“I will show you who rules now,” called Zorogoff.
“And I will show you how a woman of the nobility can die, lowborn one!”
“Fire!” commanded Zorogoff, throwing up an arm in a gesture of command.
But the rifles did not speak, though they remained leveled at Katerin. She began a prayer, gazing steadily into the muzzles which faced her, and waiting for the impact of the bullets.
Seconds passed. They became minutes. Katerin closed her eyes against the cold. After a wait she opened her eyes again and eight rifles still pointed straight at her.
“Shoot!” she pleaded. “Please shoot!”
She closed her eyes once more. The minutes passed, and Katerin’s body wavered, swayed, and she collapsed in a faint across the fresh mound of earth.
“Take her up and carry her into the house,” commanded the Ataman. “She is a brave woman—but stubborn. She shall submit.”
The soldiers picked Katerin up and carried her through the hall to the kitchen. Wassili and the old serving woman began to scream, thinking that their mistress had been killed.
Zorogoff and Shimilin walked out of the yard and into the street. Shimilin whistled on his fingers. Soon the troika of the Ataman swung out of a side street and the horses came galloping up. There were three men in the troika—two soldiers—and Michael.