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.