The Commandant, weakened by his wound, collected all his energy, and said, in a firm but faint voice: “You are not my emperor; you are a usurper and a brigand.”
Pougatcheff frowned and raised his white handkerchief. Immediately the old Captain was seized by Cossacks and dragged to the gibbet. Astride the cross-beam of the gallows, sat the mutilated Bashkirs who we had questioned; he held a rope in his hand, and I saw, an instant after, poor Ivan Mironoff suspended in the air. Then Ignatius was brought up before Pougatcheff.
“Take the oath to the emperor, Peter Fedorovitch.”
“You are not our emperor,” replied the Lieutenant, repeating his Captain’s words, “you are a brigand and a usurper.”
Pougatcheff again made a signal with his handkerchief, and the kind Ignatius hung beside his ancient chief. It was my turn. I looked boldly at Pougatcheff, preparing to repeat the words of my brave comrades, when to my inexpressible astonishment I saw Alexis amongst the rebels. He had had time to cut his hair round, and exchange his uniform for a Cossack cafetan. He approached Pougatcheff and whispered to him. “Let him be hung,” said Pougatcheff, not deigning to look at me. A rope was put around my neck. I uttered a prayer to God in a low voice, expressing sincere repentance for my sins, and imploring him to save all those dear to my heart. I was led beneath the gibbet. A shout was heard, “Stop! Stop!” The executioners paused. I looked. Saveliitch was kneeling at Pougatcheff’s feet. “O my lord and master,” said my dear old serf, “what do you want with that nobleman’s child? Set him free, you will get a good ransom for his life; but for an example, and to frighten the rest, command that I, an old man, shall be hung.”
Pougatcheff made a sign. They unbound me at once. “Our emperor pardons you,” they said. At the moment I did not know that my deliverance was a cause for joy or for sorrow. My mind was too confused. I was taken again before the usurper and made to kneel at his feet. Pougatcheff offered me his muscular hand. “Kiss his hand! Kiss his hand!” cried out all around me. But I would have preferred the most atrocious torture to a degradation so infamous. “My dear Peter,” whispered Saveliitch, who was standing behind me, “do not play the obstinate; what does it cost? Kiss the brigand’s hand.”
I did not move. Pougatcheff drew back his hand: “His lordship is stupefied with joy; raise him up,” said he. I was at liberty. Then I witnessed the continuation of the infamous comedy.
The inhabitants began to take the oath. They went one by one to kiss the cross and salute the usurper. After them came the garrison soldiers. The company’s tailor, armed with his great blunt-pointed shears, cut off their queues; they shook their heads and kissed the hand of Pougatcheff, who declared them pardoned and received into his troops. This lasted for nearly three hours. At last Pougatcheff rose from his arm-chair and went down the steps, followed by his chiefs. A white horse richly caparisoned was led to him; tow Cossacks helped him into the saddle. He signified to Father Garasim that he would dine with him. At this moment wild heart-rending shrieks from a woman filled the air. Basilia, without her mantle, her hair in disorder, was dragged out on the steps; one the brigands had on her mantle; the others were carrying away her chests, her linen, and other household goods. “O good men,” she cried, “let me go, take me to Ivan Mironoff.” Suddenly she saw the gibbet and recognized her husband. “Wretches,” she cried, “What have you done? O my light, Ivan! Brave soldier! no Prussian ball, nor Turkish sabre killed thee, but a vile condemned deserter.”
“Silence that old sorceress,” said Pougatcheff.
A young Cossack struck her with his sabre on the head. She fell dead at the foot of the steps. Pougatcheff rode off, all the people following.