Zorogoff leaned out and spoke earnestly. “If the cat wants a fish, let her wet her feet,” he said. And then added with taunting irony, “You are proud of your rank and your race, Michael Alexandrovitch—you and your daughter hold yourselves superior to a Mongol who is of the blood of rulers, and who rules. But I, too, have pride. You should know more of me and mine, and to that purpose you and your daughter shall live in my palace. I go to prepare for you, and you shall both live under my roof.”
“What?” cried Michael. “That is a new string to the fiddle! Why should we live in your palace?”
“So that I may take care of your health, Michael. And I shall need your advice in government.”
“My advice in your government! You come with a firing squad to kill me and now you talk of taking me to your palace! Surely, this is a day of madness, and I do not understand!”
“You will in time,” replied the Ataman. “You have a lesson to learn. It is that you must not hold yourselves superior to Mongol princes. For your grandchildren, Michael, are to be Mongols, and you and your daughter shall hold them in your arms. You both shall love them—though they be of Mongol blood.”
Zorogoff spoke to the driver and the horses galloped away, leaving Michael cursing under his breath. Then he ran into the yard as fast as his cold-stiffened legs could carry him, and entered the house, calling for Katerin.
Wassili burst through the door of the kitchen into the hall, and cried out in terror at sight of the master whom he supposed to be dead. The moujik fell to his knees, crossing himself and making the sign to ward off devils.
“Katerin! Katerin!” shouted Michael, as he saw the form of his daughter stretched upon an old bench that had been turned into a couch. The old serving woman was giving her mistress restoratives and attempting to warm her—but she fled, screaming, as Michael entered.
Katerin opened her eyes and shivered violently. She stared at her father, who stood over her, and then closed her eyes again and began to cry. She supposed that she was delirious and that her father was not really there.
“Have they tortured you?” cried Michael. “Oh, Katerin Stephanovna, you are spared to me—and I live! Look, my daughter!”