“I beg pardon, Petrovna,” replied Stepka. “I won’t do it any more. Let our little father sleep on and get well.”
The old woman withdrew into the hut, and Stepka began to pace to and fro upon the rampart.
Within the hut, from which the old woman had emerged, lay the wounded Doubrovsky upon a cold bed behind a partition. Before him, upon a small table, lay his pistols, and a sword hung near his head. The mud hut was hung round and covered with rich carpets. In the corner was a lady’s silver toilet and mirror. Doubrovsky held in his hand an open book, but his eyes were closed, and the old woman, peeping at him from behind the partition, could not tell whether he was asleep or only thinking.
Suddenly Doubrovsky started. In the fort there was a great commotion, and Stepka came and thrust his head in through the window of the hut.
“Father Vladimir Andreivitch!” he cried; “our men are signalling—they are on our track!”
Doubrovsky leaped from his bed, seized his arms and issued from the hut. The brigands were noisily crowding together in the inclosure, but on the appearance of their chief a deep silence reigned.
“Are all here?” asked Doubrovsky.
“All except the patrols,” was the reply.
“To your places!” cried Doubrovsky, and the brigands took up each his appointed place.
At that moment, three of the patrols ran up to the gate of the fort. Doubrovsky went to meet them.