V   THE ATAMAN’S DECISION

WHEN Captain Shimilin raised his hand to the window, there was a sharp command in the courtyard below, followed by the crash of a volley from the rifles of the soldiers Katerin had seen standing before her father.

Katerin, kneeling in front of the icon, fell forward upon the floor at the sound of the volley. Shimilin, still at the window, stood gazing across the room at her, a puzzled look upon his face, as if he did not know what to do next. He heard Wassili wailing in the kitchen below, and from the court came the sounds of metal being thrust into flinty soil and laughter and joking comments from soldiers.

Katerin lay still for several minutes. Then she sat up, and stared at Shimilin as if she had just been awakened from a dream and was still in doubt about her surroundings and why she should be there.

“It is finished,” said Shimilin. “Your father is dead. I am sorry for you, but the Ataman must be obeyed. If you will give up the money now, I will protect you.”

She did not answer him, but continued to stare at him, attempting to grasp what had happened.

“You have killed my father!” she whispered, putting her hands up to her cheeks. “You have killed my father! And now you want me to pay you for it!”

“It is Zorogoff who has killed your father,” said Shimilin. “I obey his orders—as you must.”

He walked over to Katerin and held out his hand to help her to her feet. But she evaded him, and stood up.

“You are a murdering dog,” she said quietly, hatred and revulsion in her look as she shrank away from him. “You lied to us—and you lie now! You are no better than the Mongol—worse than Zorogoff, for he would not kill his own kind for you!”

“Take care!” he warned, moving toward her threateningly. “Take care! My soldiers are still below.”

She cried out with rage against him, and sprang at him and struck him in the face with her open hand. Then she threw up her arm and whirled away from him, to run behind the screen of her bed as if to get a weapon. But Shimilin grasped her by the shoulders and pulled her back into the center of the room. She tore away from him.

“Kill me!” she cried. “There is nothing left in life for me now. Kill me, too!”

“No, I will not kill you,” said Shimilin suavely. “We do not kill women like you too soon, Katerin Stephanovna.”

“You are swine!” she raged. “You told us my father was to go to the Ataman. Talk to me no more, but kill me here!”

Shimilin said nothing, but stood looking at her with every sign of being on the verge of complying with her command. But he did not put hand to pistol. Instead, he shrugged his shoulders and smiled, went to the bed behind the screen and pulled off a blanket. He threw it to her but she let it fall upon the floor.

“Take the blanket,” he said gruffly. “You may have death if you want it, but not by my hand. Take the blanket and come with me to the soldiers below.”

Katerin kicked the blanket aside.

“I do not fear the cold any more than I fear death,” she said quietly, and moved to the door. “Come! I will show you how a Russian woman can die!”

Shimilin followed her down the stairs to the hall below. The old woman in the kitchen who did the cooking was crying in a room beyond the kitchen, out of sight. Katerin felt impelled to call a farewell to the old woman, and to Wassili, but she refrained because she suspected that the two servants might protest to the soldiers and draw ill treatment and probably death.

So she passed down the hall and out through the double doors into the courtyard. The place was full of soldiers, and her eyes lit at once upon a pile of fresh, brown earth near the wagon-shed. That, she knew, was her father’s grave. She walked straight to the mound, and stopping beside it, turned and faced the soldiers.

The heavily clad men stood about with their rifles, looking like great beetles, their heads topped with big caps, their faces wrapped in fur or rags, their bodies rotund with many garments, and the breath from their nostrils making what might have been inverted white horns as the air they breathed out turned to steam and spurted out from their faces behind the straps over their noses. They were not in ranks, these men, but gathered in groups as if waiting for some one to tell them what they should do next.

Captain Shimilin followed Katerin halfway across the yard, where he stopped to speak to a tall soldier in a long coat. The pair talked together quietly, looking at Katerin. Shimilin carried a towel which he had snatched up as he had passed out of the hall. He whipped the towel against his coat while he talked with the other soldier, and it was plain that the Cossack was in bad humor.

Katerin glanced at the spade and the old pickax which had been cast aside from the mound of earth. She lifted her eyes to the upper windows of the house. Then she threw open her sable coat, revealing the dull crimson of her velvet gown and the white of her throat. Gray and white and crimson, she made a striking picture against the dull background of the old buildings. The morning breeze which whipped in gustily over the courtyard wall and rattled the dead vines along its top, lifted wisps of her hair about her ears. The cold tortured her, but she gave no indication of her suffering. She looked like a beautiful flower which had grown in a drab garden now infested by wild things which had broken in for destruction and hated all things beautiful.

She let her hands fall to her sides. The cold was numbing her.

“I am ready!” she called to Captain Shimilin.

The Cossack moved to her, and held out the towel. “I shall cover your eyes so that you shall not see the rifles,” he said.

“Please do not touch me,” she begged. “It is all I ask. Let them shoot!”

The soldier who had been talking to Shimilin walked up to Katerin and peered into her face. His features were concealed by a strap of fur. Katerin knew by his manner that he must be an officer, though he wore no insignia. After a casual glance at him, she looked beyond him and fixed her gaze upon the house.

“Do you understand that you can save your life if you will follow the advice of Captain Shimilin?” asked the stranger.

“I do not seek the advice of Captain Shimilin—nor any other person,” said Katerin.

“You prefer to die?”

“I have done with life.”

“You talk like a brave woman,” went on the stranger.

“Oh, be done! I am cold!” said Katerin. She noted that a group of soldiers had fallen into line before her, and that the others about the yard gathered closer, regarding her with curious eyes.

The tall officer drew apart again with Shimilin, and they carried on a low conversation once more. The men in line began to examine their rifles to be in readiness. Both Shimilin and the other officer returned and stood before her again.

“Because your father, General Kirsakoff, was Governor here in the old days, is no reason why you should expect to oppose the new ruler,” said the officer.

Katerin did not answer.

The officer threw open his long coat, showing a uniform of gray tunic and blue breeches. He pulled the strap from his face and revealed the dark face of a Mongol. Sparse mustaches fell from the ends of his upper lip, clinging to his jowls as they drooped past the side of his mouth. His black eyes were set in close to a wide flat nose. Yet his face had a proud and serious mien—the face of an Asiatic of high degree, the face of a stoical and cruel man.

“I am the Ataman Zorogoff,” he said. “I rule. Your father would not loan his fortune to my government. That is all I ask of you. I give you your choice—submit or die.”

Katerin looked at him scornfully.

“I am nobody,” she said. “I submit only to God and the saints of heaven. I do not recognize your right to rule, even though you take my life. Tell your brave soldiers to shoot.”

Zorogoff laughed harshly.

“You have the spirit of the devil, mistress.”

“Speak of the devil and we see his tail,” retorted Katerin, using an old Russian proverb.

“You are a brave woman,” repeated Zorogoff. “You have the blood of good ancestors—a fighting, ruling breed—as were mine.”

“My ancestors have never feared death.”

“Do you know that I am a prince in Mongolia?” asked Zorogoff tartly. He seemed nettled by Katerin’s way of looking at him, rather than by her scornful words.

“I do not doubt it, sir. And you belong there.”

“Ah! Is that true? Though your father is governor no longer, you still tell people where they belong. My people ruled this land before your people came, and once more we shall rule. But if you will give up your money to the government, in time you shall have it back. My soldiers need food and clothing. What is your answer, mistress?”

A tremor of cold shook Katerin’s body. The air was stifling her, and she was chilled till she no longer felt pain.

“Death!” she answered through quivering lips.

Zorogoff turned to Shimilin.

“The better the horse the worse his bite,” said the Ataman. “But once he is broken, you have a good horse. I do not want to kill a woman so brave as this one.” Turning to Katerin, he went on, “Your sons would know how to rule, mistress.”

“I leave no sons,” she said, now too chilled to care or perceive what the Ataman’s meaning might be.

“I was thinking of what your sons might be like,” went on Zorogoff. “Do not be too sure about sons.”

Katerin gave a cry of agony. She knew now what Zorogoff meant—and she feared now that she might not die after all. She looked at Zorogoff, as he stood before her, peering into her face.

“Kill me!” she cried, and then realizing that unless she angered him by insults, he might not give the order to the soldiers, she spoke with infinite loathing, loud enough so that the soldiers might hear. “You are a lowborn dog! Your mother was a scullion and your father a mover of dead bodies! You are neither Cossack nor Mongol, but vermin from mud huts and a disgrace to both white and yellow!”

“Ah!” said Zorogoff. “Now I know that there is fear in you, and fear for what, my lady! You prefer the rifles to a palace. What if I should give you the fate you dislike?”

“Go to the market place for your women, you swine!” cried Katerin.

The Ataman stepped aside and beckoned Shimilin after him. “Let us see how brave she is,” whispered Zorogoff, and he made a gesture to the men with the rifles. The muzzles lifted promptly and the men took aim at Katerin.

“I will show you who rules now,” called Zorogoff.

“And I will show you how a woman of the nobility can die, lowborn one!”

“Fire!” commanded Zorogoff, throwing up an arm in a gesture of command.

But the rifles did not speak, though they remained leveled at Katerin. She began a prayer, gazing steadily into the muzzles which faced her, and waiting for the impact of the bullets.

Seconds passed. They became minutes. Katerin closed her eyes against the cold. After a wait she opened her eyes again and eight rifles still pointed straight at her.

“Shoot!” she pleaded. “Please shoot!”

She closed her eyes once more. The minutes passed, and Katerin’s body wavered, swayed, and she collapsed in a faint across the fresh mound of earth.

“Take her up and carry her into the house,” commanded the Ataman. “She is a brave woman—but stubborn. She shall submit.”

The soldiers picked Katerin up and carried her through the hall to the kitchen. Wassili and the old serving woman began to scream, thinking that their mistress had been killed.

Zorogoff and Shimilin walked out of the yard and into the street. Shimilin whistled on his fingers. Soon the troika of the Ataman swung out of a side street and the horses came galloping up. There were three men in the troika—two soldiers—and Michael.

“Where is my daughter?” demanded the old general. “What have you done with her? Does she still live?”

“You will find her inside the house,” said Shimilin. “She is not dead.”

“God is good,” said Michael, at once careful of his words.

“Go back to your house,” said Zorogoff, “and wait till I return.”

“So?” asked Michael. “And why do you return?”

“You shall know then. There has been too much talk to-day.”

Michael got out of the troika and the Ataman got in with Shimilin. Already the soldiers were marching out from the yard, and swinging back into the city.

“Take care that you do not leave the house,” warned Zorogoff, as Michael stood waiting for the soldiers to be clear of the gate. “I do not wish to have you and your daughter run the danger of being fired upon by the sentries. I wish you both to live as long as God lets you.”

Michael, afraid that there was still a trap and that the Ataman had no intention of leaving, though he had been covered by the robes in the troika and had swathed his face and head in furs, did not dare turn his back upon the precious pair in the vehicle.

“I thank you for your consideration,” said the old general. “I thought I was to die, but I still live and my daughter is safe.”

Zorogoff leaned out and spoke earnestly. “If the cat wants a fish, let her wet her feet,” he said. And then added with taunting irony, “You are proud of your rank and your race, Michael Alexandrovitch—you and your daughter hold yourselves superior to a Mongol who is of the blood of rulers, and who rules. But I, too, have pride. You should know more of me and mine, and to that purpose you and your daughter shall live in my palace. I go to prepare for you, and you shall both live under my roof.”

“What?” cried Michael. “That is a new string to the fiddle! Why should we live in your palace?”

“So that I may take care of your health, Michael. And I shall need your advice in government.”

“My advice in your government! You come with a firing squad to kill me and now you talk of taking me to your palace! Surely, this is a day of madness, and I do not understand!”

“You will in time,” replied the Ataman. “You have a lesson to learn. It is that you must not hold yourselves superior to Mongol princes. For your grandchildren, Michael, are to be Mongols, and you and your daughter shall hold them in your arms. You both shall love them—though they be of Mongol blood.”

Zorogoff spoke to the driver and the horses galloped away, leaving Michael cursing under his breath. Then he ran into the yard as fast as his cold-stiffened legs could carry him, and entered the house, calling for Katerin.

Wassili burst through the door of the kitchen into the hall, and cried out in terror at sight of the master whom he supposed to be dead. The moujik fell to his knees, crossing himself and making the sign to ward off devils.

“Katerin! Katerin!” shouted Michael, as he saw the form of his daughter stretched upon an old bench that had been turned into a couch. The old serving woman was giving her mistress restoratives and attempting to warm her—but she fled, screaming, as Michael entered.

Katerin opened her eyes and shivered violently. She stared at her father, who stood over her, and then closed her eyes again and began to cry. She supposed that she was delirious and that her father was not really there.

“Have they tortured you?” cried Michael. “Oh, Katerin Stephanovna, you are spared to me—and I live! Look, my daughter!”

He lifted her up from the bench and kissed her, crying to her again and again that he was not dead.

“Oh, God! Thou art good!” she moaned, and then she was swept by sobs of joy and fell back upon the bench.

Michael collapsed upon the floor, and when Wassili and the old woman overcame their fears and entered the kitchen again they found father and daughter crying quietly and clinging to each other consolingly.