A prayer, a roll upon the drums, and a flourish of instruments with three volleys closed the ceremony, and there lies Archipp Ossepoff in the tomb of a Circassian prince; but his memory as a brave grenadier is still cherished, as I have related, by the orders of the emperor, and in the traditions of his comrades. God rest that gallant spirit; he died for his country, even as I would have died for mine.
Pining for freedom and for the presence of Basilia, dreading I scarcely knew what—but banishment to Siberia more than anything else, for that had been but a living death and a separation for ever from my country and my love—three dreary months rolled over me, and with my two brothers I still found myself a prisoner with the Russian army of the Caucasus, which marched along the left bank of the Kuban towards the Sea of Azov, and consequently nearer to my home.
One day Colonel Carlovitch sent for me, and again his face wore that deep and cunning smile which so closely resembled a leer; for his eyes were cold and snaky, even as his heart was stern and cruel.
"I have sent for you, my valiant Tcherkesse," said he, politely, "to make you a tempting offer from our beneficent father the emperor. It is this. If you will enter the Russian service, all your father's possessions from Marinskoi to the mouth of the Kisselbash River will be restored to you, with the title of prince—neither of which can you ever hope to regain by the impious sword you have drawn against the house of Romanoff and the cause of Holy Russia."
I rejected the offer with the scorn it merited, and reminded the tempter, in the words of our "Declaration of Independence," how many of our children had been stolen; how many of our princes had thus been lured away; how many sons of nobles taken as hostages, and then butchered in cold blood; how many noble houses had been reduced and crushed by Russian treason and by Russian treachery; and lifting up my hands, while I turned my face towards Mecca, I was about to take a solemn vow, when interrupting me, he said, with an icy smile,—
"Enough, Osman Rioni—swear not—'t is needless! To-morrow you and your brothers will commence the long, long march to Siberia."
At these words my soul trembled, and my head fell upon my breast. The Russian officer still smiled and continued to polish the eagle on his helmet, with his leather glove, while whistling the popular waltz of the Duchess Olga.
Siberia!
With that name, hope, love, liberty, my country and her cause sank, and snow-covered wastes, with chains and stripes, despair and death, rose up before me.
If once I reached Siberia, I should live the life of the hopeless, and die the death of the despairing; and my brothers—my poor brothers! The alternative was terrible, but in the Russian service we should daily have chances of escape to our native mountains; so I accepted his offer in the name of myself, Selim, and Karolyi.