The girl from nowhere

by Mrs. Baillie Reynolds

Out on the Steppe, between Savlinsky and the Forest of Nicolashof, there stood, some quarter of a mile from the road, and hidden from view by one of those undulations of the ground too low to be called hills, a Kirgiz yourtar, or tent. From a distance these yourtars look more like haystacks than anything else—round, fat haystacks, bound together by strips of hide. The material of which they are really made is thick, warm felt; and they afford a most efficient protection from cold and wet.

By the door, all that afternoon, sat three men, in the dress of Kirgiz peasants—long linen shirts, such as one may imagine Abraham to have worn as he sat in his tent door. The woman also, in her long white robe, with a white handkerchief bound round her head, going to and fro with her waterpails to a pond at a short distance, was very like a figure from the Old Testament.

From a hillock on the way to the pond she could just see a glimpse of the white highroad, her own head not being a conspicuous object upon the landscape, and all the rest of her being hidden from view by intervening swells of ground. From an hour before mid-day until an hour or so after, her avocations seemed to necessitate almost constant passing to and fro for water. Soon after half-past one a carriage shot past upon the quiet road. The woman at once reported this unusual event to her male companions. She added the information that the tarantasse contained Felix only, and that Vronsky was not with him. The statement was evidently of interest to one of the men, whose features did not seem to be of the true Kirgiz type, and who was smoking a pipe that suggested Western civilization. He consulted in low tones with the two other men. They seemed to come to some arrangement, and then fell silent. The long afternoon hours passed away, and they sat on like graven images. About five o'clock the woman again grew restless, and remained long at her coign of vantage, watching the road. But nothing stirred upon its empty expanse. After a while the woman brought supper, and they ate in silence, while the children, unwashed, untended, crept inside to sleep. It was about nine o'clock when a solitary figure appeared over the top of the low hillock which protected the yourtar from view of the road.

The men at the tent door made no movement nor sign that they had seen this man. He came on, quite alone; and when he had come near enough to speak, he greeted them in Russian. It was Streloff.

Evidently he bore disturbing news. He directed most of his talk to Cravatz, who, in his disguise, sat immovable, his eyes alone glittering in the dusk, showing his deep concern in the affairs related. There followed much urging, discussion, argument. At last a decision was arrived at. Cravatz was to depart southward at once, and alone. He must walk during the greater part of the night, not touching the highroad, straight to a yourtar which belonged to the brother of the man who now sheltered him. This man was a political refugee—no Kirgiz, but living as one, and married to a Kirgiz woman. As soon as Cravatz was gone, the other two men took off the Kirgiz shirts they wore, armed themselves, and with Streloff proceeded quietly westward, towards Nicolashof, not walking by the road, but keeping as far possible parallel with it, though out of sight of it, and using great caution until they were lost in the beginnings of the forest.

They disappeared—Cravatz to the south, they to the west—and the woman and children remained in the yourtar alone.

Soon they were sound asleep, while the deep rich blue of the northern summer night grew deeper and more intense, and the stars glowed like drops of fire.

Streloff carried the dagger of the Brotherhood. He had received his orders. Felix, in spite of Streloff's attempt to prevent it, had carried to the Governor the arraignment of Cravatz. Felix was to die that night. It was the first mission of the kind upon which the young man had been engaged, and he relished it.

In the wood all was very quiet. No living soul was astir. The village was long ago hushed into slumber, no light glimmered in all its extent. But Streloff and the two men with him did not go as far as the village. They passed the outer skirting of birch trees, where too much light fell upon the road, and entered with precaution the deeper depths of the pine trees, intending to halt at a certain spot where there was a dense thicket into which a body might with ease be dragged and hidden.

Suddenly one of the two men—a genuine Kirgiz—halted, his finger on his lip. The other two halted also, and crouched where they stood. They had heard a noise—very, very slight. It sounded like the striking of a match. Streloff felt his heart in his mouth. A moment later, and the unmistakable flicker of a light gleamed among the trees some distance ahead. It died down. The very, very faint sound of a voice, a whisper, broke the stillness. Someone was there. They held their breath, listening intently. They looked from one to the other blankly. What was to be done? Someone was there, and meant to stay there, for no movement was perceptible. Streloff considered. If there were but a solitary wayfarer it was awkward. They did not want to murder anybody unnecessarily; but this was not a solitary wayfarer, since they had heard someone speak. One does not talk to oneself—as a rule.