing outside. Faithful to his post, he waited behind his little wicket

until the public claimed his services.

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

"Nothing," answered the clerk, smiling.

"Are the Russians and Tartars engaged?"

"They say so."

"But who are the victors?"

"I don't know."

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

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

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

frontier."

"For the government?"

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

you like, sir!"

Michael was about to reply to this strange clerk that he had no message to send, that he only implored a little

bread and water, when the door of the house was again thrown open.

Thinking that it was invaded by Tartars, Michael made ready to leap out of the window, when two men only

entered the room who had nothing of the Tartar soldier about them. One of them held a dispatch, written in


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pencil, in his hand, and, passing the other, he hurried up to the wicket of the imperturbable clerk.

In these two men Michael recognized with astonishment, which everyone will understand, two personages of

whom he was not thinking at all, and whom he had never expected to see again. They were the two reporters,

Harry Blount and Alcide Jolivet, no longer traveling companions, but rivals, enemies, now that they were

working on the field of battle.

They had left Ichim only a few hours after the departure of Michael Strogoff, and they had arrived at Kolyvan

before him, by following the same road, in consequence of his losing three days on the banks of the Irtych.

And now, after being both present at the engagement between the Russians and Tartars before the town, they

had left just as the struggle broke out in the streets, and ran to the telegraph office, so as to send off their rival

dispatches to Europe, and forestall each other in their report of events.

Michael stood aside in the shadow, and without being seen himself he could see and hear all that was going

on. He would now hear interesting news, and would find out whether or not he could enter Kolyvan.

Blount, having distanced his companion, took possession of the wicket, whilst Alcide Jolivet, contrary to his

usual habit, stamped with impatience.

"Ten copecks a word," said the clerk.

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

"Good," said the clerk. And with the greatest coolness in the world he began to telegraph the following

dispatch: "Daily Telegraph, London.

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

"Engagement between Russian and Tartar troops."

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

his paper.

"Russians repulsed with great loss. Tartars entered Kolyvan today." 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 trainband 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.


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Jolivet's fury may be imagined, though under any other circumstances he would have thought it fair warfare.

He even endeavored to force the clerk to take his dispatch in preference to that of his rival.

"It is that gentleman's right," answered the clerk coolly, pointing to Blount, and smiling in the most amiable

manner. And he continued faithfully to transmit to the Daily Telegraph the wellknown 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 rightat ten

copecks a word."

And he telegraphed the following news, just brought him by Blount: "Russian fugitives are escaping from the

town. 'Away went Gilpinwho but he? His fame soon spread around: He carries weight! he rides a race! 'Tis

for a thousand pound!'" And Blount turned round with a quizzical look at his rival.

Alcide Jolivet fumed.

In the meanwhile Harry Blount had returned to the window, but this time his attention was diverted by the

interest of the scene before him. Therefore, when the clerk had finished telegraphing the last lines dictated by

Blount, Alcide Jolivet noiselessly took his place at the wicket, and, just as his rival had done, after quietly

depositing a respectable pile of roubles on the shelf, he delivered his dispatch, which the clerk read aloud:

"Madeleine Jolivet, 10, Faubourg Montmartre, Paris.

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

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

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

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

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

"Hallo!" said Harry Blount.

"Just so," answered Jolivet.

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

firing was incessant.

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

of dust filled the office.

Alcide was just finishing writing his lines; but to stop, dart on the shell, seize it in both hands, throw it out of

the window, and return to the wicket, was only the affair of a moment.


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Five seconds later the shell burst outside. Continuing with the greatest possible coolness, Alcide wrote: "A

sixinch shell has just blown up the wall of the telegraph office. Expecting a few more of the same size."

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

across the southern steppe.

Just then renewed firing broke out close to the telegraph house, and a perfect shower of bullets smashed all

the glass in the windows. Harry Blount fell to the ground wounded in the shoulder.

Jolivet even at such a moment, was about to add this postscript to his dispatch: "Harry Blount, correspondent

of the Daily Telegraph, has fallen at my side struck by" when the imperturbable clerk said calmly: "Sir, the

wire has broken." And, leaving his wicket, he quietly took his hat, brushed it round with his sleeve, and, still

smiling, disappeared through a little door which Michael had not before perceived.

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

Alcide Jolivet, his useless dispatch in his hand, had run to Blount, stretched on the ground, and had bravely

lifted him on his shoulders, with the intention of flying with him. He was too late!

Both were prisoners; and, at the same time, Michael, taken unawares as he was about to leap from the

window, fell into the hands of the Tartars!

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

appearance.

There stood the Tartar tents; there FeofarKhan, the terrible Emir of Bokhara, was encamped; and there on

the following day, the 7th of August, were brought the prisoners taken at Kolyvan after the annihilation of the

Russian force, which had vainly attempted to oppose the progress of the invaders. Of the two thousand men

who had engaged with the two columns of the enemy, the bases of which rested on Tomsk and Omsk, only a

few hundred remained. Thus events were going badly, and the imperial government appeared to have lost its

power beyond the frontiers of the Uralfor a time at least, for the Russians could not fail eventually to

defeat the savage hordes of the invaders. But in the meantime the invasion had reached the center of Siberia,

and it was spreading through the revolted country both to the eastern, and the western provinces. If the troops

of the Amoor and the province of Takutsk did not arrive in time to occupy it, Irkutsk, the capital of Asiatic

Russia, being insufficiently garrisoned, would fall into the hands of the Tartars, and the Grand Duke, brother

of the Emperor, would be sacrificed to the vengeance of Ivan Ogareff.

What had become of Michael Strogoff? Had he broken down under the weight of so many trials? Did he

consider himself conquered by the series of disasters which, since the adventure of Ichim, had increased in

magnitude? Did he think his cause lost? that his mission had failed? that his orders could no longer be

obeyed?


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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 objectto become free!

How should he escape from the Emir's soldiers?

Feofar's camp presented a magnificent spectacle.

Numberless tents, of skin, felt, or silk, glistened in the rays of the sun. The lofty plumes which surmounted

their conical tops waved amidst banners, flags, and pennons of every color. The richest of these tents

belonged to the Seides and Khodjas, who are the principal personages of the khanat. A special pavilion,

ornamented with a horse's tail issuing from a sheaf of red and white sticks artistically interlaced, indicated the

high rank of these Tartar chiefs. Then in the distance rose several thousand of the Turcoman tents, called

"karaoy," which had been carried on the backs of camels.

The camp contained at least a hundred and fifty thousand soldiers, as many foot as horse soldiers, collected

under the name of Alamanes. Amongst them, and as the principal types of Turkestan, would have been

directly remarked the Tadjiks, from their regular features, white skin, tall forms, and black eyes and hair; they

formed the bulk of the Tartar army, and of them the khanats of Khokhand and Koundouge had furnished a

contingent nearly equal to that of Bokhara. With the Tadjiks were mingled specimens of different races who

either reside in Turkestan or whose native countries border on it. There were Usbecks, redbearded, small in

stature, similar to those who had pursued Michael. Here were Kirghiz, with flat faces like the Kalmucks,

dressed in coats of mail: some carried the lance, bows, and arrows of Asiatic manufacture; some the saber, a

matchlock gun, and the "tschakane," a little shorthandled ax, the wounds from which invariably prove fatal.

There were Mongolsof middle height, with black hair plaited into pigtails, which hung down their back;

round faces, swarthy complexions, lively deepset eyes, scanty beards dressed in blue nankeen trimmed

with black plush, swordbelts of leather with silver buckles, coats gayly braided, and silk caps edged with fur

and three ribbons fluttering behind. Brownskinned 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 FeofarKhan's army.

If to this list are added the Jews, who acted as servants, their robes confined with a cord, and wearing on their

heads instead of the turban, which is forbidden them, little caps of dark cloth; if with these groups are

mingled some hundreds of "kalenders," a sort of religious mendicants, clothed in rags, covered by a leopard

skin, some idea may be formed of the enormous agglomerations of different tribes included under the general

denomination of the Tartar army.

Nothing could be more romantic than this picture, in delineating which the most skillful artist would have

exhausted all the colors of his palette.

Feofar's tent overlooked the others. Draped in large folds of a brilliant silk looped with golden cords and

tassels, surmounted by tall plumes which waved in the wind like fans, it occupied the center of a wide

clearing, sheltered by a grove of magnificent birch and pine trees. Before this tent, on a japanned table inlaid

with precious stones, was placed the sacred book of the Koran, its pages being of thin goldleaf delicately


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engraved. Above floated the Tartar flag, quartered with the Emir's arms.

In a semicircle round the clearing stood the tents of the great functionaries of Bokhara. There resided the

chief of the stables, who has the right to follow the Emir on horseback even into the court of his palace; the

grand falconer; the "houschbegui," bearer of the royal seal; the "toptschibaschi," grand master of the

artillery; the "khodja," chief of the council, who receives the prince's kiss, and may present himself before

him with his girdle untied; the "scheikhoulislam," chief of the Ulemas, representing the priests; the

"caziaskev," who, in the Emir's absence settles all disputes raised among the soldiers; and lastly, the chief of

the astrologers, whose great business is to consult the stars every time the Khan thinks of changing his

quarters.

When the prisoners were brought into the camp, the Emir was in his tent. He did not show himself. This was

fortunate, no doubt. A sign, a word from him might have been the signal for some bloody execution. But he

intrenched himself in that isolation which constitutes in part the majesty of Eastern kings. He who does not

show himself is admired, and, above all, feared.

As to the prisoners, they were to be penned up in some enclosure, where, illtreated, poorly fed, and exposed

to all the inclemencies of the weather, they would await Feofar's pleasure.

The most docile and patient of them all was undoubtedly Michael Strogoff. He allowed himself to be led, for

they were leading him where he wished to go, and under conditions of safety which free he could not have

found on the road from Kolyvan to Tomsk. To escape before reaching that town was to risk again falling into

the hands of the scouts, who were scouring the steppe. The most eastern line occupied by the Tartar columns

was not situated beyond the eightyfifth meridian, which passes through Tomsk. This meridian once passed,

Michael considered that he should be beyond the hostile zones, that he could traverse Genisci without danger,

and gain Krasnoiarsk before FeofarKhan had invaded the province.

"Once at Tomsk," he repeated to himself, to repress some feelings of impatience which he could not entirely

master, "in a few minutes I should be beyond the outposts; and twelve hours gained on Feofar, twelve hours

on Ogareff, that surely would be enough to give me a start of them to Irkutsk."

The thing that Michael dreaded more than everything else was the presence of Ivan Ogareff in the Tartar

camp. Besides the danger of being recognized, he felt, by a sort of instinct, that this was the traitor whom it

was especially necessary to precede. He understood, too, that the union of Ogareff's troops with those of

Feofar would complete the invading army, and that the junction once effected, the army would march en

masse on the capital of Eastern Siberia. All his apprehensions came from this quarter, and he dreaded every

instant to hear some flourish of trumpets, announcing the arrival of the lieutenant of the Emir.

To this was added the thought of his mother, of Nadia, the one a prisoner at Omsk; the other dragged on

board the Irtych boats, and no doubt a captive, as Marfa Strogoff was. He could do nothing for them. Should

he ever see them again? At this question, to which he dared not reply, his heart sank very low.

At the same time with Michael Strogoff and so many other prisoners Harry Blount and Alcide Jolivet had

also been taken to the Tartar camp. Their former traveling companion, captured like them at the telegraph

office, knew that they were penned up with him in the enclosure, guarded by numerous sentinels, but he did

not wish to accost them. It mattered little to him, at this time especially, what they might think of him since

the affair at Ichim. Besides, he desired to be alone, that he might act alone, if necessary. He therefore held

himself aloof from his former acquaintances.

From the moment that Harry Blount had fallen by his side, Jolivet had not ceased his attentions to him.

During the journey from Kolyvan to the campthat is to say, for several hoursBlount, by leaning on his


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companion's arm, had been enabled to follow the rest of the prisoners. He tried to make known that he was a

British subject; but it had no effect on the barbarians, who only replied by prods with a lance or sword. The

correspondent of the Daily Telegraph was, therefore, obliged to submit to the common lot, resolving to

protest later, and obtain satisfaction for such treatment. But the journey was not the less disagreeable to him,

for his wound caused him much pain, and without Alcide Jolivet's assistance he might never have reached the

camp.

Jolivet, whose practical philosophy never abandoned him, had physically and morally strengthened his

companion by every means in his power. His first care, when they found themselves definitely established in

the enclosure, was to examine Blount's wound. Having managed carefully to draw off his coat, he found that

the shoulder had been only grazed by the shot.

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

"But these dressings?" asked Blount.

"I will make them for you myself."

"Then you are something of a doctor?"

"All Frenchmen are something of doctors."

And on this affirmation Alcide, tearing his handkerchief, made lint of one piece, bandages of the other, took

some water from a well dug in the middle of the enclosure, bathed the wound, and skillfully placed the wet

rag on Harry Blount's shoulder.

"I treat you with water," he said. "This liquid is the most efficacious sedative known for the treatment of

wounds, and is the most employed now. Doctors have taken six thousand years to discover that! Yes, six

thousand years in round numbers!"

"I thank you, M. Jolivet," answered Harry, stretching himself on a bed of dry leaves, which his companion

had arranged for him in the shade of a birch tree.

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

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

"Nonsense, stupid! All English are generous."

"Doubtless; but the French?"

"Well, the Frenchthey 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."


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

question direct to his companion.

"Well," answered Alcide, laughing, "my cousin is a very discreet person, who does not like to be talked

about, and who would be in despair if she troubled the sleep of which you are in need."

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

"That they seem for the time in a bad way. But, bah! the Muscovite government is powerful; it cannot be

really uneasy at an invasion of barbarians."

"Too much ambition has lost the greatest empires," answered Blount, who was not exempt from a certain

English jealousy with regard to Russian pretensions in Central Asia.

"Oh, do not let us talk politics," cried Jolivet. "It is forbidden by the faculty. Nothing can be worse for

wounds in the shoulder unless it was to put you to sleep."

"Let us, then, talk of what we ought to do," replied Blount. "M. Jolivet, I have no intention at all of remaining

a prisoner to these Tartars for an indefinite time."

"Nor I, either, by Jove!"

"We will escape on the first opportunity?"

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

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

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

"From that brute of a FeofarKhan?"

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

"He is a villain."

" No doubt; but the villain is a Russian. He knows that it does not do to trifle with the rights of men, and he

has no interest to retain us; on the contrary. But to ask a favor of that gentleman does not quite suit my taste."

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

"He will come. He will not fail to do that. He must join the Emir. Siberia is cut in two now, and very certainly

Feofar's army is only waiting for him to advance on Irkutsk."

"And once free, what shall we do?"

"Once free, we will continue our campaign, and follow the Tartars, until the time comes when we can make

our way into the Russian camp. We must not give up the game. No, indeed; we have only just begun. You,

friend, have already had the honor of being wounded in the service of the Daily Telegraph, whilst II have

as yet suffered nothing in my cousin's service. Well, well! Good," murmured Alcide Jolivet; "there he is

asleep. A few hours' sleep and a few cold water compresses are all that are required to set an Englishman on


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his legs again. These fellows are made of cast iron."

And whilst Harry Blount rested, Alcide watched near him, after having drawn out his note book, which he

loaded with notes, determined besides to share them with his companion, for the greater satisfaction of the

readers of the Daily Telegraph. Events had united them one with the other. They were no longer jealous of

each other. So, then, the thing that Michael Strogoff dreaded above everything was the most lively desire of

the two correspondents. Ivan Ogareff's arrival would evidently be of use to them. Blount and Jolivet's interest

was, therefore, contrary to that of Michael. The latter well understood the situation, and it was one reason,

added to many others, which prevented him from approaching his former traveling companions. He therefore

managed so as not to be seen by them.

Four days passed thus without the state of things being in anywise altered. The prisoners heard no talk of the

breaking up of the Tartar camp. They were strictly guarded. It would have been impossible for them to pass

the cordon of foot and horse soldiers, which watched them night and day. As to the food which was given

them it was barely sufficient. Twice in the twentyfour hours they were thrown a piece of the intestines of

goats grilled on the coals, or a few bits of that cheese called "kroute," made of sour ewe's milk, and which,

soaked in mare's milk, forms the Kirghiz dish, commonly called "koumyss." And this was all. It may be

added that the weather had become detestable. There were considerable atmospheric commotions, bringing

squalls mingled with rain. The unfortunate prisoners, destitute of shelter, had to bear all the inclemencies of

the weather, nor was there the slightest alleviation to their misery. Several wounded women and children

died, and the prisoners were themselves compelled to dig graves for the bodies of those whom their jailers

would not even take the trouble to bury.

During this trying period Alcide Jolivet and Michael Strogoff worked hard, each in the portions of the

enclosure in which they found themselves. Healthy and vigorous, they suffered less than so many others, and

could better endure the hardships to which they were exposed. By their advice, and the assistance they

rendered, they were of the greatest possible use to their suffering and despairing fellowcaptives.

Was this state of things to last? Would FeofarKhan, satisfied with his first success, wait some time before

marching on Irkutsk? Such, it was to be feared, would be the case. But it was not so. The event so much

wished for by Jolivet and Blount, so much dreaded by Michael, occurred on the morning of the 12th of

August.

On that day the trumpets sounded, the drums beat, the cannon roared. A huge cloud of dust swept along the

road from Kolyvan. Ivan Ogareff, followed by several thousand men, made his entry into the Tartar camp.

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 important town, naturally intended to become the center of future operations.

Besides his soldiers, Ogareff was bringing a convoy of Russian and Siberian prisoners, captured either at

Omsk or Kolyvan. These unhappy creatures were not led to the enclosurealready too crowdedbut were


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forced to remain at the outposts without shelter, almost without nourishment. What fate was FeofarKhan

reserving for these unfortunates? Would he imprison them in Tomsk, or would some bloody execution,

familiar to the Tartar chiefs, remove them when they were found too inconvenient? This was the secret of the

capricious Emir.

This army had not come from Omsk and Kolyvan without bringing in its train the usual crowd of beggars,

freebooters, pedlars, and gypsies, which compose the rearguard of an army on the march.

All these people lived on the country traversed, and left little of anything behind them. There was, therefore,

a necessity for pushing forward, if only to secure provisions for the troops. The whole region between Ichim

and the Obi, now completely devastated, no longer offered any resources. The Tartars left a desert behind

them.

Conspicuous among the gypsies who had hastened from the western provinces was the Tsigane troop, which

had accompanied Michael Strogoff as far as Perm. Sangarre was there. This fierce spy, the tool of Ivan

Ogareff, had not deserted her master. Ogareff had traveled rapidly to Ichim, whilst Sangarre and her band had

proceeded to Omsk by the southern part of the province.

It may be easily understood how useful this woman was to Ogareff. With her gypsyband she could penetrate

anywhere. Ivan Ogareff was kept acquainted with all that was going on in the very heart of the invaded

provinces. There were a hundred eyes, a hundred ears, open in his service. Besides, he paid liberally for this

espionage, from which he derived so much advantage.

Once Sangarre, being implicated in a very serious affair, had been saved by the Russian officer. She never

forgot what she owed him, and had devoted herself to his service body and soul.

When Ivan Ogareff entered on the path of treason, he saw at once how he might turn this woman to account.

Whatever order he might give her, Sangarre would execute it. An inexplicable instinct, more powerful still

than that of gratitude, had urged her to make herself the slave of the traitor to whom she had been attached

since the very beginning of his exile in Siberia.

Confidante and accomplice, Sangarre, without country, without family, had been delighted to put her

vagabond life to the service of the invaders thrown by Ogareff on Siberia. To the wonderful cunning natural

to her race she added a wild energy, which knew neither forgiveness nor pity. She was a savage worthy to

share the wigwam of an Apache or the hut of an Andaman.

Since her arrival at Omsk, where she had rejoined him with her Tsiganes, Sangarre had not again left Ogareff.

The circumstance that Michael and Marfa Strogoff had met was known to her. She knew and shared Ogareff's

fears concerning the journey of a courier of the Czar. Having Marfa Strogoff in her power, she would have

been the woman to torture her with all the refinement of a RedSkin in order to wrest her secret from her. But

the hour had not yet come in which Ogareff wished the old Siberian to speak. Sangarre had to wait, and she

waited, without losing sight of her whom she was watching, observing her slightest gestures, her slightest

words, endeavoring to catch the word "son" escaping from her lips, but as yet always baffled by Marfa's

taciturnity.

At the first flourish of the trumpets several officers of high rank, followed by a brilliant escort of Usbeck

horsemen, moved to the front of the camp to receive Ivan Ogareff. Arrived in his presence, they paid him the

greatest respect, and invited him to accompany them to FeofarKhan'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.


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As he was about to enter the camp, Sangarre, passing among the officers approached and remained

motionless before 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.

FeofarKhan 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.

FeofarKhan 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, crossbelt 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 Sardanapalus, an undisputed

sovereign, who directs at his pleasure the life and fortune of his subjects.

When Ivan Ogareff appeared, the great dignitaries remained seated on their goldembroidered cushions; but

Feofar rose from a rich divan which occupied the back part of the tent, the ground being hidden under the

thick velvetpile of a Bokharian carpet.

The Emir approached Ogareff and gave him a kiss, the meaning of which he could not mistake. This kiss

made the lieutenant chief of the council, and placed him temporarily above the khodja.

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

ready to listen to you."

"Takhsir," answered Ogareff, "this is what I have to make known to you." He spoke in the Tartar language,

giving to his phrases the emphatic turn which distinguishes the languages of the Orientals. "Takhsir, this is

not the time for unnecessary words. What I have done at the head of your troops, you know. The lines of the

Ichim and the Irtych are now in our power; and the Turcoman horsemen can bathe their horses in the now

Tartar waters. The Kirghiz hordes rose at the voice of FeofarKhan. You can now push your troops towards

the east, and where the sun rises, or towards the west, where he sets."

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


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"To march with the sun," answered Ogareff, "is to throw yourself towards Europe; it is to conquer rapidly the

Siberian provinces of Tobolsk as far as the Ural Mountains."

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

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

"But the armies of the Sultan of St. Petersburg?" said FeofarKhan, designating the Emperor of Russia by

this strange title.

"You have nothing to fear from them," replied Ivan Ogareff. "The invasion has been sudden; and before the

Russian army can succor them, Irkutsk or Tobolsk will have fallen into your power. The Czar's troops have

been overwhelmed at Kolyvan, as they will be everywhere where yours meet them."

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

silence.

"My advice," answered Ivan Ogareff quickly, "is to march to meet the sun. It is to give the grass of the

eastern steppes to the Turcoman horses to consume. It is to take Irkutsk, the capital of the eastern provinces,

and with it a hostage, the possession of whom is worth a whole country. In the place of the Czar, the Grand

Duke his brother must fall into your hands."

This was the great result aimed at by Ivan Ogareff. To listen to him, one would have taken him for one of the

cruel descendants of Stephan Razine, the celebrated pirate who ravaged Southern Russia in the eighteenth

century. To seize the Grand Duke, murder him pitilessly, would fully satisfy his hatred. Besides, with the

capture of Irkutsk, all Eastern Siberia would pass to the Tartars.

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

"What are your orders, Takhsir?"

"Today our headquarters shall be removed to Tomsk."

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

As he was about to mount his horse, to return to the outposts, a tumult broke out at some distance, in the part

of the camp reserved for the prisoners. Shouts were heard, and two or three shots fired. Perhaps it was an

attempt at revolt or escape, which must be summarily suppressed.

Ivan Ogareff and the houschbegui walked forward and almost immediately two men, whom the soldiers had

not been able to keep back appeared before them.

The houschbegui, without more information, made a sign which was an order for death, and the heads of the

two prisoners would have rolled on the ground had not Ogareff uttered a few words which arrested the sword

already raised aloft. The Russian had perceived that these prisoners were strangers, and he ordered them to be

brought to him.

They were Harry Blount and Alcide jolivet.

On Ogareff's arrival in the camp, they had demanded to be conducted to his presence. The soldiers had

refused. In consequence, a struggle, an attempt at flight, shots fired which happily missed the two


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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 posthouse at Ichim, in which Michael Strogoff had been struck by Ogareff; but

the brutal traveler had paid no attention to the persons then collected in the common room.

Blount and Jolivet, on the contrary, recognized him at once, and the latter said in a low voice, "Hullo! It

seems that Colonel Ogareff and the rude personage of Ichim are one!" Then he added in his companion's ear,

"Explain our affair, Blount. You will do me a service. This Russian colonel in the midst of a Tartar camp

disgusts me; and although, thanks to him, my head is still on my shoulders, my eyes would exhibit my

feelings were I to attempt to look him in the face."

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

Whether or not Ivan Ogareff perceived that the prisoner's attitude was insulting towards him, he did not let it

appear. "Who are you, gentlemen?" he asked in Russian, in a cold tone, but free from its usual rudeness.

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

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

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

Ivan Ogareff took the letters which Blount held out, and read them attentively. "You ask," said he,

"authorization to follow our military operations in Siberia?"

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

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

"Sir," replied Blount, with the most imperturbable coolness, "it is sixpence a number, including postage."

And thereupon he returned to his companion, who appeared to approve completely of his replies.

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

cloud of dust.

"Well, Jolivet, what do you think of Colonel Ivan Ogareff, generalinchief of the Tartar troops?" asked

Blount.

"I think, my dear friend," replied Alcide, smiling, "that the houschbegui made a very graceful gesture when

he gave the order for our heads to be cut off."

Whatever was the motive which led Ogareff to act thus in regard to the two correspondents, they were free

and could rove at their pleasure over the scene of war. Their intention was not to leave it. The sort of

antipathy which formerly they had entertained for each other had given place to a sincere friendship.

Circumstances having brought them together, they no longer thought of separating. The petty questions of

rivalry were forever extinguished. Harry Blount could never forget what he owed his companion, who, on the

other hand, never tried to remind him of it. This friendship too assisted the reporting operations, and was thus

to the advantage of their readers.


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"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 timevery near, I hopewhen we may rejoin some Russian regiment?"

"As you say, my dear Blount, it won't do to Tartarise ourselves too much. The best side is that of the most

civilized army, and it is evident that the people of Central Asia will have everything to lose and absolutely

nothing to gain from this invasion, while the Russians will soon repulse them. It is only a matter of time."

The arrival of Ivan Ogareff, which had given Jolivet and Blount their liberty, was to Michael Strogoff, on the

contrary, a serious danger. Should chance bring the Czar's courier into Ogareff's presence, the latter could not

fail to recognize in him the traveler whom he had so brutally treated at the Ichim posthouse, and although

Michael had not replied to the insult as he would have done under any other circumstances, attention would

be drawn to him, and at once the accomplishment of his plans would be rendered more difficult.

This was the unpleasant side of the business. A favorable result of his arrival, however, was the order which

was given to raise the camp that very day, and remove the headquarters to Tomsk. This was the

accomplishment of Michael's most fervent desire. His intention, as has been said, was to reach Tomsk

concealed amongst the other prisoners; that is to say, without any risk of falling into the hands of the scouts

who swarmed about the approaches to this important town. However, in consequence of the arrival of Ivan

Ogareff, he questioned whether it would not be better to give up his first plan and attempt to escape during

the journey.

Michael would, no doubt, have kept to the latter plan had he not learnt that FeofarKhan and Ogareff had

already set out for the town with some thousands of horsemen. "I will wait, then," said he to himself; "at

least, unless some exceptional opportunity for escape occurs. The adverse chances are numerous on this side

of Tomsk, while beyond I shall in a few hours have passed the most advanced Tartar posts to the east. Still

three days of patience, and may God aid me!"

It was indeed a journey of three days which the prisoners, under the guard of a numerous detachment of

Tartars, were to make across the steppe. A hundred and fifty versts lay between the camp and the town an

easy march for the Emir's soldiers, who wanted for nothing, but a wretched journey for these people,

enfeebled by privations. More than one corpse would show the road they had traversed.

It was two o'clock in the afternoon, on the 12th of August, under a hot sun and cloudless sky, that the

toptschibaschi gave the order to start.

Alcide and Blount, having bought horses, had already taken the road to Tomsk, where events were to reunite

the principal personages of this story.

Amongst the prisoners brought by Ivan Ogareff to the Tartar camp was an old woman, whose taciturnity

seemed to keep her apart from all those who shared her fate. Not a murmur issued from her lips. She was like

a statue of grief. This woman was more strictly guarded than anyone else, and, without her appearing to

notice, was constantly watched by the Tsigane Sangarre. Notwithstanding her age she was compelled to

follow the convoy of prisoners on foot, without any alleviation of her suffering.

However, a kind Providence had placed near her a courageous, kindhearted being to comfort and assist her.

Amongst her companions in misfortune a young girl, remarkable for beauty and taciturnity, seemed to have

given herself the task of watching over her. No words had been exchanged between the two captives, but the

girl was always at the old woman's side when help was useful. At first the mute assistance of the stranger was


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accepted with some mistrust. Gradually, however, the young girl's clear glance, her reserve, and the

mysterious sympathy which draws together those who are in misfortune, thawed Marfa Strogoff's coldness.

Nadiafor it was shewas thus able, without knowing it, to render to the mother those attentions which she

had herself received from the son. Her instinctive kindness had doubly inspired her. In devoting herself to her

service, Nadia secured to her youth and beauty the protection afforded by the age of the old prisoner.

On the crowd of unhappy people, embittered by sufferings, this silent pairone seeming to be the

grandmother, the other the granddaughterimposed a sort of respect.

After being carried off by the Tartar scouts on the Irtych, Nadia had been taken to Omsk. Kept prisoner in the

town, she shared the fate of all those captured by Ivan Ogareff, and consequently that of Marfa Strogoff.

If Nadia had been less energetic, she would have succumbed to this double blow. The interruption to her

journey, the death of Michael, made her both desperate and excited. Divided, perhaps forever, from her

father, after so many happy efforts had brought her near him, and, to crown her grief, separated from the

intrepid companion whom God seemed to have placed in her way to lead her. The image of Michael Strogoff,

struck before her eyes with a lance and disappearing beneath the waters of the Irtych, never left her thoughts.

Could such a man have died thus? For whom was God reserving His miracles if this good man, whom a

noble object was urging onwards, had been allowed to perish so miserably? Then anger would prevail over

grief. The scene of the affront so strangely borne by her companion at the Ichim relay returned to her

memory. Her blood boiled at the recollection.

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

And in her heart, she cried, "May it be I!" If before his death Michael had confided his secret to her, woman,

aye girl though she was, she might have been able to carry to a successful conclusion the interrupted task of

that brother whom God had so soon taken from her.

Absorbed in these thoughts, it can be understood how Nadia could remain insensible to the miseries even of

her captivity. Thus chance had united her to Marfa Strogoff without her having the least suspicion of who she

was. How could she imagine that this old woman, a prisoner like herself, was the mother of him, whom she

only knew as the merchant Nicholas Korpanoff? And on the other hand, how could Marfa guess that a bond

of gratitude connected this young stranger with her son?

The thing that first struck Nadia in Marfa Strogoff was the similarity in the way in which each bore her hard

fate. This stoicism of the old woman under the daily hardships, this contempt of bodily suffering, could only

be caused by a moral grief equal to her own. So Nadia thought; and she was not mistaken. It was an

instinctive sympathy for that part of her misery which Marfa did not show which first drew Nadia towards

her. This way of bearing her sorrow went to the proud heart of the young girl. She did not offer her services;

she gave them. Marfa had neither to refuse nor accept them. In the difficult parts of the journey, the girl was

there to support her. When the provisions were given out, the old woman would not have moved, but Nadia

shared her small portion with her; and thus this painful journey was performed. Thanks to her companion,

Marfa was able to follow the soldiers who guarded the prisoners without being fastened to a saddlebow, 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.


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During these few days, which to them appeared like centuries, it would seem that the old woman and the girl

would have been led to speak of their situation. But Marfa Strogoff, from a caution which may be easily

understood, never spoke about herself except with the greatest brevity. She never made the smallest allusion

to her son, nor to the unfortunate meeting.

Nadia also, if not completely silent, spoke little. However, one day her heart overflowed, and she told all the

events which had occurred from her departure from Wladimir to the death of Nicholas Korpanoff.

All that her young companion told intensely interested the old Siberian. "Nicholas Korpanoff!" said she. "Tell

me again about this Nicholas. I know only one man, one alone, in whom such conduct would not have

astonished me. Nicholas Korpanoff! Was that really his name? Are you sure of it, my daughter?"

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

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

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

"Yes, fearless indeed!" replied Nadia.

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

Then she resumed, "Did you not say that nothing stopped him, nor astonished him; that he was so gentle in

his strength that you had a sister as well as a brother in him, and he watched over you like a mother?"

"Yes, yes," said Nadia. "Brother, sister, motherhe 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

posthouse 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."


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"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 fatheroften, 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, Nadiaall that I did not know

myselfI now know. You have made me understand everything. But the light which you have thrown on the

mysteries of my heart, I cannot return on yours. Since my son has not told you his secret, I must keep it.

Forgive me, Nadia; I can never repay what you have done for me."

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

All was thus explained to the old Siberian, all, even the conduct of her son with regard to herself in the inn at

Omsk. There was no doubt that the young girl's companion was Michael Strogoff, and that a secret mission in

the invaded country obliged him to conceal his quality of the Czar's courier.

"Ah, my brave boy!" thought Marfa. "No, I will not betray you, and tortures shall not wrest from me the

avowal that it was you whom I saw at Omsk."

Marfa could with a word have paid Nadia for all her devotion to her. She could have told her that her

companion, Nicholas Korpanoff, or rather Michael Strogoff, had not perished in the waters of the Irtych,

since it was some days after that incident that she had met him, that she had spoken to him.

But she restrained herself, she was silent, and contented herself with saying, "Hope, my child! Misfortune

will not overwhelm you. You will see your father again; I feel it; and perhaps he who gave you the name of

sister is not dead. God cannot have allowed your brave companion to perish. Hope, my child, hope! Do as I

do. The mourning which I wear is not yet for my son."


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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 muchregretted companion still lived, she at least knew his

relationship to her whom she had made her mother; and she thanked God for having given her the joy of

taking the place of the son whom the prisoner had lost.

But what neither of them could know was that Michael, having been captured at Kolyvan, was in the same

convoy and was on his way to Tomsk with them.

The prisoners brought by Ivan Ogareff had been added to those already kept by the Emir in the Tartar camp.

These unfortunate people, consisting of Russians, Siberians, soldiers and civilians, numbered some

thousands, and formed a column which extended over several versts. Some among them being considered

dangerous were handcuffed and fastened to a long chain. There were, too, women and children, many of the

latter suspended to the pommels of the saddles, while the former were dragged mercilessly along the road on

foot, or driven forward as if they were animals. The horsemen compelled them to maintain a certain order,

and there were no laggards with the exception of those who fell never to rise again.

In consequence of this arrangement, Michael Strogoff, marching in the first ranks of those who had left the

Tartar camp that is to say, among the Kolyvan prisonerswas 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 spearpoints of the soldiers, proved fatal to many, and terrible to all. The

prisoners traveled across the steppe, over a road made still more dusty by the passage of the Emir and his

vanguard. Orders had been given to march rapidly. The short halts were rare. The hundred miles under a

burning sky seemed interminable, though they were performed as rapidly as possible.

The country, which extends from the right of the Obi to the base of the spur detached from the Sayanok

Mountains, is very sterile. Only a few stunted and burntup shrubs here and there break the monotony of the

immense plain. There was no cultivation, for there was no water; and it was water that the prisoners, parched

by their painful march, most needed. To find a stream they must have diverged fifty versts eastward, to the

very foot of the mountains.

There flows the Tom, a little affluent of the Obi, which passes near Tomsk before losing itself in one of the

great northern arteries. There water would have been abundant, the steppe less arid, the heat less severe. But

the strictest orders had been given to the commanders of the convoy to reach Tomsk by the shortest way, for

the Emir was much afraid of being taken in the flank and cut off by some Russian column descending from

the northern provinces.

It is useless to dwell upon the sufferings of the unhappy prisoners. Many hundreds fell on the steppe, where

their bodies would lie until winter, when the wolves would devour the remnants of their bones.

As Nadia helped the old Siberian, so in the same way did Michael render to his more feeble companions in

misfortune such services as his situation allowed. He encouraged some, supported others, going to and fro,

until a prick from a soldier's lance obliged him to 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

resolved in his idea of going as far as Tomsk "at the Emir's expense," and indeed he was right. As he

observed the numerous detachments which scoured the plain on the convoy's flanks, now to the south, now to


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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 earthlike insects which a

thunderstorm brings to the surface of the ground. Flight under these conditions would have been extremely

difficult, if not impossible. The soldiers of the escort displayed excessive vigilance, for they would have paid

for the slightest carelessness with their heads.

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

Tomsk.

The prisoners' first movement would have been to rush into the river, but they were not allowed to leave the

ranks until the halt had been organized. Although the current of the Tom was just now like a torrent, it might

have favored the flight of some bold or desperate man, and the strictest measures of vigilance were taken.

Boats, requisitioned at Zabediero, were brought up to the Tom and formed a line of obstacles impossible to

pass. As to the encampment on the outskirts of the village, it was guarded by a cordon of sentinels.

Michael Strogoff, who now naturally thought of escape, saw, after carefully surveying the situation, that

under these conditions it was perfectly impossible; so, not wishing to compromise himself, he waited.

The prisoners were to encamp for the whole night on the banks of the Tom, for the Emir had put off the

entrance of his troops into Tomsk. It had been decided that a military fete should mark the inauguration of the

Tartar headquarters in this important city. FeofarKhan 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 rearguard of the Tartar army. A house had been

arranged for him in which to pass the night. At sunrise horse and foot soldiers were to proceed to Tomsk,

where the Emir wished to receive them with the pomp usual to Asiatic sovereigns. As soon as the halt was

organized, the prisoners, worn out with their three days' journey, and suffering from burning thirst, could

drink and take a little rest. The sun had already set, when Nadia, supporting Marfa Strogoff, reached the

banks of the Tom. They had not till then been able to get through those who crowded the banks, but at last

they came to drink in their turn.

The old woman bent over the clear stream, and Nadia, plunging in her hand, carried it to Marfa's lips. Then

she refreshed herself. They found new life in these welcome waters. Suddenly Nadia started up; an

involuntary cry escaped her.

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

At Nadia's cry Michael started. But he had sufficient command over himself not to utter a word by which he

might have been compromised. And yet, when he saw Nadia, he also recognized his mother.

Feeling he could not long keep master of himself at this unexpected meeting, he covered his eyes with his

hands and walked quickly away.

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

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

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

Imitate me, my daughter."


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

there!

The two prisoners who were always together in his heart, God had brought them together in this common

misfortune. Did Nadia know who he was? Yes, for he had seen Marfa's gesture, holding her back as she was

about to rush towards him. Marfa, then, had understood all, and kept his secret.

During that night, Michael was twenty times on the point of looking for and joining his mother; but he knew

that he must resist the longing he felt to take her in his arms, and once more press the hand of his young

companion. The least imprudence might be fatal. He had besides sworn not to see his mother. Once at

Tomsk, since he could not escape this very night, he would set off without having even embraced the two

beings in whom all the happiness of his life was centered, and whom he should leave exposed to so many

perils.

Michael hoped that this fresh meeting at the Zabediero camp would have no disastrous consequences either to

his mother or to himself. But he did not know that part of this scene, although it passed so rapidly, had been

observed by Sangarre, Ogareff's spy.

The Tsigane was there, a few paces off, on the bank, as usual, watching the old Siberian woman. She had not

caught sight of Michael, for he disappeared before she had time to look around; but the mother's gesture as

she kept back Nadia had not escaped her, and the look in Marfa's eyes told her all.

It was now beyond doubt that Marfa Strogoff's son, the Czar's courier, was at this moment in Zabediero,

among Ivan Ogareff's prisoners. Sangarre did not know him, but she knew that he was there. She did not then

attempt to discover him, for it would have been impossible in the dark and the immense crowd.

As for again watching Nadia and Marfa Strogoff, that was equally useless. It was evident that the two women

would keep on their guard, and it would be impossible to overhear anything of a nature to compromise the

courier of the Czar. The Tsigane's first thought was to tell Ivan Ogareff. She therefore immediately left the

encampment. A quarter of an hour after, she reached Zabediero, and was shown into the house occupied by

the Emir's lieutenant. Ogareff received the Tsigane directly.

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

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

"A prisoner?"

"A prisoner."

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

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

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

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

"Are you not mistaken?"

"I am not mistaken."


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"You know the importance which I attach to the apprehension of this courier," said Ivan Ogareff. "If the letter

which he has brought from Moscow reaches Irkutsk, if it is given to the Grand Duke, the Grand Duke will be

on his guard, and I shall not be able to get at him. I must have that letter at any price. Now you come to tell

me that the bearer of this letter is in my power. I repeat, Sangarre, are you not mistaken?"

Ogareff spoke with great animation. His emotion showed the extreme importance he attached to the

possession of this letter. Sangarre was not at all put out by the urgency with which Ogareff repeated his

question. "I am not mistaken, Ivan," she said.

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

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

we must make his mother speak."

"Tomorrow she shall speak!" cried Ogareff. So saying, he extended his hand to the Tsigane, who kissed it;

for there is nothing servile in this act of respect, it being usual among the Northern races.

Sangarre returned to the camp. She found out Nadia and Marfa Strogoff, and passed the night in watching

them. Although worn out with fatigue, the old woman and the girl did not sleep. Their great anxiety kept

them awake. Michael was living, but a prisoner. Did Ogareff know him, or would he not soon find him out?

Nadia was occupied by the one thought that he whom she had thought dead still lived. But Marfa saw further

into the future: and, although she did not care what became of herself, she had every reason to fear for her

son.

Sangarre, under cover of the night, had crept near the two women, and remained there several hours listening.

She heard nothing. From an instinctive feeling of prudence not a word was exchanged between Nadia and

Marfa Strogoff. The next day, the 16th of August, about ten in the morning, trumpetcalls resounded

throughout the encampment. The Tartar soldiers were almost immediately under arms.

Ivan Ogareff arrived, surrounded by a large staff of Tartar officers. His face was more clouded than usual,

and his knitted brow gave signs of latent wrath which was waiting for an occasion to break forth.

Michael Strogoff, hidden in a group of prisoners, saw this man pass. He had a presentiment that some

catastrophe was imminent: for Ivan Ogareff knew now that Marfa was the mother of Michael Strogoff.

Ogareff dismounted, and his escort cleared a large circle round him. Just then Sangarre approached him, and

said, "I have no news."

Ivan Ogareff's only reply was to give an order to one of his officers. Then the ranks of prisoners were brutally

hurried up by the soldiers. The unfortunate people, driven on with whips, or pushed on with lances, arranged

themselves round the camp. A strong guard of soldiers drawn up behind, rendered escape impossible.

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

which stood Marfa.

The old Siberian saw her, and knew what was going to happen. A scornful smile passed over her face. Then

leaning towards Nadia, she said in a low tone, "You know me no longer, my daughter. Whatever may

happen, and however hard this trial may be, not a word, not a sign. It concerns him, and not me."

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


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"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 involuntary movement would not betray him. Of course, had he wished to seize the imperial

letter, he would simply have given orders to search all the prisoners; but Michael might have destroyed the

letter, having learnt its contents; and if he were not recognized, if he were to reach Irkutsk, all Ivan Ogareff's

plans would be baffled. It was thus not only the letter which the traitor must have, but the bearer himself.


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Nadia had heard all, and she now knew who was Michael Strogoff, and why he had wished to cross, without

being recognized, the invaded provinces of Siberia.

On an order from Ivan Ogareff the prisoners defiled, one by one, past Marfa, who remained immovable as a

statue, and whose face expressed only perfect indifference.

Her son was among the last. When in his turn he passed before his mother, Nadia shut her eyes that she might

not see him. Michael was to all appearance unmoved, but the palm of his hand bled under his nails, which

were pressed into them.

Ivan Ogareff was baffled by mother and son.

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

"Yes," cried Ogareff, who could no longer restrain himself; "the knout for this wretched old womanthe

knout to the death!"

A Tartar soldier bearing this terrible instrument of torture approached Marfa. The knout is composed of a

certain number of leathern thongs, at the end of which are attached pieces of twisted iron wire. It is reckoned

that a sentence to one hundred and twenty blows of this whip is equivalent to a sentence of death.

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

Marfa, seized by two soldiers, was forced on her knees on the ground. Her dress torn off left her back bare. A

saber was placed before her breast, at a few inches' distance only. Directly she bent beneath her suffering, her

breast would be pierced by the sharp steel.

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

But before it fell a powerful hand stopped the Tartar's arm. Michael was there. He had leapt forward at this

horrible scene. If at the relay at Ichim he had restrained himself when Ogareff's whip had struck him, here

before his mother, who was about to be struck, he could not do so. Ivan Ogareff had succeeded.

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

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

blow!" said he.

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

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

But Ogareff, who on being struck had uttered a cry of rage and pain, stopped them. "This man is reserved for

the Emir's judgment," said he. "Search him!"

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

handed to Ogareff.

The voice which had pronounced the words, "Well repaid!" was that of no other than Alcide Jolivet.

"Pardieu!" 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


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at Ichim."

"Yes, retaliation truly," replied Blount; "but Strogoff is a dead man. I suspect that, for his own interest at all

events, it would have been better had he not possessed quite so lively a recollection of the event."

"And let his mother perish under the knout?"

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

"I do not know or think anything except that I should have done much the same in his position," replied

Alcide. "What a scar the Colonel has received! Bah! one must boil over sometimes. We should have had

water in our veins instead of blood had it been incumbent on us to be always and everywhere unmoved to

wrath."

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

contents of that letter."

Ivan Ogareff, when he had stanched the blood which was trickling down his face, had broken the seal. He

read and reread 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

GovernorGeneral 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

FeofarKhan. At four o'clock the Emir made his entry into the square, greeted by a flourish of trumpets, the

rolling sound of the big drums, salvoes of artillery and musketry.

Feofar mounted his favorite horse, which carried on its head an aigrette of diamonds. The Emir still wore his

uniform. He was accompanied by a numerous staff, and beside him walked the Khans of Khokhand and

Koundouge and the grand dignitaries of the Khanats.

At the same moment appeared on the terrace the chief of Feofar's wives, the queen, if this title may be given

to the sultana of the states of Bokhara. But, queen or slave, this woman of Persian origin was wonderfully

beautiful. Contrary to the Mahometan custom, and no doubt by some caprice of the Emir, she had her face

uncovered. Her hair, divided into four plaits, fell over her dazzling white shoulders, scarcely concealed by a

veil of silk worked in gold, which fell from the back of a cap studded with gems of the highest value. Under


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her bluesilk petticoat, fell the "zirdjameh" of silken gauze, and above the sash lay the "pirahn." But from the

head to the little feet, such was the profusion of jewels gold beads strung on silver threads, chaplets of

turquoises, "firouzehs" from the celebrated mines of Elbourz, necklaces of cornelians, agates, emeralds,

opals, and sapphires that her dress seemed to be literally made of precious stones. The thousands of

diamonds which sparkled on her neck, arms, hands, at her waist, and at her feet might have been valued at

almost countless millions of roubles.

The Emir and the Khans dismounted, as did the dignitaries who escorted them. All entered a magnificent tent

erected on the center of the first terrace. Before the tent, as usual, the Koran was laid.

Feofar's lieutenant did not make them wait, and before five o'clock the trumpets announced his arrival. Ivan

Ogareff the Scarred Cheek, as he was already nicknamedwearing the uniform of a Tartar officer,

dismounted before the Emir's tent. He was accompanied by a party of soldiers from the camp at Zabediero,

who ranged up at the sides of the square, in the middle of which a place for the sports was reserved. A large

scar could be distinctly seen cut obliquely across the traitor's face.

Ogareff presented his principal officers to the Emir, who, without departing from the coldness which

composed the main part of his dignity, received them in a way which satisfied them that they stood well in

the good graces of their chief.

At least so thought Harry Blount and Alcide Jolivet, the two inseparables, now associated together in the

chase after news. After leaving Zabediero, they had proceeded rapidly to Tomsk. The plan they had agreed

upon was to leave the Tartars as soon as possible, and to join a Russian regiment, and, if they could, to go

with them to Irkutsk. All that they had seen of the invasion, its burnings, its pillages, its murders, had

perfectly sickened them, and they longed to be among the ranks of the Siberian army. Jolivet had told his

companion that he could not leave Tomsk without making a sketch of the triumphal entry of the Tartar

troops, if it was only to satisfy his cousin's curiosity; but the same evening they both intended to take the road

to Irkutsk, and being well mounted hoped to distance the Emir's scouts.

Alcide and Blount mingled therefore in the crowd, so as to lose no detail of a festival which ought to supply

them with a hundred good lines for an article. They admired the magnificence of FeofarKhan, 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 FeofarKhan and his allies before being

crammed with their companions into the prisons in the town.

In the first ranks of these prisoners figured Michael Strogoff. As Ogareff had ordered, he was specially

guarded by a file of soldiers. His mother and Nadia were there also.


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The old Siberian, although energetic enough when her own safety was in question, was frightfully pale. She

expected some terrible scene. It was not without reason that her son had been brought before the Emir. She

therefore trembled for him. Ivan Ogareff was not a man to forgive having been struck in public by the knout,

and his vengeance would be merciless. Some frightful punishment familiar to the barbarians of Central Asia

would, no doubt, be inflicted on Michael. Ogareff had protected him against the soldiers because he well

knew what would happen by reserving him for the justice of the Emir.

The mother and son had not been able to speak together since the terrible scene in the camp at Zabediero.

They had been pitilessly kept aparta bitter aggravation of their misery, for it would have been some

consolation to have been together during these days of captivity. Marfa longed to ask her son's pardon for the

harm she had unintentionally done him, for she reproached herself with not having commanded her maternal

feelings. If she had restrained herself in that posthouse at Omsk, when she found herself face to face with

him, Michael would have passed unrecognized, and all these misfortunes would have been avoided.

Michael, on his side, thought that if his mother was there, if Ogareff had brought her with him, it was to make

her suffer with the sight of his own punishment, or perhaps some frightful death was reserved for her also.

As to Nadia, she only asked herself how she could save them both, how come to the aid of son and mother.

As yet she could only wonder, but she felt instinctively that she must above everything avoid drawing

attention upon herself, that she must conceal herself, make herself insignificant. Perhaps she might at least

gnaw through the meshes which imprisoned the lion. At any rate if any opportunity was given her she would

seize upon it, and sacrifice herself, if need be, for the son of Marfa Strogoff.

In the meantime the greater part of the prisoners were passing before the Emir, and as they passed each was

obliged to prostrate himself, with his forehead in the dust, in token of servitude. Slavery begins by

humiliation. When the unfortunate people were too slow in bending, the rough guards threw them violently to

the ground.

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

"It is cowardlylet 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 companionalone, and a prisoner! We must save her."

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

worse than useless."

Alcide Jolivet, who had been about to rush forward, stopped, and Nadia who had not perceived them, her

features being half hidden by her hair passed in her turn before the Emir without attracting his attention.


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However, after Nadia came Marfa Strogoff; and as she did not throw herself quickly in the dust, the guards

brutally pushed her. She fell.

Her son struggled so violently that the soldiers who were guarding him could scarcely hold him back. But the

old woman rose, and they were about to drag her on, when Ogareff interposed, saying, "Let that woman

stay!"

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

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

"Your forehead to the ground!" cried Ogareff.

"No!" answered Michael.

Two soldiers endeavored to make him bend, but they were themselves laid on the ground by a buffet from the

young man's fist.

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

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

infamous brand of the knout."

At this reply Ivan Ogareff became perfectly livid.

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

"A Russian spy," answered Ogareff. In asserting that Michael was a spy he knew that the sentence

pronounced against him would be terrible.

The Emir made a sign at which all the crowd bent low their heads. Then he pointed with his hand to the

Koran, which was brought him. He opened the sacred book and placed his finger on one of its pages.

It was chance, or rather, according to the ideas of these Orientals, God Himself who was about to decide the

fate of Michael Strogoff. The people of Central Asia give the name of "fal" to this practice. After having

interpreted the sense of the verse touched by the judge's finger, they apply the sentence whatever it may be.

The Emir had let his finger rest on the page of the Koran. The chief of the Ulemas then approached, and read

in a loud voice a verse which ended with these words, "And he will no more see the things of this earth."

"Russian spy!" exclaimed FeofarKahn 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 FeofarKahn, stretching his arm towards Michael in a threatening manner.

Doubtless Ivan Ogareff, being well acquainted with Tartar customs, had taken in the full meaning of these


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words, for his lips curled for an instant in a cruel smile; he then took his place by FeofarKhan.

A trumpet call was heard. This was the signal for the amusements to begin. "Here comes the ballet," said

Alcide to Blount; "but, contrary to our customs, these barbarians give it before the drama."

Michael had been commanded to look at everything. He looked. A troop of dancers poured into the open

space before the Emir's tent. Different Tartar instruments, the "doutare," a longhandled guitar, the "kobize,"

a kind of violoncello, the "tschibyzga," a long reed flute; wind instruments, tomtoms, tambourines, united

with the deep voices of the singers, formed a strange harmony. Added to this were the strains of an aerial

orchestra, composed of a dozen kites, which, fastened by strings to their centers, resounded in the breeze like

AEolian harps.

Then the dancers began. The performers were all of Persian origin; they were no longer slaves, but exercised

their profession at liberty. Formerly they figured officially in the ceremonies at the court of Teheran, but

since the accession of the reigning family, banished or treated with contempt, they had been compelled to

seek their fortune elsewhere. They wore the national costume, and were adorned with a profusion of jewels.

Little triangles of gold, studded with jewels, glittered in their ears. Circles of silver, marked with black,

surrounded their necks and legs.

These performers gracefully executed various dances, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups. Their faces

were uncovered, but from time to time they threw a light veil over their heads, and a gauze cloud passed over

their bright eyes as smoke over a starry sky. Some of these Persians wore leathern belts embroidered with

pearls, from which hung little triangular bags. From these bags, embroidered with golden filigree, they drew

long narrow bands of scarlet silk, on which were braided verses of the Koran. These bands, which they held

between them, formed a belt under which the other dancers darted; and, as they passed each verse, following

the precept it contained, they either prostrated themselves on the earth or lightly bounded upwards, as though

to take a place among the houris of Mohammed's heaven.

But what was remarkable, and what struck Alcide, was that the Persians appeared rather indolent than fiery.

Their passion had deserted them, and, by the kind of dances as well as by their execution, they recalled rather

the calm and selfpossessed 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 wordsa tall spare Tartar was he who carried out the sentences of

FeofarKhan 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 chafingdish 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 NijniNovgorod."

"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.


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In the first rank of the Tsiganes, Sangarre appeared, superb in her strange and picturesque costume, which set

off still further her remarkable beauty.

Sangarre did not dance, but she stood as a statue in the midst of the performers, whose style of dancing was a

combination of that of all those countries through which their race had passedTurkey, Bohemia, Egypt,

Italy, and Spain. They were enlivened by the sound of cymbals, which clashed on their arms, and by the

hollow sounds of the "daires"a sort of tambourine played with the fingers.

Sangarre, holding one of those daires, which she played between her hands, encouraged this troupe of

veritable corybantes. A young Tsigane, of about fifteen years of age, then advanced. He held in his hand a

"doutare," strings of which he made to vibrate by a simple movement of the nails. He sung. During the

singing of each couplet, of very peculiar rhythm, a dancer took her position by him and remained there

immovable, 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 companion. 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 semiobscurity 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 particolored 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 reecho with the

sudden detonations 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

jetsred, 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, serpentlike, above the


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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 restrain a slight movement of the head, which

at home, between 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 towards 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 returning the Emir's haughty glance, while his countenance

assumed 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 FeofarKhan's bodyguard, 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

instant 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

unhappy man was condemned to be blinded.


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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, before

me! Now I see once more your wellbeloved 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 chafingdish, 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 before 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

incandescent blade passed before Michael's eyes.

A despairing cry was heard. His aged mother fell senseless 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 repeat 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 torchbearers.

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.


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Did Marfa still live, and did she hear her son's words? Whether she did so or not, she made not the slightest

movement. 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 degrees 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 restrain 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 nothing was to be feared, was alone. She saw

him draw himself 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 descended 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

possible 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, bleeding 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

thirtyfive 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 inhabitants 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 required food and rest.


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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 themselves.

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!"


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"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 morsels of

"tchornekhleb," a sort of barley bread, and a little mead, called "meod" in Russia. This had cost her nothing,

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 governor, 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

incessant 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 circumstance 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.


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"Do you not hear some noise behind us? If they are Tartars we must hide. Keep a good lookout!"

"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 necessary, 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 exhausted. 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 confidence. 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!"


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"Friend," returned Michael, approaching him, "the Tartars 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 bottom; 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, moreover, 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 prostration. Michael and Nicholas laid her on the straw

as comfortably as possible. The compassionate young man was greatly moved, and if a tear did not escape

from Michael's eyes, it was because the redhot 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.


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"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 oneso 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 certainly, 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 conscience. 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


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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 unchangeable 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 possible! 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.


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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. Consequently, 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 occurred. A new Russian corps, hastily raised in

the government 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. FeofarKhan,

including his own soldiers, and those of the Khanats of Khokhand and Koundouze, 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 quality as Courier of the Czarwhich

would be easy doubted not that he would be enabled to get to Irkutsk in the shortest 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 Krasnoiarsk, 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 endeavoring to place himself again at the disposal of the government.

"Why should I receive a salary which I have not earned?" he would say.

In the event of his services not being required at Krasnoiarsk, 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 approaches 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.


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"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

locomotion. "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. Krasnoiarsk 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 beautiful 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 living 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 government 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

halfstupefied. They themselves made the only sound to be heard in this dead city. Michael allowed nothing

of what he felt to appear, 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 tomorrow," 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 companion.

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!"


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"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. Tomorrow 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 considerable, its currents strong. Ordinarily by means of boats specially built for the conveyance of

travelers, carriages, 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

unfortunate 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?"


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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 several islands, covered with

alders, willows, and poplars, looking 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 outskirts 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 standing 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 objects piled up in a corner.

"They are leathern bottles," answered Nicholas.

"Are they full?"

"Yes, full of koumyss. We have found them very opportunely 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."


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"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

Irkutsk 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 floating

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 directions, 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 without great

difficulty, even on this imperfect apparatus, had the current been regular; but, unfortunately, there were

whirlpools in numbers, and soon the kibitka, notwithstanding 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 better 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.


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And Nicholas, did he not understand the gravity of the situation? Was it with him phlegm or contempt of

danger, 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 current, 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 magnificent 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," answered 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 detained 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.


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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 fiftyfifth parallel, that of

Edinburgh and Copenhagen. However, winter succeeds summer almost 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 considered 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

excursion 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

manipulator!"

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 overwork 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

instanceforty miles in twentyfour hours could easily be accomplished. Besides, the animal 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 nowwill you permit me to be present at

that interview! You will, will you not?" Then, striking his forehead: "But, I forgot, 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

hundred 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.


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"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 II 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,

superstitious 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," answered 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 doorstep, Nadia found two of those strongbladed

knives used by Siberian hunters. She gave one to Michael, who concealed it among his clothes, and kept the

other herself.

Nicholas had not recovered his usual spirits. The illomen had affected him more than could have been

believed, and he who formerly was never half an hour without speaking, 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 himself in safety

until within the walls of Irkutsk. Many Russians 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 productions, 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 NijniOudinsk, the indications of recent devastation could not be mistaken, and it was

impossible 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 outoftheway 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?


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He did not communicate his apprehensions either to Nicholas or Nadia, not wishing to make them uneasy.

Besides, he had resolved to continue his way, as long as no insurmountable 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 remains, but Michael could not allow him the time.

"Come, friend, come!" he exclaimed, "we must not delay, 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 NijniOudinsk, 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 following 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

NijniOudinsk. 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 advance!"

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.


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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 NijniOudinsk.

Michael, in this second attack, had lost none of his presence 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 consequences would have been his death and that of his companions. 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

invading army.

In short, what Michael learnt from the talk at the present moment, as well as from the scraps of conversation

he overheard 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 composed of Tartars from the khanats of

Khokland and Koondooz, 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. NijniOudinsk had shared the common fate, and the Tartars, to the number of

fifty thousand, had now quitted it to take up a position before 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

comparatively 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

NijniOudinsk. 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 indifferent, 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 traveling 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 language, and their assistance was mercilessly refused. Soon it occurred to these men, in

a refinement of cruelty, to exchange the horse Michael was riding for one which was blind. The motive of the

change was explained by a remark 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.


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Michael did not complain. Not a murmur escaped him. When his horse fell, he waited until it got up. It was,

indeed, 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

incident 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

unfortunate Nicholas to pieces, but at a sign from their officer, he was bound instead, placed across a horse,

and the detachment galloped off.

The rope which fastened Michael, gnawed through by him, broke by the sudden start of the horse, and the

halftipsy 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 traveled were altered! Then, a comfortable

tarantass, fresh horses, wellkept posthorses assured the rapidity of their journey. Now they were on foot; it

was utterly impossible to procure any other means of locomotion, they were without 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.


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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 distance. 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, whatever happened, to accomplish his object. To follow the

highroad, was certainly to go the shortest way. If the vanguard of FeofarKhan'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

Joulounovskoe. 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."


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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, camelsall 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 advance 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 therefore open to the invaders. No Russian force could be

opposed 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 anxiously 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. "Speakyou 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!"


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"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.

Nothing 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 deceive 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 hundredfold 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," exclaimed 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

suffered 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 advanceguard had not yet appeared. Michael began to

consider the various reasons which might have caused this delay. Was a sufficient force of Russians directly

menacing 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.


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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 indefatigable 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

advanceguard. But you can scarcely drag yourself along, my poor Nadia!"

"Come, Michael," returned Nadia, seizing her companion'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 boundless 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 ita 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.


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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, crawling 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 living, was enlarged, so that he might be laid in itdead! 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

evidently 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 advanceguard, passing rapidly along the road to Irkutsk.

"They shall not prevent me from burying him!" said Michael. And he continued his work.


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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 reported 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 temperature 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 exhaustion 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?


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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 collected 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 descending 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 assistance 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 together 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

himself 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 probably, 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 sixtyfive, 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

greatcoat, fastened in at the waist, reached down to his heels. This taciturn old fellow was seated in the

stern, and issued his commands by gestures. Besides, the chief work consisted in keeping the raft in the


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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

collectingbox, as if it had been hung at a church door. Of all that he collected during his long and fatiguing

pilgrimage, nothing 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; baptising, 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 himself 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 remained 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

number 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.

Magnificent 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 traveling in peaceful times on this Siberian sea.


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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

posthousethe 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

dating their letters from the Russian camp of Eastern Siberia. They proceeded by forced marches towards

Irkutsk. They hoped to distance FeofarKhan, 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 perplexity, 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.


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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

recognized 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

accompany 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 Livenitchnaia, 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.


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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 picturesque 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, lowhanging 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 accumulated 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


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in the darkness, but, as it was, it was confounded with these moving 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 snowclad 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 absorbed 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

conjunctures, his energy had never abandoned him. He already 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 necessary, to attempt some bold stroke.

Restored by a few hours' rest, Nadia had regained the physical energy which misery had sometimes

overcome, although 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 separate 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

extremely dramatic, and that, well worked up, it would furnish 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 wellpracticed

eyes he endeavored to pierce the gloom of the river.

Every now and then a burst of light dispelling the darkness 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


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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 companions 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 YuenKiang, 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 fireworshipers,

throw liquid naphtha on the surface of the sea, which buoys it up, its density being inferior to that of water.

Then at nightfall, 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 beyond Irkutsk. On board the raft no imprudence was to be feared; but everything was to be dreaded

from the conflagrations on both banks of the Angara, for should a lighted straw or even a spark blow into the

water, it would inevitably 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

together. 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 boatman, 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 repulse their assailants. They did not make a sound, but the howls of the wolves

filled the air.


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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, although many of the fugitives received severe

bites.

The struggle did not appear as if it would soon terminate. 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

dispersed, and it was soon certain that they had in all haste regained the shore. Wolves, like other beasts of

prey, require 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 firwood, blazed like torchesa

hundred 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

furnaces. 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 result 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


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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 listened 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 boathook!"

"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 became 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 halfpast 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, continued 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 icefieldshad they

been able to get through to where the river widenedthey might have been saved. But they had nothing


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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 afterwards 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.

Several 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 wavering. His hand was extended up the Angara. His face,

on which a bluish light cast a peculiar hue, became almost fearful to look at, and then, as if his eyes had been

opened to the bright blaze spreading across the river, "Ah!" he exclaimed, "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

inhabitants. On the right side of the Angara rises a hill, on which are built numerous churches, a lofty


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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 belltowers, its steeples slender as minarets, its domes like

potbellied Chinese jars, presents something of an oriental aspect. But this similarity vanishes as the traveler

enters.

The town, half Byzantine, half Chinese, becomes European 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

exchanged 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 governorgeneral of Eastern 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 influence 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 invasion.

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,

without any parade, accompanied by his officers, and escorted by a regiment of Cossacks, arrived in the

TransBaikalcine 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 incontestable 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 scattered about in the provinces of

Siberia could not arrive in sufficiently large numbers to arrest the progress of the Tartar 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


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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 province 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 drawbridges, 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, earthworks 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 columnthe one which came up the valley of the Yenisei on the 24th of

Septemberappeared 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, unfortunately but few in

number and of small caliber. The Tartar 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 principal conquered towns, was concentrated

under the command of FeofarKhan.

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 attempt to oppose the enemy in their passage. He could only impede, not prevent it, having no

fieldartillery at his disposal, 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 summerhouse of the governorgeneral, and at last having 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 effortsthe

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 earthworks which presented any weak point; but these two assaults were


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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 Sangarre, who had accompanied him to the Angara, urged him to put this plan in execution.

Indeed, it was necessary to act without delay. The Russian troops from the government of Yakutsk were

advancing 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 betrayed. 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

governorgeneral. 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 uninhabitable.

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," answered 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."


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Then turning to General Voranzoff, "Tomorrow," said he, "we will visit the works on the right bank. Ice is

drifting 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 governorgeneral 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

invasion. They had obeyed the order to rally in the town, and leave the villages where they exercised their

different professions, some doctors, some professors, either at the Gymnasium, or at the Japanese School, or

at the School of Navigation. 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 governorgeneral, "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."


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"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 possessed 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 companions 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 Russiaholy 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

companions 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 strifehe 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 unhappy 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 companions 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."


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"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 refuse 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 aidedecamp 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 aidedecamp. "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 shotholes. A Muscovite cap was on his head. His face was disfigured by a

recentlyhealed scar. The man had evidently had a long and painful journey; 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."


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"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 assassination 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 moments 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 envelope, 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 seventynine 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 possible 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 contents of this letter?" he asked.


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"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

successively occupied by the soldiers of FeofarKhan."

"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," answered Ogareff; "it was a battle."

"A battle?"

"Twenty thousand Russians, from the frontier provinces and the government of Tobolsk, engaged with a

hundred 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 gesture 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?"


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"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 provinces?" asked the Grand Duke.

"None, your Highness, at any rate before the end of the winter."

"Well, hear this, Michael Strogoff. Though I must expect 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 iceblocks drifting down the Angara.

A quarter of an hour passed without his putting any more questions. Then taking up the letter, he reread 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 confidence, 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 revealed, I should not have got off so easily."


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"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

defenders of the town, made myself known, and was immediately 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 today 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 success. The Grand Duke's entire confidence had been

accorded 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 destroyed it, and before the head of the Grand Duke had rolled at the feet of FeofarKhan.

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 congratulations 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, exaggerating 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 Krasnoiarsk.

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,


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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 engaging 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

governorgeneral's palace and, acquainting Ogareff with the circumstances 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 posthouse; 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 herBut 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 circumstances with which we are acquainted,

Fedor, by comparing the date on which his daughter would have been at NijniNovgorod, 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 October, 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 necessary preparations were completed in the Russian provinces

for sending into Siberia the troops requisite for repulsing the invaders.


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Ivan Ogareff, being entirely free in his movements, began 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 communication with Ivan Ogareff.

For two days the besieged had enjoyed a tranquillity to which the Tartars had not accustomed them since the

commencement of the investment. This was by Ogareff's orders. FeofarKhan'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 outposts, to attack the gate, deserted,

as Ogareff anticipated that it would be, by its defenders, whenever he should summon 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 darkness 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 greatest 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. Accordingly, 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 expect 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


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importance to the diversion, that the Grand Duke would be obliged to oppose it with all his available forces.

The traitor planned also to produce 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 protected with the few guns possessed by the

defenders. With these measures, taken in time, thanks to the advice so opportunely 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 temperature. 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 impracticable. The Tartars could use neither rafts nor

boats. As to their crossing the river on the ice, that was not possible. The newlyfrozen plain could not bear

the weight of an assaulting column.

This circumstance, as it appeared favorable to the defenders of Irkutsk, Ogareff might have regretted. He did

not do so, however. The traitor knew well that the Tartars 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 impracticable, 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 current, 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 confounded 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.


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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 quietmusketry 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 defenders.

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 Strogoffwhich was the only name they could give to Ivan

Ogareffshould be brought to him. An aidedecamp 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 immense 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 earthworks. The houses on the

bank, built of wood, took fire in every direction. A bright light dissipated the darkness of the night.


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"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 Tartars and the fearful effects of fire. The

bells rang, and all the ablebodied 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 reentered 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. Beyond 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 execute 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.


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"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 tenfold

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 advantage 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 companion 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 today 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 conceal 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 adversary 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.


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Mad with rage and terror before this living statue, he gazed into the wideopen eyes of the blind man. Those

eyes which seemed to pierce to the bottom of his soul, and yet which did not, could not, seeexercised a sort

of dreadful 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 possible!"

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 lifeless 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.


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It may be remembered, that at the moment of the execution, 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 volatilizing 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 anyone. 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 suspected. 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 unalterable longing to reach Irkutsk, so as to perform his mission 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 alsoand 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 FeofarKhan had retreated into

their camp, leaving a large number of dead on and below the ramparts.


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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

October, at daybreak, cannon boomed out from the heights around Irkutsk. It was the succoring army under

the command 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 observation: "Redhot iron is insufficient in some

cases to destroy the sensibility of the optic nerve."

Then the two correspondents, settled for a time in Irkutsk, busied themselves in putting the notes and

impressions of their journey in order. Thence were sent to London and Paris two interesting articles relative

to the Tartar invasion, and whicha 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

attack 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 presence 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 allowing 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.


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"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 marriage, 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, laughing.

"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 occasion to leave him, except to go and see their old

mother.

The young courier was received by the Czar, who attached 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.


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Bookmarks



1. Table of Contents, page = 3

2. Michael Strogoff or, The Courier of the Czar, page = 4

   3. Jules Verne, page = 4

   4. BOOK I, page = 4

   5. CHAPTER I A FETE AT THE NEW PALACE, page = 4

   6. CHAPTER II RUSSIANS AND TARTARS, page = 10

   7. CHAPTER III MICHAEL STROGOFF MEETS THE CZAR, page = 16

   8. CHAPTER IV FROM MOSCOW TO NIJNI-NOVGOROD, page = 20

   9. CHAPTER V THE TWO ANNOUNCEMENTS, page = 28

   10. CHAPTER VI BROTHER AND SISTER, page = 32

   11. CHAPTER VII GOING DOWN THE VOLGA, page = 36

   12. CHAPTER VIII GOING UP THE KAMA, page = 41

   13. CHAPTER IX DAY AND NIGHT IN A TARANTASS, page = 44

   14. CHAPTER X A STORM IN THE URAL MOUNTAINS, page = 49

   15. CHAPTER XI TRAVELERS IN DISTRESS, page = 54

   16. CHAPTER XII PROVOCATION, page = 61

   17. CHAPTER XIII DUTY BEFORE EVERYTHING, page = 67

   18. CHAPTER XIV MOTHER AND SON, page = 72

   19. CHAPTER XV THE MARSHES OF THE BARABA, page = 78

   20. CHAPTER XVI A FINAL EFFORT, page = 83

   21. CHAPTER XVII THE RIVALS, page = 88

   22. BOOK II, page = 93

   23. CHAPTER I A TARTAR CAMP, page = 93

   24. CHAPTER II CORRESPONDENTS IN TROUBLE, page = 98

   25. CHAPTER III BLOW FOR BLOW, page = 107

   26. CHAPTER IV THE TRIUMPHAL ENTRY, page = 113

   27. CHAPTER V "LOOK WHILE YOU MAY!", page = 116

   28. CHAPTER VI A FRIEND ON THE HIGHWAY, page = 121

   29. CHAPTER VII THE PASSAGE OF THE YENISEI, page = 128

   30. CHAPTER VIII A HARE CROSSES THE ROAD, page = 133

   31. CHAPTER IX IN THE STEPPE, page = 138

   32. CHAPTER X BAIKAL AND ANGARA, page = 144

   33. CHAPTER XI BETWEEN TWO BANKS, page = 149

   34. CHAPTER XII IRKUTSK, page = 154

   35. CHAPTER XIII THE CZAR'S COURIER, page = 160

   36. CHAPTER XIV THE NIGHT OF THE FIFTH OF OCTOBER, page = 166

   37. CHAPTER XV CONCLUSION, page = 171