“We Cossacks held up the throne on the ends of our lances,” said Shimilin doggedly. “We have our own master now, and we ask no advice from you or your father.”
“Your own master?” Asked Katerin with gentle irony. “If you are your own masters—why not a Cossack?”
“This is our country, and we shall rule it as we wish.”
“As you wish now? And how long before the Mongol will be ready to dispense with Cossack lances and turn your country, as you call it now, over to those who are closer to him in blood?”
“You forget,” raged Shimilin, “that the Ataman protects you—and that you must give him help with money, as there is none in your family who can aid him with a sword!”
“Tribute or death!” cried Katerin. “Is that protection? And if a Russian cannot pay, the Mongol gets a Cossack to kill us! Do you think that if I could wear a sword I would take service under Zorogoff at those terms—and help to destroy my own race?”
“Your father ruled here with the help of Cossacks,” retorted Shimilin. “We paid for the bread of majesty with our lives and our service—and killing Russians is no new business for us—eh, Michael Kirsakoff? How of that, old one? Did we not get well schooled in killing Russians in your time?”
“True!” cried Michael, turning to look at Shimilin. “But you were in the service of Russians. Think well of that. And those you killed broke the law, or had killed in their own turn, with their hand lifted against their fellow Russians or against the throne. The law is the law and justice is justice. Men are not all just, as we were not always just. But what law have we broken here in this house against your Ataman, that you should threaten us because we have no fortune?”
Shimilin gave no reply.
“Do you see no difference between the Czar and a Mongol princeling?” asked Katerin.