On the morrow morning Pugatchéf sent someone to call me.
I went to his house. Before his door stood a "kibitka" with three Tartar horses. The crowd filled the street. Pugatchéf, whom I met in the ante-room, was dressed in a travelling suit, a pelisse and Kirghiz cap. His guests of yesterday evening surrounded him, and wore a submissive air, which contrasted strongly with what I had witnessed the previous evening.
Pugatchéf gaily bid me "good morning," and ordered me to seat myself beside him in the "kibitka." We took our places.
"To Fort Bélogorsk!" said Pugatchéf to the robust Tartar driver, who standing guided the team. My heart beat violently.
The horses dashed forward, the little bell tinkled, the "kibitka," bounded across the snow.
"Stop! stop!" cried a voice which I knew but too well; and I saw Savéliitch running towards us. Pugatchéf bid the man stop.
"Oh! my father, Petr' Andréjïtch," cried my follower, "don't forsake me in my old age among the rob—"
"Aha! old owl!" said Pugatchéf, "so God again brings us together. Here, seat yourself in front."
"Thanks, Tzar, thanks my own father," replied Savéliitch, taking his seat. "May God give you a hundred years of life for having reassured a poor old man. I shall pray God all my life for you, and I'll never talk about the hareskin 'touloup.'"
This hareskin "touloup" might end at last by making Pugatchéf seriously angry. But the usurper either did not hear or pretended not to hear this ill-judged remark. The horses again galloped.