I did not think it worth while to contradict the Cossack, and I followed him into the Commandant's house, trying to imagine beforehand my interview with Pugatchéf, and to guess how it would end.
The reader will easily believe me when I say that I did not feel wholly reassured.
It was getting dark when I reached the house of the Commandant.
The gallows, with its victims, stood out black and terrible; the body of the Commandant's poor wife still lay beneath the porch, close by two Cossacks, who were on guard.
He who had brought me went in to announce my arrival. He came back almost directly, and ushered me into the room where, the previous evening, I had bidden good-bye to Marya Ivánofna.
I saw a strange scene before me. At a table covered with a cloth and laden with bottles and glasses was seated Pugatchéf, surrounded by ten Cossack chiefs, in high caps and coloured shirts, heated by wine, with flushed faces and sparkling eyes. I did not see among them the new confederates lately sworn in, the traitor Chvabrine and the "ouriadnik."
"Ah, ah! so it is you, your lordship," said Pugatchéf, upon seeing me. "You are welcome. All honour to you, and a place at our feast."
The guests made room. I sat down in silence at the end of the table.
My neighbour, a tall and slender young Cossack, with a handsome face, poured me out a bumper of brandy, which I did not touch. I was busy noting the company.
Pugatchéf was seated in the place of honour, his elbows on the table, and resting his black beard on his broad fist. His features, regular and agreeable, wore no fierce expression. He often addressed a man of about fifty years old, calling him sometimes Count, sometimes Timofeitsh, sometimes Uncle.