"Well, little mother," rejoined Iván Kouzmitch, "stay if you like, since you reckon so much on our fort. But what are we to do with Masha? It is all right if we weary him out or if we be succoured. But if the robbers take the fort?"
"Well, then—"
But here Vassilissa Igorofna could only stammer and become silent, choked by emotion.
"No, Vassilissa Igorofna," resumed the Commandant, who remarked that his words had made a great impression on his wife, perhaps for the first time in her life; "it is not proper for Masha to stay here. Let us send her to Orenburg to her godmother. There are enough soldiers and cannons there, and the walls are stone. And I should even advise you to go away thither, for though you be old yet think on what will befall you if the fort be taken by assault."
"Well! well!" said the wife, "we will send away Masha; but don't ask me to go away, and don't think to persuade me, for I will do no such thing. It will not suit me either in my old age to part from you and go to seek a lonely grave in a strange land. We have lived together; we will die together."
"And you are right," said the Commandant. "Let us see, there is no time to lose. Go and get Masha ready for her journey; to-morrow we will start her off at daybreak, and we will even give her an escort, though, to tell the truth, we have none too many people here. But where is she?"
"At Akoulina Pamphilovna's," answered his wife. "She turned sick when she heard of the taking of Nijnéosern; I dread lest she should fall ill. Oh! God in heaven! that we should have lived to see this!"
Vassilissa Igorofna went away to make ready for her daughter's departure.
The council at the Commandant's still continued, but I no longer took any part in it. Marya Ivánofna reappeared for supper, pale and her eyes red. We supped in silence, and we rose from table earlier than usual. Each of us returned to his quarters after bidding good-bye to the whole family. I purposely forgot my sword, and came back to fetch it. I felt I should find Marya alone; in fact, she met me in the porch, and handed me my sword.
"Good-bye, Petr' Andréjïtch," she said to me, crying; "they are sending me to Orenburg. Keep well and happy. Mayhap God will allow us to see one another again, if not—"