Michael recovered himself for a brief space.
“Good!” he whispered. “Every man has his wolf to kill, but it is better—I was but a millstone hanging from her neck—but now you can save her—you forgive——”
“As I hope to be forgiven, I forgive,” said Peter, putting his face down close to Michael. “Do you hear me, Michael Alexandrovitch?”
A smile came into Michael’s pain-tortured face—a smile of helpless assent, with which was mingled his joy at Peter’s words. But still he was troubled, and his head shook with his effort to express his further wishes.
“Save her—from the Ataman!” he pleaded.
“The Ataman is dead,” said Peter. “Look! There upon the floor!”
Michael’s eyes roved as Peter stepped aside, and finally rested upon the prone body of Zorogoff.
“A-h-h!” cried Michael. “The Ataman submits to the general of his Emperor! My Katerin, do not be sad for me—let the birds sing for both of you—I go happy—God’s blessing upon you both—Gorekin—I, who go to meet the dead, sal—ute——”
Shimilin came and stood beside Peter. The Cossack captain drew off his cap, crossed himself, and uttered a few words of prayer. Michael’s dimming eyes saw him—and revealed a new terror.
“Shimilin!” he gasped.