“Murdered by the Nyemtzi shall our women never be, Joseph,” said Ivan, with a flash in his eyes. “At the worst, we know what to do. Tell thy wife the countess must be induced to quit this house before to-morrow night. If she will not leave the city, like a sensible woman, at least she must go to the Devitshei Convent, and Maria must go with her. I suppose even the infidel French will scarcely outrage that asylum. Meanwhile, send in this mujik; perhaps he brings tidings.”
A tall figure entered, with a bandaged arm, and wearing a rough, soiled caftan, and heavy Russia leather boots that left their traces on the inlaid floor.
Ivan looked up, started, hesitated, then exclaimed in great surprise, “Michael Ivanovitch! One-eared Michael!”
“One-handed Michael now, at your service, Ivan Barrinka; and well if that were the only loss I had to tell of.”
“Have you come from Nicolofsky?” asked Ivan.
“Yes, I come from Nicolofsky. Barrinka, the Nyemtzi have been there.”
“Ah!” cried Ivan. “Curse them!”
“I have done with cursing them, Ivan Barrinka—I cannot find words—so I leave them to God. He knows what wages they have earned, and he will pay them one day. But as for me, my heart is hot and dry, and unless I can go and fight and kill some of them I shall die.”
“What has happened, Michael? what have they done to you?”
“At Christmas I was to be married to Anna Popovna. You remember her, Ivan Barrinka?”