“What’s he doing it for?” asked the first speaker thickly, his mouth full. “Is the fellow a Naryshkin?”
Martemian laughed. “What do you care?” he asked. “’Twill bring you your wages, and”—he shrugged his shoulders—“if he is over-troublesome, Mikhail, there are accidents that can happen on the road to the north.”
Mikhail laughed deeply and threw his dice, but after a moment he looked up shrewdly at the other man—his superior in rank and in intelligence.
“What do you get for it, comrade?” he asked sharply, “what d’ye get? There’ll be a fair division, or I’ll not go with you, not I.”
Martemian glared at him fiercely. “You rogue,” he said; “who saved your back from the lash a month since? You’ll get your pay and hold your tongue, or by Saint Nikolas of Mojaïsk, I’ll hold it for you!”
The other villain cowered, and I scarcely blamed him; there was something terrible in the fierce face with the purple mark on the forehead. Yet, though cowed, Mikhail was not content; he would have said more, if I had not stirred—my bonds cutting my wrists—and Martemian’s quick ear caught the sound, and he rose and, striding up to me, bent down and scrutinised my face. He thought I knew no Russ.
“He’s well enough, Mikhail,” he said, stirring me with his foot; “bring the horses—we must travel.”
My blood boiled at his touch and I tried to rise, but could not, and he stood watching me grimly until I heard the horses come to the door. Then Mikhail was bidden to loose my bonds, and I rose with some difficulty, for my head swam. They had stripped me of my weapons and now they did not untie my wrists. Not yet determined on my line of action, I let them think I knew no Russ, hoping to hear more from them, and they resorted to signs, accented with flourishes of their pistols, to make me understand that I was to mount one of the three horses. It is no time to disobey when two pistols are held to your head, and I got on the horse and awaited developments. I thought that I could, at least, guide the horse with my knees, and if the opportunity offered, I could run for it. But opportunities were not to be plentiful. We started northward, in single file, Mikhail ahead of me and Martemian behind; both men armed and ready, as I knew, to shoot me down at the first sign of flight.
It was not until we were mounted that I became aware of my surroundings, and saw that we had been lying in a hut on the outskirts of the pilgrims’ village at Troïtsa. I could see the great dome of the monastery, and the light of the setting sun shone on the crosses. I gnawed my lip in silence; it was the hour that the Princess Daria would look for me. Ah, if my hands had but been free to fight them! Something of my wrath and disappointment must have showed on my face, for Martemian gave me a grim look and touched my horse on the flank.
“Get on with you!” he commanded harshly; “no loitering—forward, march!”