“Who is this prisoner?” asked the Emir.
“A Russian spy,” answered Ogareff.
In asserting that Michael was a spy, he knew that the sentence would be terrible. The Emir made a sign, at which all bowed low their heads. Then he pointed to the Koran, which was brought to him. He opened the sacred book, and placing his finger on one of its pages, read in a loud voice a verse ending in these words: “And he shall no more see the things of this earth.”
“Russian spy, you have come to see what is going on in the Tartar camp; then look while you may! You have seen for the last time. In an instant your eyes will be for ever shut to the light of day.”
Michael’s fate was to be not death, but blindness. He was going to be blinded in the Tartar fashion, with a hot saber-blade passed before his eyes.
The Emir’s orders executed, Ivan Ogareff approached Michael, drew from his pocket the Imperial letter, opened it and held it up before the face of the Czar’s courier, saying with supreme irony:
“Read, now, Michael Strogoff, read, and go and repeat at Irkutsk what you have read. The true Courier of the Czar is henceforth Ivan Ogareff.”
The Emir retired with his train. Ivan followed after, and sightless Michael was left alone to his fate. One thought possessed him. He must somehow arrive at Irkutsk before the traitor and warn the Grand Duke of the intended deception.
Some months later Michael Strogoff had reached his journey’s end! He was in Irkutsk. Hastening to the governor’s palace to see the Grand Duke, he meets in a waiting-room Ivan Ogareff, the traitor. The latter must act quickly. Ogareff arose, and thinking he had an immeasureable advantage over the blind man threw himself upon him. But with one hand Michael grasps the arm of his enemy and hurls him to the ground. Ogareff gathers himself together like a tiger about to spring, and utters not a word. The noise of his footsteps, his very breathing, he tries to conceal from the blind man. At last, with a spring, he drives his sword full blast at Michael’s breast. An imperceptible movement of the blind man’s knife turns aside the blow. Michael is not touched, and coolly waits a second attack. Cold drops stand on Ogareff’s brow; he draws back a step and again leaps forward. But like the first, this attempt fails. Michael’s knife has parried the blow from the traitor’s useless sword. Mad with rage and terror, he gazes into the wide-open eyes of the blind man. Those eyes which seem to pierce to the bottom of his soul, and which do not, cannot, see, exercise a sort of dreadful fascination over him.
Suddenly Ogareff utters a cry: “He sees! He sees!”