Maluta shook his head vehemently. “No, O excellency,” he replied; “Moscow bubbles as the pot does when the sterlet stews. He could not go there; he has gone to his own domain.”
“And the Princess Daria?”
“Is with him also,” said the dwarf, “she and her cousin and the female slaves, and the new wife of the prince, and all his retinue.”
“Where is his home?” I demanded sharply, for I meant to follow the great lion even to his lair.
Maluta pointed southward.
“Away and away,” he said, “many versts beyond the great white city, south still, toward the Tchornosjorn[B] and beyond, where the prince keeps peace with the Cossacks and is a great lord.”
“I will go after him,” I exclaimed.
The dwarf looked at me askance, his brows wrinkled.
“There is danger there, O my master,” he said shrilly; “even there the prince is lord, and who he wills to live, lives, and who he wills to die, dies, and he rules the land, and his house is strong, and there are twenty-eight bolts to the terem, and lo! the windows thereof are barred, so that not even the sweet-singing bird goes through them, and he has serfs by the score, strong men with the crossbow.”
I laughed bitterly. “Your picture is enchanting, Maluta,” I said. “How goes it in Moscow?”