“The old wolf has not lost his craft,” said Peter.
“The lion returns to the lair where he was whelped,” said Michael. “What I was, I was, and done is done. What I offer is nothing, true—but you may fail in your vengeance. Rather I would make it sure for you—and go to meet the dead with no debt to living man.”
“And how is it to be done?” asked Peter. He still suspected that Michael sought to escape him by a stratagem.
“With this!” exclaimed Michael, and with his left hand he drew from the breast of his shirt a small slender object, one part red and one part white, and held it forth to Peter. “Take this, Gorekin—I put vengeance into your hand—if you will save Katerin from the Mongol.”
Peter drew near and looked at what Michael held. It was a cased dagger—a leather case of red, surmounted by a hilt of yellowed old ivory and a steel hand guard at the base of the hilt. It was the weapon of Chinese assassins, an instrument made for but a single crime for it was cupped under the hilt guard in such a way that it sealed the very wound it made. Peter knew at once what it was and what it would do.
“Give me the promise—and take the knife!” entreated Michael. “One Russian to another—to save Katerin from the Mongol!”
“And what should I do with it?” asked Peter, seeking to draw out the old general.
“What should you do? What else, but thrust it into my heart—and take my daughter away from the city? Come! Your word! Give it and strike quickly, or the Ataman will defeat you!”
“You know well I could not escape, leaving you dead in my room,” jeered Peter. “What would I gain? If I strike now—here—my vengeance will be a short joy. It is so much simpler to turn you over to Shimilin.”
“By the Holy Saints!” cried Michael in disgust. “Has the blood of a Russian turned to water so that he will not kill on his own honor’s account? Please! Take this blade!”