‘Take this bad character and carry him to the flog-room. I will see the Boyar and obtain permission for his knouting.’
‘Do not get me knouted, Mazeppa,’ I said; ‘take your sword, rather, and run me through!’ Then I added, recovering dignity, ‘The Boyar will never dare knout a free Cossack, of family as good as his own, and ten times better than yours!’
Mazeppa replied not a word; but he bade the fellows tie me tight, for, said he, ‘He is a desperate character, and the house is not safe with him in it!’
So here was I locked up in the flog-room, and with the prospect of a knouting before me: a terrible and intolerable disgrace for one of my rank, and Vera as far off as ever, if not more hopelessly removed from me than before.
I was bound hands and feet; if they came to knout me I could make no resistance. I know not exactly how long I awaited my fate; the moments crawled maggot-slow. If I were knouted and survived the shame, I told myself, I should never speak to Mazeppa if we met face to face; I should strike out at sight; neither should I take any rest until I had killed him or he me.
I suppose but a few minutes had in reality passed by—though the maggot-footed time seemed to be the beginning of Eternity—when at length steps approached, and my heart stood still to await my doom.
There entered Mazeppa and one other—a burly, middle-aged man, a wealthy Boyar by his furred and jewelled kaftan—Vera’s father, Kurbatof.
‘So this is the fellow that did his best to defeat my wishes by keeping Vera from the terem? Why did you this, sir?’ said the Boyar.
I decided to speak boldly. ‘Because I desired her for myself, Boyar. What manner of a husband would the Tsar be for such as your daughter? She should marry a man, not a plaster figure!’
‘And who in the devil’s name are you, then?’ said old Kurbatof, astonished at my boldness.