“‘Thanks, thanks; may our brother be rewarded by Heaven,’ I replied, without looking at him or altering my pace. To this day I know not the countenance of the man who gave me this timely warning. As soon as he had gone on some way, I began to walk quicker than before; and darkness having now concealed me from any loungers near the village, I hastened on as fast as my feet could carry me. Young Vacia’s horse would have been truly welcome, still I dared not rest. Never had I travelled on so rapidly. I had, indeed, two powerful motives to hurry my steps—fear of capture, and a longing desire to see my parents and my betrothed. I escaped the threatened danger. Suffice it to say that, after another night passed on foot, I stood within half a verst of my father’s door, yet I dared not venture into the village by daylight. I had hoped to reach it before dawn, but my weary feet refused to carry me along faster. I could gain no information of those I loved. All my friends whom I could trust had been removed. Many new inhabitants had been sent to the place, and I was as a stranger on the spot where my childhood and youth had been passed. I lay concealed all day in a sheltered nook on the hill-side, which commanded a wide view in every direction, and would enable me to retreat should any one approach. How can I paint the anxiety of those hours, as I looked down on my native village, and recognised my father’s cottage, and every spot I knew so well? I tried to discover any inhabitants moving about the door, but none came out whom I could see all day. Evening drew on; the cows came lowing home to be milked, the horses were driven forth to their pastures, and the field labourers loitered in weary from their work. Many a hearth in the village sent up its tiny wreath of smoke into the pure blue sky, but I could see none ascending from my father’s cottage. Forebodings of evil tidings grew upon me. It was impossible longer to curb my anxiety. I hastened down the hill, regardless of danger. No one observed me as I hurried on. The cottage stood in a small garden, railed off from a field. I ran across the field, leaped over the railing, and looked in at a window at the back of the dwelling. All was silent; no one was there. Perhaps they may be sitting in the porch in front of the house, I thought. My sudden appearance will alarm them, though; but it cannot be helped. I got over the paling again, and with beating, anxious heart went round to the front. The porch was empty; the door was off its hinges. My heart sank within me. A villager was passing—an old man—I remembered his face well. He used to be kind to me as a boy, but he liked not our new tenets.
“‘What has become of Loutich Saveleff and his wife and their adopted daughter, my father?’ I asked, with a trembling voice.
“‘Do you belong to this place, as your voice informs me, and ask what has become of them?’ exclaimed old Soukhoroukof. ‘I always told my friend Saveleff that the same thing would happen to him which has happened to his son, if he would persist in adopting the newfangled doctrines which have been so rife of late years. What has become of his son I know not. It is supposed generally that he is dead. He was a good youth, but fanciful and unsteady. Not content with the old-established, well-approved religion of this country, but he must needs run after these new inventions, and get himself into trouble. Well, I was telling you about friend Saveleff. He had long been suspected of harbouring those doctrines, when lately it was discovered that he had given shelter to three or four convicted heretics escaping from justice. None of our old villagers would have informed against him, but some of the newcomers brought the matter before the Starosta, who was obliged to look into it. He carried the matter, as in duty bound, to the steward, who, unfortunately for old Saveleff, owed him a spite, and was but too glad to indulge his ill-feeling. The steward, Morgatch (I will not say what I think of him), brought the affair up to our Barin, the Count. Now the Count is a staunch religionist, and wonderful orthodox; though between you and me, if his heart was looked into, he cares as little for priests and the good of the Church as he does for the Grand Sultan of the Turks. However, whatever that—hum!—Morgatch advises him to do he does. Morgatch brought forward plenty of witnesses to prove that the heretics had been seen in Saveleff’s house, and that he and his wife and daughter had served them with food; and what is more, read out of the Bible, and prayed with them. Such atrocious crimes, of course, could not go unpunished; Morgatch, to make sure of the condemnation of his victims, brought forward evidence to prove that, not content with holding those pernicious doctrines themselves, they had endeavoured to instil them into others. This, too, was clearly proved. Saveleff had not a word to say in his defence, nor had his wife, but rather they boldly confessed and gloried in their crime. Had they been serfs, their owners might have claimed them; but they were free, and the old couple, without the power of appeal, were condemned to be transported to Siberia. No mercy was shown them on account of their grey hairs and their excellent character. They were sent off with felons, murderers, thieves, and traitors, to Moscow. One consolation is, that ere this they have probably sunk down, overcome with fatigue and ill usage, and been released from their sufferings by death.’
“I groaned as I heard these words; I had no questions to ask concerning my parents—the worst was revealed to me. ‘And Aneouta, their daughter, what became of her?’ I gasped out. ‘Ah, poor girl, her fate was a hard one. She would have been transported also, but that—hum!—Morgatch proved that she was a serf, the property of a brother of our Barin’s, the Count; that her father and mother were serfs, and that she had never been manumitted, as old Saveleff, who had adopted her, supposed. Instead, therefore, of being sent to Siberia, she was packed off without ceremony to her native village, to work in the fields, I suppose, or—But what is the matter, young man? You are ill, surely,’ continued the good-natured Soukhoroukof, extending a hand to me, as he saw me at these words about to sink on the ground.
“‘Oh, nothing, nothing,’ I answered, trying to conceal my agitation, but in vain.
“‘Young men do not look like that for nothing,’ he replied. ‘Come along—come into my house. You require food; perhaps a glass of kvass will do you good. Come along,’ and seizing my arm he led me, scarcely conscious of where I was going, to his own cottage.
“Had I had time for consideration I would not have allowed the good man to have run the risk of harbouring me. He made me sit down at his table, and gave me food, and the kvass he promised. I ate and drank mechanically.
“‘When did all this happen?’ I asked, with a trembling voice.
“‘About a fortnight ago only,’ he answered, looking very hard at me. ‘You seem very interested in the people; did you know them?’
“‘I did,’ I answered, doubly agitated; ‘but oh, father, do not ask me questions; it can do no good.’