“Price! Price!” he gasped. “Why, you owe me nothing! Please do not insult me—I wished to see you again—I wished to say good-by—please, mistress——” the word escaped him,—the word of deference to the upper class, the word of recognition that she was impossibly above him in the Russian social caste.
She let the top of the trunk fall, and putting her hands to her face, burst into tears. Just then Wassili stuck his head through the green curtains and looked in, startled and angry. Peter was about to reassure the moujik that no harm threatened his mistress, but before Peter could speak, Wassili burst through the curtains and he held in his hand a great knife. The Slavic battle rage took possession of Peter at sight of the knife, and all the restraints imposed upon him by civilized life left him in one mad instant. He knew but one thing—he loved Katerin, and Wassili was going to stand in the way. The blade in the moujik’s hand swept away all the fine perplexities which had harassed Peter—these points of honor which he saw as a barrier between him and Katerin. He snapped out his pistol and pointed it at Wassili.
“Get back through that curtain!” he commanded, and stepped forward toward Wassili. The moujik pressed back, but did not leave the room.
“What’s this?” cried Katerin, turning upon Peter angrily.
He made no reply, but shifting his pistol into his left hand, he kept Wassili covered with the weapon. Then he paused for an instant. Before Katerin or Wassili understood his intent, Peter seized her with his right arm and lifted her against his shoulder. With his left elbow under his head, he kept the muzzle of the pistol toward Wassili, and backed out of the room through the open door into his own room.
Peter put Katerin upon her feet, just as Wassili moved after him—and Peter beckoned the moujik on.
“And what may this be about?” demanded Katerin, staring at Peter as though she suspected that he was bereft of his senses.
“A marriage by abduction—the old folk custom of our people,” declared Peter grimly. “Wassili! You bear witness! I have taken Katerin Stephanovna Kirsakoff from her house to mine—and there must be a witness. She is now my wife—and she must do as I say. So put away the knife—you cannot take from me the woman I have stolen!”
Katerin burst out in laughter.
“You Peter Petrovitch!” she exclaimed. “I thought you were an American—and yet you are Russian—stealing a wife by the old custom! Do you think I am to take this seriously?”