Part 10

“Give this to the American officer if you find him at the Dauria. If he has come for us, let him tell you so. But you are not to come back here to our house—Wassili will meet you at the _sobrania_ at midnight, and you are to tell Wassili what the American says. Do not tell the American where we are but let him send a message and the name of the friend who has sent him. That will be our proof that he is not an enemy. Talk with no one about this—and when you have told Wassili what the American says, go home to bed and do not drink. If you give a true message to Wassili you shall have fifty rubles more to-morrow.”

“He will be drunk as an owl ten minutes after he gets to the Sofistkaya and the first _kabak_,” grumbled Michael. “And if he finds this American, how is the American to read Russian?”

“If he come from friends, he must know something of Russian, else he would not have come by himself—and perhaps he has with him some man who can read it for him.”

“You are wasting your breath and my ink,” said Michael. “I think nothing of this business.”

“God’s blessing on you, mistress,” said Ilya, crossing himself twice and turning to follow Wassili out of the room. “I shall be very secret and do as you command—and I shall not go drinking wine with the money.”

Wassili lighted his candle from the flame of the one burning on the table and opened the door. Ilya went out before him, and they both descended the stairs.

“It is all a trap, as I have said,” Michael went on again, staring disconsolately into the flame of the candle, his head bent forward on his breast. “This is the Ataman’s work—and he will come again in the morning to mock us.”

“I have faith that God has saved our lives,” said Katerin. “If an American is in the city who seeks us, I shall go to him myself in case Ilya fails us.”

“Then you would be going to your doom, my daughter,” and Michael dropped his face into his outspread arms upon the table to conceal the dejection which had come over him again since he believed that Ilya had come on a fool’s errand.

“Hope is greater than fear, my father,” said Katerin, and lifted his head from the table to kiss him. “Who knows? By dawn we may be safe with this American. We must pray that Wassili will bring us a message at midnight which means the end of our troubles. Zorogoff will not dare defy an American officer.”

“Zorogoff will defy the devil himself,” said Michael. “I put little hope in this fool’s tale, but if it will make you happy, I will hope and believe till we know that there is nothing to be gained from this Ilya and his foolishness. And what you have just said about going to the hotel yourself—that must not be. I shall not let you out of my sight.”

“Then perhaps we may both go,” said Katerin. “We would be in no greater danger if we tried to find the American than if we waited here for Zorogoff.”

“We shall stay here,” said Michael. “I am too old and wise to be fooled by Mongol tricks. If I knew you could be safe I would be happy to say farewell to you forever—but God tells me that we are in greater danger now than ever, and we must trust no one. Come! Hand me my pen again, that I may write down the things you should remember when I am dead.”

XI

THE FLIGHT

WASSILI lurked in front of the _sobrania_ from midnight till near morning. There was a ball going on inside the building and many people coming and going during the night, mostly officers of Zorogoff’s forces and their women. But Wassili saw nothing of Ilya, though he gossiped with the droshky-drivers about the _sobrania_, warming himself against the biting cold by frequent drinks of tea at a restaurant across the street.

When he had almost decided to return to Kirsakoff and report that he had not seen Ilya, he heard that Ilya had been killed. Then Wassili gathered such details as he could, and along toward morning hastened homeward with his story.

Katerin saw the disaster in the _moujik’s_ face when he appeared at the door of her room, breathing hard from a run up the stairs. His hands were covered with candle wax as a result of their shaking.

“What news, Wassili?” she cried.

“The Cossacks killed Ilya soon after he left this house, mistress,” panted Wassili. “He crossed an old garden to evade the sentries, and did not stop when they halted him. He fell with six bullets in him—and they say in the city that he was a spy, for he carried a secret message.”

“Your message to the American,” said Michael, who had waited up for the return of Wassili. “It is as I said—Ilya was bait for the Ataman’s trap. There is no American. If you had gone with Ilya you would have been seized, my daughter, and if I had gone, I would have been shot down. We are lost—the story about the American was a myth to draw us from the house.”

“But, master, there is truth in what Ilya told us,” put in Wassili.

“What?” cried Michael. “You, too? Are you fool enough to believe now what Ilya Andreitch said?”

Katerin had sat down on a bench when she heard that Ilya had been killed, her hope crushed again. Now she sprang up at Wassili’s words, waiting for him to go on.

“It is truth, master,” insisted Wassili. “I had the news in the city, so what Ilya said must have been true.”

“Who told you?” cried Katerin. “Did they say he had come for us? Is he at the Dauria? Did you see him?”

Wassili was overwhelmed by such a volley of questions, and he paused to catch his breath and assort his information from his memory before he should reply.

“Come! Come! Rattle your tongue, Wassili!” commanded Michael. “Sit here and talk!”

Wassili sank upon the bench while Michael and Katerin hovered over him.

“An _iswostchik_ told me,” began Wassili. “His father was in the Siberian Rifles with mine and I can trust his word. He told me that he drove an American officer to the Dauria—two days ago. If the American officer is there now, I cannot say. But there is none among the _iswostchiks_ who has taken him back to the station. That I know, for I asked many of them—and they would know if the stranger had been taken away.”

“Thanks to God!” cried Katerin. “Then though poor Ilya is dead, there is still hope for us. We must pray that he spoke the truth. Tell us more, Wassili.”

“It came about this way,” resumed Wassili. “I heard my friend boasting of how he had brought a rich American to the Dauria—this officer—and how he paid double fare in Imperial rubles without any complaint. Not knowing what was the right fare, and not knowing that Imperials are worth thrice the money now in this city prove him to be a stranger. That he was an American, my friend is sure, for he was in Vladivostok last month and smuggled opium in here for the Chinese when he came up by the train. Why, he even knows the Americans so well that he speaks American. He cannot be fooled—he got rich in Vladivostok changing money for Americans.”

“But does the American seek us?” urged Katerin. She was anxious to establish the fact that the American had come to help them escape the Ataman.

“I heard nothing of that, mistress,” replied Wassili.

Michael pondered the matter carefully.

“It all means no good for us,” he said finally. “This officer may have sent Ilya to us, but why was Ilya shot? I say it looks like a trap.”

“But Zorogoff’s spies may have known that the American sent Ilya, and may have killed Ilya so no word could go back from us,” said Katerin.

“I grant that, yes,” said Michael, but still he had his doubts, and shook his head sadly.

“And if Zorogoff knows that an American officer has come, then the Ataman will not dare persecute us further. Did you hear the name of this American, Wassili?” asked Katerin.

“Mistress, I know nothing more. I did not dare go to the hotel when I heard that Ilya had been killed, but came back here for the orders of Excellence.”

“And that was right,” said Michael.

“Shall I go now to the American officer, master?” asked Wassili.

“Let me think on it,” said Michael. “They killed Ilya and they may also kill you. It is dangerous business and we must be cautious. If it is true that an American has come, then the Ataman will do one of two things—strike speedily or leave us in peace. I believe that he will destroy us. I wish my wits were equal to telling me what I should do.”

“We must not leave it to the Ataman,” declared Katerin. “The time has come for us to make our decisions—we it is who must act and not wait for the Ataman to make up his mind.”

“We! What do you mean, my daughter? What is it we can do?”

“Do something before the Ataman returns.”

“What? What is it we can do, surrounded as we are?”

There was a new look of determination in Katerin’s face. “The time has come to be bold,” she said. “If Zorogoff expects us to wait here for his will or his coming, we must surprise him—we must go straight to this American officer and ask him to help us to escape the city, even if he has not been sent to us by friends. But I’m sure we will find that he has been dispatched here to rescue us.”

Michael put his hands to his face and stared at Katerin, aghast at her suggestion. He turned and sat down in his chair as if he had no strength to remain standing longer. “What in the name of God are you saying?” he whispered. “Do you mean we should put ourselves at the mercy of the Ataman?”

“Are we not now at the mercy of the Ataman? Are we not waiting for his men to knock at the door? How much worse off will we be if we make an attempt to reach this American?”

“And how much better?” asked Michael. “Will it do us more good to be shot down by the sentries as was Ilya than to remain here waiting for some turn of fortune which will save us?”

“Fortune has made the turn,” replied Katerin. “What more do we ask than that an American officer be in the city?”

“But if we never reach the hotel? What good would a regiment of Americans do us if we are shot on the way?”

“We must take the chance and get to the hotel,” declared Katerin. “Surely, you must see that it is better to risk ourselves for the short time necessary to get to the Dauria than to remain here and wait for certain doom.”

“Madness!” exclaimed Michael. “What we would be going to would be death in the dark.”

“We shall go by the first daylight, while the sentries are being changed in the streets,” said Katerin quietly. It was plain that her mind was settled upon the thing.

Michael peered at her across the candle flame as if he doubted her sanity. But Katerin looked back at him without the slightest sign that she wavered in her determination to abandon the house.

“I see what you mean,” said Michael sadly. “You prefer to die by bullets rather than by the poison. Perhaps it is the better way—and I shall go with you and we shall die together.”

Katerin went to him and took up his hands. “I shall not cross the threshold of that Mongol’s house alive, my father. I prefer to chance death—and if we fail—then we are with God and have died as Russians. It is better to die by the bullet of a soldier than by my own hand. Remember the threat of Zorogoff and consider my reasons for not fearing death.”

Michael gave the table a mighty thump with his fist. “Truth, by the Holy Saints!” he exclaimed. “But I am the one to make the attempt to get to the hotel—and find the American. I cannot see you walk into the streets with such wolves about.”

“No,” said Katerin, “I do not wish you to go alone. We shall go together—and if we must, we shall die together. But we cannot go against the designs of God—if the American officer has been sent to this city by friends to save us, we must not lose a minute in making ourselves known to him. The Ataman said he would come back—and he will come. He knows what I fear more than death. Very good. We must not wait here for him to come—It is not in us to lie hidden here like jackals in traps for the pleasure of the Mongol dog. We must flee with all possible speed toward the American.”

“You are right,” agreed Michael. “Zorogoff will lose no time if he learns of this American—and perhaps he knows of the stranger now. At least, as Wassili heard it, it must be common gossip in the city. So whatever Zorogoff plans against us he will accomplish without delay. But how are we to escape from the house? Are we to go out openly, as we are?”

“We shall escape through the servants’ gate,” said Katerin, her eyes on the candle as she planned. “It will be safer to wear the clothing of peasants. If there is a morning fog, it will help to conceal us. The greatest risk is in being seen as we get into the street. We cannot know how closely the house is being watched. But once clear and into the street, who is to think that two poor peasants are Michael Kirsakoff and his daughter—unless we should be stopped by soldiers and made to tell what our business is, where we came from, and who we are.”

“True, that is the difficulty,” said Michael. “But as you say, if we once get to the hotel, Slipitsky, the old Jew, if he is still alive, will take us to the American. Do you know if Slipitsky is still in charge of the Dauria, Wassili?”

“When I heard last, master, Slipitsky still lived,” said the _moujik_. “Am I to go with the master and the mistress and do what I can to protect them?”

“No,” said Katerin. “You would be recognized and betray our identity to observers. You are to stay here with the old woman, and if we die, you shall be rewarded for your loyalty. Bring us old boots—the worst you can find—and cabbages to carry in a bundle, that we may appear to be peasants come in from the country to market.”

Wassili went out and at once Katerin began plans and preparations for their flight from the house. By the time the morning sun revealed a white fog over the landscape everything was in readiness. An old shawl had been filled with packets of rubles wrapped in old newspapers, and on top had been put her sable coat and other clothing. But before the shawl was tied up at the corners, three cabbages had been put in on top so that they showed through the openings.

The thick fog of morning gave promise that they could get away from the house without being observed, unless there were sentries close by the servants’ gate.

When they were ready to depart, Michael put on the ancient gray coat—that one which was padded with paper rubles. He belted the shabby garment about him with an old rope and dropped his pistol into a side pocket. A dirty old sheepskin cap covered his head and a long muffler was wound about his neck, the ends trailing over his back. With the muffler pulled up over his face he could see through the mesh of the fabric, but his face was concealed. He also carried a short-stocked whip with a dozen lashes, such as the farmers carry with them. In such attire it was hard to believe that he had been a general of the Czar and once Governor—now he was but a bent old _moujik_ who thought of nothing but his crops and what money he could get for the few provisions he was carrying into the city.

Katerin wrapped her head in an old shawl, tied a raggy towel across her nose against the cold, and drew the shawl down over her brow so that she peered out through a narrow slit. Her chin was concealed in the collar of a dirty and torn coat which had been mended with many faded patches. She wore a discarded pair of Wassili’s boots, which had been retrieved from the wagon-shed, where they had been hung up to be used for hinges or pieces of leather for repairs. But she also took with her in the bundle her light shoes and her slippers.

When she finally picked up the bundle with the cabbages, she was a poor farmer’s daughter come in from the plains to sell her cabbages and buy salt and candles in the bazaar—and say a prayer at the church.

Before they set out from the house Wassili was sent into the street and pottered about the casks at the small door in the wall to see whether the house was being closely watched. He came back soon and reported that he could see no one.

The old woman who had been doing the cooking stood crying and rubbing her eyes with her red hands as she saw the mistress ready to go forth and face the dangers of the city. She cried and prayed by turns, being sure that disaster awaited them both. Michael quieted her by a plentiful handful of rubles and an assurance that if they made to the hotel safely, she should be provided for before they escaped the city—but the old woman was disconsolate.

“God go with you, master and mistress,” said Wassili, as he said farewell. He stood in the kitchen door and watched Michael and Katerin slip through the gate, bent on reaching the hotel and seeking the help of the American officer against the menace of Zorogoff.

XII

HIDDEN AGAIN

MICHAEL trudged along stolidly through the dirty snow in the middle of the street, his head bent against the cold in peasant style. Katerin followed him, close behind, carrying the bundle which showed the cabbages.

Once away from the house they felt they had a chance of getting to the hotel without being halted if they did not appear too eager. So they proceeded without haste, plodding along as if weary after a long walk in from the plains. To any one who might watch them they were apparently heedless of their surroundings and concerned only with where their feet were to be planted for each step, but they were really watchful through the cloths which hid their faces. It was not possible to see more than a hundred yards in any direction, for the fog shut them in and helped to conceal them from observation.

They had not gone far before they made out the glow of a sentry-fire. Having planned carefully what they should do in various circumstances, they had no intention of attempting to avoid any soldiers, so Michael bore straight for the group about the fire. The soldiers looked up and scanned the approaching couple for a minute, then resumed their talk. Michael turned out just enough to pass them, lifted his head to stare at them through his muffler, gave them a gruff good-morning, and passed on. The four men about the fire supposed that the man and the woman must have passed through the outer cordons of sentries and given a satisfactory account of themselves. So Katerin also walked past them with a friendly nod, and though she was nervous for a few minutes after she had turned her back on them, they said nothing.

As the two drew in toward the business section of the city they passed people who peered suspiciously at them. There were times when Michael feared that they were being followed, but in time the supposed followers turned up side streets and went about their business.

Then a band of roistering soldiers swarmed out of a _kabak_ and bore down upon the father and daughter. The men were tipsy after a night of drinking and were singing wild songs and indulging in pranks among themselves. They hailed Michael with pleasantries but made way for him, and were respectfully silent when they passed Katerin, willing enough to let peasants go on without being molested. Had they known that the two “peasants” were General Kirsakoff and his daughter their attitude might have been entirely different.

Katerin struggled along, the great boots tiring her, for they were heavy and ill-fitting, and where the snow was packed hard at the street crossings, the boots slipped under her and with the heavy bundle she found it hard to walk. But she knew her father could not help her if they were to keep up the pretense that they were peasants. But Michael slowed his pace at times to let Katerin come up with him.

They reached the church, and stopped before it a few minutes to rest. They prayed and crossed themselves and lingered as long as they dared, for though they were both tired and cold, they hoped to get to the hotel before the fog was dispersed by the sun. They were fortunate that so few people were abroad.

“Have good heart,” muttered Michael. “It is not far now to the hotel, and the roads will be better.”

“The boots make me slow,” whispered Katerin. “But do not think of me. Save your strength, for I can walk all day. And we must not appear to be in a hurry.”

“It is plain that no one has suspected us,” said Michael, peering back through the fog to make sure that they were not being trailed.

“The test will come at the hotel,” said Katerin. “There we may encounter spies, so we must be most careful.”

“It is too early for many officers of the Ataman to be about,” said Michael. “But there is safety in boldness.”

They went on. Soon they passed the ruin of the great house which had been their home in the years while Michael was Governor. Only one wall stood, black and charred and penciled with white in crevices of the timbers where the powdered snow had sifted in. The vacant windows yawned upon them, showing a dismal background of drifting fog. In that house they had lived as rulers of the Valley of Despair.

In time they came to the upper end of the Sofistkaya where a road turned off to the prison on the hill. They moved down past the big store which had been looted thoroughly by the Bolsheviki and the exiles who had been freed from the prison after the fall of the throne. The great windows along the street were boarded up, and a pair of Japanese sentries stood by the entrance. From the roof flew a red and white flag which marked the headquarters of the Japanese commander.

Next they passed the wrecked bank. It was there that Michael’s partner had been slain while attempting to save what was left of the bank’s money after the first big raid. The windows were also boarded, so that in case of another uprising by revolutionists the building could not be used as a rifle-nest for snipers.

Now there were more people in the streets. But every one was going about his business and paid little attention to Michael and Katerin. Such soldiers as they saw ignored them. They reached the bridge over the Ingoda, and now could see the front of the Dauria, not far ahead. They soon gained a position on the street opposite the entrance to the hotel, and crossed in the middle of the street after the manner of people from the country. Michael paused before the door, and waited for Katerin to come up with him.

“This is the place,” said Michael gruffly, and then he pushed open the door. He was afraid that there might be a group of people inside, but his fears were relieved at finding a sleepy-eyed youth drowsing by a fire-reddened stove on a bench.

Once through the door, Katerin let her bundle drop to the floor. It was so warm inside that she began to worry lest they be expected to uncover their faces, and in that case, if they did not find Slipitsky at once, they might be recognized by some casual passer-by who would carry the news of their arrival at the hotel to some of Zorogoff’s spies.

The youth by the fire roused himself reluctantly and gave an angry look at the intruders. It was plain he felt that people so poorly dressed had no business in the hotel. He eyed the bundle which Katerin had put down, and then motioned them out of the door with an angry gesture.

“Get away with your cabbages!” he snarled. “This is no public place where people can warm themselves. This is the best hotel in the city and only for rich people.”

Michael bowed abjectly. “I have come to pay to Mr. Slipitsky money which I owe him.”

The youth stared the harder. The heat from the stove was oppressive after the cold of the streets, but Michael and Katerin made no move to uncover their faces.

“You can give me the money,” said the youth, holding out his hand, though he did not rise from the bench. “Slipitsky is not here and if he were, he would have no time to bother with you. Come! Hand the money to me and get out!”

“Slipitsky not here?” demanded Michael. “But he told me to come. You mean that he has gone away?”