“Where is my daughter?” demanded the old general. “What have you done with her? Does she still live?”
“You will find her inside the house,” said Shimilin. “She is not dead.”
“God is good,” said Michael, at once careful of his words.
“Go back to your house,” said Zorogoff, “and wait till I return.”
“So?” asked Michael. “And why do you return?”
“You shall know then. There has been too much talk to-day.”
Michael got out of the troika and the Ataman got in with Shimilin. Already the soldiers were marching out from the yard, and swinging back into the city.
“Take care that you do not leave the house,” warned Zorogoff, as Michael stood waiting for the soldiers to be clear of the gate. “I do not wish to have you and your daughter run the danger of being fired upon by the sentries. I wish you both to live as long as God lets you.”
Michael, afraid that there was still a trap and that the Ataman had no intention of leaving, though he had been covered by the robes in the troika and had swathed his face and head in furs, did not dare turn his back upon the precious pair in the vehicle.
“I thank you for your consideration,” said the old general. “I thought I was to die, but I still live and my daughter is safe.”