Peter’s father swept his cap to the ground in an abject bow.
“Pardon, Excellence—I will take the boy away.”
“What now!” exclaimed Kirsakoff, with a close look at the bootmaker. “Is this Gorekin? Is this what I put you into the free gang for? to be under the feet of your Governor?”
Peter’s father bowed once more.
“True, Excellence, I am Peter Pavlovitch Gorekin, the bootmaker.”
“Then you should be at your boots and not under my feet!” raged Kirsakoff. “Do I give you the liberty of the settlement to have you in the way with a bloody-nosed youngster when my little daughter comes home?” The Governor turned wrathfully to the commander of the Cossack guard about the sledges. “Take this Gorekin away to the prison!” he commanded.
“Excellence, my son!” cried Peter’s father, stricken to his soul by the disaster in the Governor’s order. “Oh, Excellence, I beg—if I go to the prison, what is to become of my son?”
“You should have prized your liberty and kept your son out of the way,” said the Governor. “You think nothing of ruining the happiness of my little daughter! So your son must learn his place.——Take them both to the prison!”
And Kirsakoff turned away and hurried to the sledge.
“What has happened to the poor people?” asked Katerin, her face troubled as she watched Peter and his father. She saw that the boy had been hurt and was crying, and that the soldiers now menaced them.