“You prefer to die?”
“I have done with life.”
“You talk like a brave woman,” went on the stranger.
“Oh, be done! I am cold!” said Katerin. She noted that a group of soldiers had fallen into line before her, and that the others about the yard gathered closer, regarding her with curious eyes.
The tall officer drew apart again with Shimilin, and they carried on a low conversation once more. The men in line began to examine their rifles to be in readiness. Both Shimilin and the other officer returned and stood before her again.
“Because your father, General Kirsakoff, was Governor here in the old days, is no reason why you should expect to oppose the new ruler,” said the officer.
Katerin did not answer.
The officer threw open his long coat, showing a uniform of gray tunic and blue breeches. He pulled the strap from his face and revealed the dark face of a Mongol. Sparse mustaches fell from the ends of his upper lip, clinging to his jowls as they drooped past the side of his mouth. His black eyes were set in close to a wide flat nose. Yet his face had a proud and serious mien—the face of an Asiatic of high degree, the face of a stoical and cruel man.
“I am the Ataman Zorogoff,” he said. “I rule. Your father would not loan his fortune to my government. That is all I ask of you. I give you your choice—submit or die.”
Katerin looked at him scornfully.