"No."
"Then it must be revenge. I am all attention."
"You have heard of that society that call themselves 'The Scourge'? Of their political opinions I know nothing. Three years ago the police broke into a Moscow cellar and captured fifteen of this confraternity. Of the ultimate fate of those fifteen I also know nothing, but the end that came to one has been told me. He, at any rate, was a man, and a true Russian."
Gabrielle caught her breath with a gasp, paused a moment, then continued:—
"He was deprived of civil rights, his property confiscated, and he himself sent into exile. He escaped from a convict station in the Trans-Baikal. He gained the woods, but it was winter, and you know what that means."
"Ah!" muttered Vassilitch, twisting his black moustache and watching the pale face of his beautiful companion.
"I have not seen those dreary forests, but I have heard and read of them; how packs of hungry wolves seek food and cannot find it; and how the varnaks—those wretches who have committed real crimes—infest the lonely pathways at evening to rob and murder. They say that the police kill them as dogs."
"Pardon, mademoiselle; you must not credit these wild tales."
"But I do believe them. Listen. This poor exile, after he had wandered for days in that dead land, was discovered by a band of Cossacks riding along a forest path. He was seized. Their officer cried out that he was a varnak, a bradyaga, and ordered that he should be shot. You start; perhaps this story has reached your ears?"
"No, no," said the other, quickly. "Pray go on."