“But you won’t leave us now, will you?” said little Ivanka pitifully, getting on my knee and nestling on my breast; “you will stay with father, won’t you, and help to take care of us? I’m so frightened!”
“Which do you fear most, dear?” said I, smoothing her hair—“the Turks or the Cossacks?”
The child seemed puzzled. “I don’t know” she said, after a thoughtful pause. “Father says the Turks are far, far worst; but mother and I fear them both; they are so fierce—so very fierce. I think they would have killed us if father had been away.”
Nicholas did not find it hard to persuade the blacksmith. He promised him a tempting reward, but it was evident that his assurance that the wife and family would be placed under the special care of the authorities of the village, had much greater effect in causing the man to make up his mind than the prospect of reward.
It was further arranged that Petroff should accompany us at once.
“Ready,” he said, when the proposal was made. “I’ve nothing left here to pack up,” he added, looking sadly round the poor and empty room. In less than an hour arrangements had been made with the chief man of the village for the comfort and safeguard of the family during the blacksmith’s absence.
It was bright noontide when we were again prepared to take the road.
“Oh, Dobri,” said Marika, as in an angle of the inn-yard she bade her husband farewell, “don’t forget the Saviour—Jesus—our one hope on earth.”
“God bless you, Marika; I’ll never forget you,” returned Petroff, straining his young wife to his heart.
He had already parted from the children. Next moment he was in the saddle, and soon after was galloping with the troop to which we were attached towards the Balkan mountains.