“Death!” she answered through quivering lips.
Zorogoff turned to Shimilin.
“The better the horse the worse his bite,” said the Ataman. “But once he is broken, you have a good horse. I do not want to kill a woman so brave as this one.” Turning to Katerin, he went on, “Your sons would know how to rule, mistress.”
“I leave no sons,” she said, now too chilled to care or perceive what the Ataman’s meaning might be.
“I was thinking of what your sons might be like,” went on Zorogoff. “Do not be too sure about sons.”
Katerin gave a cry of agony. She knew now what Zorogoff meant—and she feared now that she might not die after all. She looked at Zorogoff, as he stood before her, peering into her face.
“Kill me!” she cried, and then realizing that unless she angered him by insults, he might not give the order to the soldiers, she spoke with infinite loathing, loud enough so that the soldiers might hear. “You are a lowborn dog! Your mother was a scullion and your father a mover of dead bodies! You are neither Cossack nor Mongol, but vermin from mud huts and a disgrace to both white and yellow!”
“Ah!” said Zorogoff. “Now I know that there is fear in you, and fear for what, my lady! You prefer the rifles to a palace. What if I should give you the fate you dislike?”
“Go to the market place for your women, you swine!” cried Katerin.
The Ataman stepped aside and beckoned Shimilin after him. “Let us see how brave she is,” whispered Zorogoff, and he made a gesture to the men with the rifles. The muzzles lifted promptly and the men took aim at Katerin.