“But, master, there is truth in what Ilya told us,” put in Wassili.
“What?” cried Michael. “You, too? Are you fool enough to believe now what Ilya Andreitch said?”
Katerin had sat down on a bench when she heard that Ilya had been killed, her hope crushed again. Now she sprang up at Wassili’s words, waiting for him to go on.
“It is truth, master,” insisted Wassili. “I had the news in the city, so what Ilya said must have been true.”
“Who told you?” cried Katerin. “Did they say he had come for us? Is he at the Dauria? Did you see him?”
Wassili was overwhelmed by such a volley of questions, and he paused to catch his breath and assort his information from his memory before he should reply.
“Come! Come! Rattle your tongue, Wassili!” commanded Michael. “Sit here and talk!”
Wassili sank upon the bench while Michael and Katerin hovered over him.
“An iswostchik told me,” began Wassili. “His father was in the Siberian Rifles with mine and I can trust his word. He told me that he drove an American officer to the Dauria—two days ago. If the American officer is there now, I cannot say. But there is none among the iswostchiks who has taken him back to the station. That I know, for I asked many of them—and they would know if the stranger had been taken away.”
“Thanks to God!” cried Katerin. “Then though poor Ilya is dead, there is still hope for us. We must pray that he spoke the truth. Tell us more, Wassili.”