“Yes, your Excellency.” And the man saluted and disappeared.
In a few seconds Mascha, pale and trembling, advanced timidly into the room. The Governor was standing near the door when she entered, and as he closed it after her he pushed the small brass bolt into its socket. Then he turned sharply, and asked—
“Well, girl, what do you want?”
“Your Excellency,” said Mascha, bowing with that fawning humility which every Hebrew is bound to show towards Government officials, “I have been sent by our good ispravnik, Ivan Osnavitsch.”
“Very kind of him to select beauty for me and send it to my door, I’m sure,” remarked the General, under his breath.
Continuing, Mascha briefly explained that she and her mother were starving, and that her parent was dying of sheer want.
“But you are a Jewess,” he said sternly. “The relief which my Imperial Master has entrusted me to distribute is only for Orthodox Russians.”
“Have pity; have mercy upon us,” she cried earnestly. “I know that I, a Jewess, have no right to ask a favour of your Excellency, but my dear mother is dying!”
“I cannot prevent that, my pretty one,” he said more kindly, stroking her fair, dishevelled hair.