“Surely, I shall marry a Frenchman,” she cried to me, her blue eyes shining; “they do not beat their wives,” and away she ran.
Strangely elated—not only by the thought that the princess had made an appointment with me, but by her cousin’s manner, which seemed to imply Daria’s friendliness also—I walked toward the straggling village, where I could see knots of pilgrims gathered in conversation, and here and there, on the road, one approached slowly, on his knees at every five paces, to utter a penitential prayer.
It was broad noonday; the beautiful domes and minarets of the monastery loomed against a sky as blue as turquoise; in the fields the moujiks had left their ploughing and knelt, facing the cloister, for the bells were ringing the call to prayers. A long line of bowed brown figures trailed slowly up the road to the gate, and the chant of a psalm came softly to me.
My heart was full of mingled emotions; the thought of her, of the cry of joy in her cell in the palace, of her manner just before we met her father, of a look I had surprised once when her eyes dwelt on me. All these things, that lovers dwell upon and hug to their bosoms, filled my mind and deafened my ears. I was far away from the pilgrims now and the houses; I had turned into a path that led across the fields and was walking slowly—the sunshine golden about me—when suddenly a stunning blow fell on the back of my head and there was thick blackness before my eyes, as I reeled and fell, face downwards, and knew no more.
XXXII: THE MAN WITH THE PURPLE SCAR
WHEN I came to myself my first thought was of the tryst: was it the hour to meet the Princess Daria? and then my mind trailed off into confused recollections; I was conscious of a sharp pain in my head and my nostrils were assailed by the ill-smelling smoke from a fire of dried dung and straw. Fuel not being over-plentiful on the wide steppes of Russia, the moujik commonly resorted to these unsavoury materials. I opened my eyes slowly, as we do after a heavy sleep or a swoon, and perceived that I was lying on the ground in a hovel. The door—too low for a man to stand in upright—was open, and the draught from it made the fire smoke, while two men were squatted at the threshold, throwing dice. I tried to turn over to gain a better view of these ruffians, but I found that I was bound, hand and foot, and, determined to learn something of my surroundings before they discovered my revival, I lay still, looking askance at them and little reassured by my observations. They were as pretty a pair of knaves as any man would care to see, and a closer inspection showed me the purple mark on the forehead of one, that I had seen on the man at Troïtsa, and now, at closer quarters, it seemed even more familiar. At last, I recognised him; it was my Streltsi of the Zemlianui-gorod, the dispenser of roubles, Martemian, son of Stenko. Was it possible that the rogue had pursued me even to Troïtsa, that this was the fruit of the steward’s revenge? I could not think so, but I did think that these ruffians were hired by the Prince Voronin to remove me, and why they had not killed me I could not divine, but reflected that they might think they had, and it behoved one to lie still and await developments. Meanwhile, however, the two rogues were deeply engaged in their game and helping themselves to frequent potations from a large jug that stood between them. As I watched from under my half-closed eyelids, one of them turned and looked at me, while he was holding the jug to his lips.
“Thou hast killed him, Martemian,” he said gruffly, “and thou hast exceeded thine orders—now the pay will be lost!”
Martemian cast a scowling glance at me.
“He’s not dead,” he said, in his deep bass; “think you I do not know a dead rat, when I see it? He’ll come about presently and start on his journey,” and he laughed harshly. “The Prince Galitsyn is a blockhead to show such squeamishness; the fellow is better dead than in Archangel.”
Prince Galitsyn! Ah! I strained my ears at that; not Voronin, but Galitsyn—yet it might be both.