“That is true, Ivan. I can guess his name, but you know it. Is that not so?”
“It is quite true,” replied the outlaw in low tones. “Your enemy is mine, too, the dastard and scoundrel who enjoys the style and title of Prince Zouroff.”
“Your enemy also?” queried Corsini in wondering tones. “But how can you have crossed his path?”
“I have a heavy account against the man and his family,” answered the outlaw in his low, fierce voice. “In the old bad days of serfdom, his father, who was even a bigger ruffian, if it is possible, than his son, had my father flogged to death for a trivial offence. That was burnt into my brain.”
He tore open his clothes and showed his naked chest, on which was a long scar.
“You see that. Boris insulted my sister, a pure and innocent girl, born on his estate as I was. She told me the story. I borrowed a sword. I lay in wait for him in the woods one night. I challenged him to fight. I wounded him, thank Heaven, but he got his sword in too and left me with that scar. You can guess that I have got a big account against this Prince who swaggers about St. Petersburg and boasts amongst his intimates that he will dethrone the Czar.”
For a few seconds the outlaw paused, struggling to regain his composure, which the recital of his wrongs had so disturbed.
“After that incident, you will guess there was no safety for me, Signor. It was no longer possible for me to remain on this villain’s estate,” he resumed. “I wandered forth to embrace a life of crime—to become a thief, a bandit, a marauder. But, as Heaven is my judge, my guilt lies at his door.”
“You spoke of repaying a debt, Ivan,” interjected Corsini, with a view of recalling the unhappy man from these troublous and disturbing memories. “And if not to-night, very shortly. I don’t know that I very much desire repayment. What I did was out of feelings of humanity. Some people might say misplaced humanity. But what I did that night I should do again to-morrow if we were both in the same position.”