WHEN Captain Shimilin raised his hand to the window, there was a sharp command in the courtyard below, followed by the crash of a volley from the rifles of the soldiers Katerin had seen standing before her father.
Katerin, kneeling in front of the icon, fell forward upon the floor at the sound of the volley. Shimilin, still at the window, stood gazing across the room at her, a puzzled look upon his face, as if he did not know what to do next. He heard Wassili wailing in the kitchen below, and from the court came the sounds of metal being thrust into flinty soil and laughter and joking comments from soldiers.
Katerin lay still for several minutes. Then she sat up, and stared at Shimilin as if she had just been awakened from a dream and was still in doubt about her surroundings and why she should be there.
“It is finished,” said Shimilin. “Your father is dead. I am sorry for you, but the Ataman must be obeyed. If you will give up the money now, I will protect you.”
She did not answer him, but continued to stare at him, attempting to grasp what had happened.
“You have killed my father!” she whispered, putting her hands up to her cheeks. “You have killed my father! And now you want me to pay you for it!”
“It is Zorogoff who has killed your father,” said Shimilin. “I obey his orders—as you must.”
He walked over to Katerin and held out his hand to help her to her feet. But she evaded him, and stood up.
“You are a murdering dog,” she said quietly, hatred and revulsion in her look as she shrank away from him. “You lied to us—and you lie now! You are no better than the Mongol—worse than Zorogoff, for he would not kill his own kind for you!”
“Take care!” he warned, moving toward her threateningly. “Take care! My soldiers are still below.”