Zorogoff gave a gurgling cry and the heavy pistol fell from his hand. He threw up his arms and then clawed at his throat as his knees gave beneath him—and pitched forward at Peter’s feet to the ringing clatter of the great scimitar against the floor.
Peter caught Katerin in his arms as she reeled back, and held her, his left hand flying to his own pistol to be ready against the expected attack from Shimilin and the soldiers. But Shimilin stood with his arm raised to hold the soldiers in check, his eyes upon the dying Ataman.
Peter stood thus holding Katerin for a minute, as she cried incoherently. Slipitsky had run to Michael and had lifted the old general down into a chair and the moans of the stricken general came above the wailing of the Jew. Peter gave no heed to them but held his pistol with the barrel half downward and watched the soldiers pressed about the door, fearing that Shimilin would not prevent them from using their rifles. Peter knew well that there was no hope of coming out of a fight alive, but he knew that a weapon had a restraining effect if not aimed at any particular person.
The Ataman lay face down upon the floor, his back hunching up spasmodically, as if he were struggling to get to his feet. At times he drew his knees up, and then his toes would slip back and he would fall upon the scimitar with a musical clang, his life gurgling out through his lips in a crimson stream. Presently he lay still, stretched out at full length, his spurs sticking up from the heels of his boots, the gold knot of the scimitar hilt at his left side, and the toe of the scabbard showing at the right, and his great white cap near his head on the floor.
Shimilin spoke first. “Go and tell Bouran that the Ataman is dead,” he ordered one of his men. “But let no one else know. You others stand outside and let no one enter or have knowledge of what has happened here.”
Katerin recovered herself and slipped from Peter’s arm. She looked round wildly, and then went to her father. He lay back against the chair, held upright by Slipitsky, though the old general’s body swayed from side to side as he was gripped by the tremors of his agony. His hands were clutched to his breast, holding the old peasant’s coat against his wound.
Peter followed after Katerin, for he felt now that whatever Shimilin intended against them in retaliation for the killing of the Ataman would not come in the form of summary action. Katerin was on her knees before her father, speaking to him tenderly in her anguish for him, and at times sobbing out prayers.
Michael opened his eyes and stared up at Peter, and let his hands fall upon Katerin’s head. A spasm of pain crossed his graying face, and he opened his mouth several times before he could speak.
“Save her!” he gasped to Peter. “Now I—no longer stand between you—forgive—forgive——” His breath failed him, and his breast heaved as he was shook by a mighty convulsion.
“Die in peace, Michael Kirsakoff,” said Peter. “I forgive.”