“If that must be done, then it must,” admitted Katerin, as she cut the edges of the pillow and began ripping it into long strips. “But your face must be hidden from him, for he might see something in you that would remind him of you in the old days. We must take care against such betrayal.”
“And what are these rags for?” demanded Michael.
“A bandage about your face to conceal you further.”
“Oh, p-fooh!” said Michael disgustedly. “What nonsense is this, that I should be wrapped up like a Turk? How the devil am I to talk or breathe or eat my soup? I’ll have none of it—I, who was a general of majesty!”
“You have had a bullet through both cheeks,” said Katerin. “Come, please! Hold up your head—these cloths will only keep your teeth warm against the cold. That is my dear father—and remember, it is to save us. Better this chance than to sit here and wait till the Ataman sends Shimilin for us again. Come!” She held up a strip of the cloth.
“Are you going to tie up my face as if I were an old beggar with boils?” demanded Michael.
“Trust to me, my father. When the lion is stricken he must still roar, that his enemies will be misled. You have said that to me many times. Trust to my wits—and we shall see.”
He puzzled over it for a minute, and then threw back his head in submission. “I shall not stand in the way of your safety,” he said. “I leave it in your hands. My heart is brave, but the years have put chains upon my body,” and he sighed wearily.
Without more ado, Katerin wrapped the grizzled old face with the strips of cotton. They passed over the top of his head and down under his chin. His eyes, nose, and mouth were clear of the cloths, and his ears stuck out oddly behind the wrappings. The white hair on his chin gave him a more aggressive look than usual for his beard was thrust forward by the bandage. The scant hair on the top of his head stuck up, and wavered as he moved, like the crest of a bird.
Katerin leaned back and studied him with critical eye when she had finished.