 Book 1, Chapter 13 of Michael Strogoff, Courier of the Tsar. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Michael Strogoff by Jules Verne. Book 1, Chapter 13. Duty Before Everything. Nadia, with the clear perception of a right-minded woman, guessed that some secret motive directed all Michael Strogoff's actions, that he, for a reason unknown to her, did not belong to himself, and that in this instance especially he had heroically sacrificed to duty even his resentment at the gross injury he had received. Nadia therefore asked no explanation from Michael, had not the hand which she had extended to him already replied to all that he might have been able to tell her? Michael remained silent all the evening, the postmaster not being able to supply them with fresh horses until the next morning, a whole night must be passed at the house. Nadia could profit by it to take some rest, and a room was therefore prepared for her. The young girl would no doubt have preferred not to leave her companion, but she felt that he would rather be alone, and she made ready to go to her room. Just as she was about to retire she could not refrain from going up to Michael to say good night. Brother, she whispered, but he checked her with a gesture. The girl sighed and left the room. Michael Strogoff did not lie down, he could not have slept even for an hour, the place on which he had been struck by the brutal traveller felt like a burn. For my country and the father, he muttered, as he ended his evening prayer. He especially felt a great wish to know who was the man who had struck him when he came and where he was going, as to his face the features of it were so deeply engraven on his memory that he had no fear of ever forgetting them. Michael Strogoff at last asked for the postmaster, the latter, a Siberian of the old type, came directly, and looking rather contemptuously at the young man, waited to be questioned. "'You belong to the country?' asked Michael. "'Yes?' "'Do you know that man who took my horses?' "'No.' "'You've never seen him before?' "'Never.' "'Who do you think he was? A man who knows how to make himself obeyed?' Michael fixed his piercing gaze upon the Siberian, but the other did not quail before it. "'Do you dare to judge me?' exclaimed Michael. "'Yes,' answered the Siberian. "'There are some things even a plain merchant cannot receive without returning.' "'Bloze? "'Bloze, young man, I am of an age and strength to tell you so.' Michael went up to the postmaster and laid his two powerful hands on his shoulders. Then, in a peculiarly calm tone, "'Be off, my friend,' said he. "'Be off! I could kill you!' The postmaster understood. "'I like him better for that,' he muttered, and retired without another word. At eight o'clock the next morning, the twenty-fourth of July, three strong horses were harnessed to the Terentas. Michael Strogoff and Nadia took their places, and eachime, with its disagreeable remembrances, was soon left far behind. At the different relays on which they stopped during the day, Strogoff ascertained that the Berlin still preceded them on the road to Irkutsk, and that the traveller, as hurried as they were, never lost a minute in pursuing his way across the steppe. At four o'clock in the evening they reached Abbot Skia, fifty miles farther on, where the eachime, one of the principal affluence of the ear-teach, had to be crossed. This passage was rather more difficult than that of the Tobol. Indeed the current of the eachime was very rapid just at that place. During the Siberian winter, the rivers being all frozen to a thickness of several feet, they are easily practicable, and the traveller even crosses them without being aware of the fact, for their beds have disappeared under the snowy sheet spread uniformly over the steppe, but in summer the difficulties of crossing are sometimes great. In fact two hours were taken up in making the passage of the eachime, which much exasperated Michael, especially as the boatmen gave them alarming news of the Tartar invasion. Some of Fyofar Khan's scouts had already appeared on both banks of the lower eachime in the southern parts of the government of Tobolsk. Omsk was threatened. They spoke of an engagement which had taken place between the Siberian and Tartar troops on the frontier of the great Kyrgyz Horde, an engagement not to the advantage of the Russians, who were weak in numbers. The troops had retreated thence, and in consequence there had been a general emigration of all the peasants of the province. The boatmen spoke of horrible atrocities committed by the invaders, pillage, theft, incendiarism, murder. Such was the system of Tartar warfare. The people all fled before Fyofar Khan. Michael Strogov's great fear was, lest in the depopulation of the towns he should be unable to obtain the means of transport. He was therefore extremely anxious to reach Omsk. Perhaps there they would get the start of the Tartar scouts, who were coming down the valley of the Irtiche, and would find the road open to Irkutsk. Just at the place where the Terentas crossed the river, ended what is called, in military language, the eachime chain, a chain of towers or little wooden forts extending from the southern frontier of Siberia for a distance of nearly four hundred bursts. Finally these forts were occupied by detachments of Cossacks, and they protected the country against the Kyrgyz, as well as against the Tartars. But since the Muscovite government had believed these hordes reduced to absolute submission, they had been abandoned, and now could not be used, just at the time when they were needed. Many of these forts had been reduced to ashes, and the boatmen even pointed out the smoke to Michael, rising in the southern horizon, and showing the approach of the Tartar advance guard. As soon as the ferry boat landed the Terentas on the right bank of the eachime, the journey across the steppe was resumed with all speed. Michael Strogoff remained very silent. He was, however, always attentive to Nadia, helping her to bear the fatigue of this long journey without break or rest, but the girl never complained. She longed to give wings to the horses. King told her that her companion was even more anxious than herself to reach Yerkutsk, and how many bursts were still between. It also occurred to her that if Omsk was entered by the Tartars, Michael's mother, who lived there, would be in danger, and that this was sufficient to explain her son's impatience to get to her. Nadia at last spoke to him of old Marfa, and of how unprotected she would be in the midst of all these events. Have you received any news of your mother since the beginning of the invasion? She asked. None, Nadia. The last letter my mother wrote to me contained good news. Marfa is a brave and energetic Siberian woman, notwithstanding her age. She has preserved all her moral strength. She knows how to suffer. I shall see her, brother, said Nadia quickly. Since you gave me the name of Sister, I am Marfa's daughter. And as Michael did not answer, she added, perhaps your mother has been able to leave Omsk. It is possible, Nadia, replied Michael, and I hope she may have reached Tobolsk. Marfa hates the Tartars. She knows the steppe, and would have no fear in just taking her staff and going down the banks of the Eartish. There is not a spot in all the province unknown to her. Many times as she traveled all over the country with my father, and many times I myself, when a mere child have accompanied them across the Siberian desert, yes, Nadia, I trust that my mother has left Omsk. And when shall you see her? I shall see her on my return. If, however, your mother is still at Omsk, will you be able to spare an hour to go to her? I shall not go and see her. You will not see her? No, Nadia, said Michael, his chest heaving as he felt he could not go on replying to the girl's questions. You say no? Why, brother, if your mother is still at Omsk, for what reason could you refuse to see her? For what reason, Nadia? You ask me for what reason, exclaimed Michael, in so changed a voice that the young girl started, for the same reason as that which made me patient even to cowardice with the villain who he could not finish his sentence. Calm yourself, brother, said Nadia in a gentle voice. I only know one thing, or rather I do not know it, I feel it. It is that all your conduct is now directed by the sentiment of a duty more sacred, if there can be one, than that which unites the son to the mother. Nadia was silent, and from that moment avoided every subject which in any way touched on Michael's peculiar situation. He had a secret motive which she must respect. She respected it. The next day, July 25, at three o'clock in the morning, the Tarantas arrived at Jilkonsk, having accomplished a distance of eighty miles since it had crossed the Ichim. They rapidly changed horses. After however, for the first time, the Yemchik made difficulties about starting, declaring that detachments of Tartars were roving across the steppe, and that travelers, horses, and carriages would be a fine prize for them. Only by dent of a large bribe could Michael get over the unwillingness of the Yemchik, for in this instance, as in many others, he did not wish to show his Potoroshna. The last Yukase, having been transmitted by telegraph, was known in the Siberian provinces, and a Russian specially exempted from obeying these words would certainly have drawn public attention to himself, a thing above all to be avoided by the Tsar's courier. As to the Yemchik's hesitation, either the rascal traded on the travelers' impatience, or he really had good reason to fear. However, at last the Tarantas started, and made such good way that by three in the afternoon it had reached Kulatsinsko, fifty miles farther on. An hour after this it was on the banks of the Irtysh. Omsk was now only fourteen miles distant. The Irtysh is a large river, and one of the principle of those which flow towards the north of Asia, rising in the all-time mountains, it flows from the southeast to the northwest and empties itself into the obi, after a course of four thousand miles. At this time of year, when all the rivers of the Siberian basin are much swollen, the waters of the Irtysh are very high. In consequence the current was changed to a regular torrent, rendering the passage difficult enough. A swimmer could not have crossed however powerful, and even in a ferry boat there would be some danger. But Michael and Nadia, determined to brave all perils wherever they might be, did not dream of shrinking from this one. Michael proposed to his young companion that he should cross first, embarking in the ferry boat with the Tarantas and horses, as he feared that the weight of this load would render it less safe, after landing the carriage he would return and fetch Nadia. The girl refused, it would be the delay of an hour and she would not, for her safety alone, be the cause of it. The embarkation was made not without difficulty, for the banks were partly flooded and the boat could not get in near enough. However, after half an hour's exertion, the boatmen got the Tarantas and the three horses on board. The passengers embarked also, and they shoved off. For a few minutes all went well, a little way up the river the current was broken by a long point projecting from the bank, and forming an eddy easily crossed by the boat. The two boatmen propelled their barge with long poles, which they handled cleverly, but as they gained the middle of the stream it grew deeper and deeper, until at last they could only just reach the bottom. The ends of the poles were only a foot above the water, which rendered their use difficult. Michael and Nadia, seated in the stern of the boat, and always in dread of a delay, watched the boatmen with some uneasiness. "'Look out!' cried one of them to his comrade. The shout was occasioned by the new direction the boat was rapidly taking. It had got into the direct current and was being swept down the river. By diligent use of the poles, putting the ends in a series of notches cut below the gunnel, the boatmen managed to keep the craft against the stream, and slowly urged it in a slanting direction towards the right bank. They calculated on reaching it some five or six bursts below the landing-place, but, after all, that would not matter so long as men and beasts could disembark without accident. The two stout boatmen, stimulated moreover by the promise of double fare, did not doubt of succeeding in this difficult passage of the ear-tish. But they reckoned without an accident which they were powerless to prevent, and neither their zeal nor their skillfulness could, under the circumstances, have done more. The boat was in the middle of the current at nearly equal distances from either shore, and being carried down at the rate of two bursts an hour when Michael, springing to his feet, bent his gaze up the river. Several boats, aided by oars as well as by the current, were coming swiftly down upon them. Michael's brow contracted, and a cry escaped him. What is the matter? asked the girl. But before Michael had time to reply, one of the boatmen exclaimed in an accent of terror, the Tartars, the Tartars! There were indeed boats full of soldiers, and in a few minutes they must reach the ferry boat, it being too heavily laden to escape from them. The terrified boatmen uttered exclamations of despair and dropped their poles. Courage, my friends, cried Michael, courage! Fifty rubles for you if we reach the right bank before the boats overtake us! Insighted by these words, the boatmen again worked manfully, but it soon became evident that they could not escape the Tartars. It was scarcely probable that they would pass without attacking them. On the contrary, there was everything to be feared from robbers such as these. Do not be afraid, Nadia! said Michael, but be ready for anything. I am ready, replied Nadia, even to leap into the water when I tell you, whenever you tell me, have confidence in me, Nadia, I have, indeed! The Tartar boats were now only a hundred feet distant. They carried a detachment of Bokharian soldiers on their way to Reconoiter around Omsk. The ferry boat was still two lengths from the shore. The boatmen redoubled their efforts. Michael himself seized the pole and wielded it with superhuman strength. If he could land the Terrantass and horses and dash off with them, there was some chance of escaping the Tartars, who were not mounted. But all their efforts were in vain. Sarinakichu shouted the soldiers from the first boat. Michael recognized the Tartar war cry, which is usually answered by lying flat on the ground. As neither he nor the boatmen obeyed, a volley was let fly, and two of the horses were mortally wounded. At the next moment a violent blow was felt. The boats had run into the ferry boat. Come, Nadia! cried Michael, ready to jump overboard. The girl was about to follow him when a blow from a lance struck him, and he was thrown into the water. The current swept him away, his hand raised for an instant above the waves, and then he disappeared. Nadia uttered a cry, but before she had time to throw herself after him she was seized and dragged into one of the boats. The boatmen were killed, the ferry boat left to drift away, and the Tartars continued to descend the air-titch. End of Book 1, Chapter 13. Book 1, Chapter 14, of Michael Strogoff, Courier of the Tsar. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Michael Strogoff by Jules Verne. Book 1, Chapter 14, Mother and Son. Omsk is the official capital of western Siberia. It is not the most important city of the government of that name, for Tomsk has more inhabitants and is larger. But it is at Omsk that the Governor-General of this, the first half of Asiatic Russia, resides. Omsk, properly so called, is composed of two distinct towns, one which is exclusively inhabited by the authorities and officials, the other more especially devoted to the Siberian merchants, although indeed the trade of the town is of small importance. This city has about 12,000 to 13,000 inhabitants. It is defended by walls, but these are merely of Earth and could afford only insufficient protection. The Tartars, who were well aware of this fact, consequently tried at this period to carry it by main force, and in this they succeeded after an investment of a few days. The garrison of Omsk reduced to 2,000 men, resisted valiantly, but driven back little by little from the mercantile portion of the place they were compelled to take refuge in the upper town. It was there that the Governor-General, his officers and soldiers, had entrenched themselves. They had made the upper quarter of Omsk a kind of citadel, and hitherto they held out well in this species of improvised kramel, but without much hope of the promised succor. The Tartar troops, who were descending the Irtysh, received every day fresh reinforcements, and what was more serious, they were led by an officer, a traitor to his country, but a man of much note, and of an audacity equal to any emergency. This man was Colonel Ivan Ogarev. Ivan Ogarev, terrible as any of the most savage Tartar chieftains, was an educated soldier. Possessing on his mother's side some Mongolian blood, he delighted in deceptive strategy and ambuscades, stopping short of nothing when he desired to fathom some secret or to set some trap. Deceitful by nature, he willingly had recourse to the vilest trickery, lying when occasion demanded, excelling in the adoption of all disguises and in every species of deception. Further he was cruel, and had even acted as an executioner. Fyofar Khan possessed in him a lieutenant well capable of seconding his designs in this savage war. When Michael Strogov arrived on the banks of the Irtiche, Ivan Ogarev was already Master of Omsk, and was pressing the siege of the upper quarter of the town all the more eagerly because he must hasten to Tomsk where the main body of the Tartar army was concentrated. Tomsk in fact had been taken by Fyofar Khan some days previously, and it was thence that the invaders, Masters of Central Siberia, were to march upon Irkutsk. Irkutsk was the real object of Ivan Ogarev. The plan of the traitor was to reach the Grand Duke under a false name to gain his confidence and to deliver into Tartar hands the town and the Grand Duke himself. With such a town and such a hostage, all Asiatic Siberia must necessarily fall into the hands of the invaders. Now it was known that the Tsar was acquainted with this conspiracy, and that it was for the purpose of baffling it that a courier had been entrusted with the important warning, hence therefore the very stringent instructions which had been given to the young courier to pass incognito through the invaded district. This mission he had so far faithfully performed, but now could he carry it to a successful completion? The blow which had struck Michael Strogov was not mortal. By swimming in a manner by which he had effectually concealed himself, he had reached the right bank where he fell exhausted among the bushes. When he recovered his senses he found himself in the cabin of a Muzhik who had picked him up and cared for him. For how long a time had he been the guest of this brave Siberian he could not guess, but when he opened his eyes he saw the handsome bearded face bending over him and regarding him with pitying eyes. Do not speak, little father, said the Muzhik. Do not speak, thou art still too weak. I will tell thee where thou art and everything that has passed. And the Muzhik related to Michael Strogov the different incidents of the struggle which he had witnessed, the attack upon the ferry by the tartar boats, the pillage of the tarantass, and the massacre of the boatmen. But Michael Strogov listened no longer, and slipping his hand under his garment he felt the imperial letter still secured in his breast. He breathed a sigh of relief. But that was not all. A young girl accompanied me, said he. They have not killed her, replied the Muzhik, anticipating the anxiety which he read in the eyes of his guest. They have carried her off in their boat, and have continued the descent of Irtysh. It is only one prisoner more to join the many they are taking to Tomsk. Michael Strogov was unable to reply. He pressed his hand upon his heart to restrain its beating, but notwithstanding these many trials, the sentiment of duty mastered his whole soul. Where am I? asked he. Upon the right bank of the Irtysh, only five verse from Omsk, replied the Muzhik. What wound can I have received which could have thus prostrated me? It was not a gunshot wound. No, a lance thrust in the head, now healing, replied the Muzhik. After a few days rest, little father, thou wilt be able to proceed. Thou didst fall into the river, but the tartars neither touched nor searched thee, and thy purse is still in thy pocket. Michael Strogov gripped the Muzhik's hand, then recovering himself with a sudden effort. Friend, said he, how long have I been in thy hut? Three days. Three days lost. Three days hast thou lain unconscious. Hast thou a horse to sell me? Thou wishes to go? At once. I have neither horse nor carriage, little father, where the tartar has passed there remains nothing. Well, I will go on foot to Omsk to find a horse, a few more hours of rest, and thou wilt be in a better condition to pursue thy journey. Not an hour. Come now, replied the Muzhik, recognizing the fact that it was useless to struggle against the will of his guest, I will guide thee myself. Besides, he added, the Russians are still in great force at Omsk, and thou couldst perhaps pass unperceived. Friend, replied Michael Strogov, heaven reward thee for all thou hast done for me. Only fools expect reward on earth, replied the Muzhik. Michael Strogov went out of the hut. When he tried to walk he was seized with such faintness that, without the assistance of the Muzhik, he would have fallen, but the fresh air quickly revived him. He then felt the wound in his head, the violence of which his fur cap had lessened. With the energy which he possessed he was not a man to succumb under such a trifle. Before his eyes lay a single goal, far distant Irkutsk, he must reach it, but he must pass through Omsk without stopping there. God protect my mother and Nadia, he murmured. I have no longer the right to think of them. Michael Strogov and the Muzhik soon arrived in the mercantile quarter of the lower town. The surrounding earthwork had been destroyed in many places, and there were the breeches through which the marauders who followed the armies of Fiofar Khan had penetrated. Within Omsk, in its streets and squares, the Tartar soldiers swarmed like ants, but it was easy to see that a hand of iron imposed upon them a discipline to which they were little accustomed. They walked nowhere alone but in armed groups to defend themselves against surprise. In the chief square transformed into a camp guarded by many centuries, two thousand Tartars bivouacked. The horses, picketed but still saddled, were ready to start at the first order. Omsk could only be a temporary halting place for this Tartar cavalry, which preferred the rich plains of eastern Siberia, where the towns were more wealthy, and consequently, pillage more profitable. Above the mercantile town rose the upper quarter, which Ivan Ogarev, notwithstanding several assaults vigorously made but bravely repelled, had not yet been able to reduce. Upon its embattled walls floated the national colors of Russia. It was not without a legitimate pride that Michael Strogov and his guide, vowing fidelity, saluted them. Michael Strogov was perfectly acquainted with the town of Omsk, and he took care to avoid those streets which were much frequented. This was not from any fear of being recognized. In the town his old mother only could have called him by name, and he had sworn not to see her, and he did not. Besides, and he wished it with his whole heart, she might have fled into some quiet portion of the steppe. The Muzhik very fortunately knew a postmaster, who, if well paid, would not refuse at his request either to let or to sell a carriage or horses. There remained the difficulty of leaving the town, but the breaches in the fortifications would, of course, facilitate his departure. The Muzhik was accordingly conducting his guests straight to the posting-house, when, in a narrow street, Michael Strogov, coming to a sudden stop, sprang behind a jutting wall. What is the matter? asked the astonished Muzhik. Silence! replied Michael, with his finger on his lips. At this moment a detachment debouched from the principal square into the street which Michael Strogov and his companion had just been following. At the head of the detachment, composed of twenty horsemen, was an officer dressed in a very simple uniform. Although he glanced rapidly from one side to the other, he could not have seen Michael Strogov owing to his precipitous retreat. The detachment went at full trot into the narrow street. Neither the officer nor his escort concerned themselves about the inhabitants. Several unlucky ones had scarcely time to make way for their passage. There were a few half-stifled cries to which thrusts of the lance gave an instant reply, and the street was immediately cleared. When the escort had disappeared, Who is that officer? asked Michael Strogov, and while putting the question his face was pale as that of a corpse, it is Ivan Ogarev, replied the Siberian, in a deep voice which breathed hatred. He, cried Michael Strogov, from whom the word escaped with a fury he could not conquer, he had just recognized in this officer the traveller who had struck him at the posting-house of Ishim, and although he had only caught a glimpse of him, it burst upon his mind at the same time that this traveller was the old Zingari whose words he had overheard in the marketplace of Nizhny Novgorod. Michael Strogov was not mistaken. The two men were one and the same. It was under the garb of a Zingari mingling with the band of Sengar that Ivan Ogarev had been able to leave the town of Nizhny Novgorod where he had gone to seek his confidants. Sengar and her Zingari, well-paid spies, were absolutely devoted to him. It was he who, during the night, on the fair ground had uttered that singular sentence which Michael Strogov could not understand. It was he who was voyaging on board the Caucasus with the whole of the Bohemian band. It was he who, by this other route, from Kazan to Ishim, across the Urals, had reached Omsk, where now he held supreme authority. Ivan Ogarev had been barely three days at Omsk, and had it not been for their fatal meeting at Ishim and for the event which had detained him three days on the banks of the Irtysh, Michael Strogov would have evidently beaten him on the way to Irkutsk. And who knows how many misfortunes would have been avoided in the future. In any case, and now more than ever, Michael Strogov must avoid Ivan Ogarev and contrive not to be seen, when the moment of encountering him face to face should arrive, he knew how to meet it, even should the traitor be master of the whole of Siberia. The Muzik and Michael resumed their way and arrived at the posting-house. To leave Omsk by one of the breaches would not be difficult after nightfall. As for purchasing a carriage to replace the Terentas, that was impossible. There were none to be let or sold. But what want had Michael Strogov now for a carriage? Was he not alone, alas? A horse would suffice him, and very fortunately a horse could be had. It was an animal of strength and metal, and Michael Strogov accomplished horsemen that he was could make good use of it. It was four o'clock in the afternoon, Michael Strogov compelled to wait till nightfall, in order to pass the fortifications, but not desiring to show himself, remained in the posting-house, and there partook of food. There was a great crowd in the public room. They were talking of the expected arrival of a corps of Muscovite troops, not at Omsk but at Tomsk, a corps intended to recapture that town from the tartars of Fiofar Khan. Michael Strogov lent an attentive ear, but took no part in the conversation. Suddenly a cry made him tremble, a cry which penetrated to the depths of his soul, and these two words rushed into his ear. My son! His mother, the old woman Marfa, was before him, trembling, she smiled upon him, she stretched forth her arms to him, Michael Strogov arose, he was about to throw himself. The thought of duty, the serious danger for his mother and himself in this unfortunate meeting suddenly stopped him, and such was his command over himself that not a muscle of his face moved. There were twenty people in the public room, among them were perhaps spies, and was it not known in the town that the son of Marfa Strogov belonged to the corps of the couriers of the Czar? Michael Strogov did not move. Michael! cried his mother. Who are you, my good lady? Michael Strogov stammered, unable to speak in his usual firm tone. Who am I, thou askest? Does thou no longer know thy mother? You are mistaken, coldly replied Michael Strogov. A resemblance deceives you. The old Marfa went up to him, and looking straight into his eyes said, Thou art not the son of Peter and Marfa Strogov? Michael Strogov would have given his life to have locked his mother in his arms, but if he yielded it was all over with him, with her, with his mission, with his oath. Completely master of himself, he closed his eyes in order not to see the inexpressible anguish which agitated the revered countenance of his mother. He drew back his hands in order not to touch those trembling hands which sought him. I do not know in truth what it is you say, my good woman. He replied, stepping back. Michael! again cried his aged mother. My name is not Michael. I never was your son. I am Nicholas Korpenoff, a merchant at Irkutsk. And suddenly he left the public room, whilst for the last time the words re-echoed, My son! My son! Michael Strogov by a desperate effort had gone. He did not see his old mother, who had fallen back almost inanimate upon a bench. But when the postmaster hastened to assist her, the aged woman raised herself. Suddenly a thought occurred to her. She, denied by her son, it was not possible, as for being herself deceived and taking another for him equally impossible. It was certainly her son whom she had just seen, and if he had not recognized her, it was because he would not. It was because he ought not. It was because he had some cogent reasons for acting thus. And then, her mother's feelings arising within her, she had only one thought. Can I unwittingly have ruined him? I am mad, she said to her interrogators. My eyes have deceived me. This young man is not my child. He had not his voice. Let us think no more of it. If we do, I shall end by finding him everywhere. Less than ten minutes afterwards, a tartar officer appeared in the posting-house. Marfa Strogov, he asked, It is I, replied the old woman, in a tone so calm and with a face so tranquil that those who had witnessed the meeting with her son would not have known her. Come, said the officer. Marfa Strogov, with firm step, followed the tartar. Some moments afterwards she found herself in the chief square in the presence of Ivan Ogarev, to whom all the details of this scene had been immediately reported. Ogarev, suspecting the truth, interrogated the old Siberian woman. Thy name, he asked in a rough voice. Marfa Strogov, thou hast a son? Yes, he is a courier of the Tsar. He is. Where is he? At Moscow. Thou hast no news of him? No news. Since how long? Since two months. Who then was that young man whom thou didst call thy son a few moments ago at the posting-house? A young Siberian whom I took for him, replied Marfa Strogov. This is the tenth man in whom I have thought I recognized my son since the town has been so full of strangers. I think I see him everywhere. So this young man was not Michael Strogov. It was not Michael Strogov. Thus thou know, old woman, that I can torture thee till thou avowest the truth. I have spoken the truth, and torture will not cause me to alter my words in any way. This Siberian was not Michael Strogov. Asked a second time, Ivan Ogarev. No, it was not he. Replied a second time, Marfa Strogov. Do you think that for anything in the world I would deny a son whom God has given me? Ivan Ogarev regarded with an evil eye the old woman who braved him to the face. He did not doubt but that she had recognized her son in this young Siberian. Now if this son had first renounced his mother, and if his mother renounced him in her turn, it could occur only from the most weighty motive. Ogarev had therefore no doubt that the pretended Nicholas Korpenov was Michael Strogov, courier of the Tsar, seeking concealment under a false name, and charged with some mission which it would have been important for him to know. He therefore at once gave orders for his pursuit. Then, let this woman be conducted to Tomsk, he said. While the soldiers brutally dragged her off, he added between his teeth, when the moment arrives I shall know how to make her speak, this old sorceress. End of Book 1, Chapter 14 Book 1, Chapter 15, of Michael Strogov, Courier of the Tsar. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Michael Strogov, by Jules Verne. Book 1, Chapter 15, The Marshes of the Baraba. It was fortunate that Michael Strogov had left the posting house so promptly. The orders of Ivan Ogarev had been immediately transmitted to all the approaches of the city, and a full description of Michael sent to all the various commandants, in order to prevent his departure from Tomsk, but he had already passed through one of the breaches in the wall, his horse was galloping over the step, and the chances of escape were in his favor. It was on the 29th of July, at eight o'clock in the evening, that Michael Strogov had left Tomsk. This town is situated about half way between Moscow and Irkutsk, where it was necessary that he should arrive within ten days if he wished to get ahead of the tartar columns. It was evident that the unlikely chance which had brought him into the presence of his mother had betrayed his incognito. Ivan Ogarev was no longer ignorant of the fact that a courier of the Tsar had just passed Omsk, taking the direction of Irkutsk. The dispatches which this courier bore must have been of immense importance. Michael Strogov knew, therefore, that every effort would be made to capture him. But what he did not know, and could not know, was that Marfa Strogov was in the hands of Ivan Ogarev, and that she was about to atone, perhaps with her life, for that natural exhibition of her feelings which she had been unable to restrain when she suddenly found herself in the presence of her son. And it was fortunate that he was ignorant of it. Could he have withstood this fresh trial? Michael Strogov urged on his horse, imbuing him with all his own feverish impatience, requiring of him one thing only, namely to bear him rapidly to the next posting-house, where he could be exchanged for a quicker conveyance. At midnight he had cleared fifty miles, and halted at the station of Kulikovo. But there, as he had feared, he found neither horses nor carriages. Several tartar detachments had passed along the highway of the steppe. Everything had been stolen or requisitioned, both in the villages and in the posting-houses. It was with difficulty that Michael Strogov was even able to obtain some refreshment for his horse and himself. It was of great importance, therefore, to spare his horse, for he could not tell when or how he might be able to replace it. Desiring, however, to put the greatest possible distance between himself and the horsemen who had no doubt been dispatched in pursuit, he resolved to push on. After one hour's rest he resumed his course across the steppe. Either, too, the weather had been propitious for his journey. The temperature was indurable, the nights at this time of the year are very short, and as they are lighted by the moon, the route over the steppe is practicable. Michael Strogov, moreover, was a man certain of his road and devoid of doubt or hesitation, and in spite of the melancholy thoughts which possessed him he had preserved his clearness of mind, and made for his destined point as though it were visible upon the horizon. When he did halt for a moment at some turn in the road, it was to breathe his horse. Now he would dismount to ease his steed for a moment, and again he would place his ear to the ground and listen for the sound of galloping horses upon the steppe. Nothing arousing his suspicions, he resumed his way. On the thirtieth of July, at nine o'clock in the morning, Michael Strogov passed through the station of Turimolf and entered the swampy district of the Baraba. Therefore a distance of three hundred verts, the natural obstacles would be extremely great. He knew this, but he also knew that he would certainly surmount them. These vast marshes of the Baraba form the reservoir to all the rain water which finds no outlet either towards the obi or towards the irtich. The soil of this vast depression is entirely argillatious, and therefore impermeable, so that the waters remain there and make of it a region very difficult to cross during the hot season. There, however, lies the way to Irkutsk, and it is in the midst of ponds, pools, lakes, and swamps, from which the sun draws poisonous exhalations, that the road winds and entails upon the traveller the greatest fatigue and danger. Michael Strogov spurred his horse into the midst of a grassy prairie, differing greatly from the close-cropped sod of the steppe, where feed the immense Siberian herds. The grass here was five or six feet in height, and had made room for swamp plants, to which the dampness of the place, assisted by the heat of the summer, had given giant proportions. These were principally canes and rushes, which formed a tangled network, an impenetrable undergrowth, sprinkled everywhere with a thousand flowers remarkable for the brightness of their color. Michael Strogov, galloping amongst this undergrowth of cane, was no longer visible from the swamps which bordered the road. The tall grass rose above him, and his track was indicated only by the flight of innumerable aquatic birds, which rose from the side of the road and dispersed into the air in screaming flocks. The way, however, was clearly traceable. Now it would lie straight between the dense thicket of marsh plants. Again it would follow the winding shores of vast pools, some of which, several versets in length and breadth, deserve the name of lakes. In other localities the stagnant waters through which the road lay had been avoided, not by bridges, but by tottering platforms ballasted with thick layers of clay, whose joists shook like a two-week plank thrown across an abyss. Some of these platforms extended over three hundred feet, and travelers by tarantass, when crossing them, have experienced a nausea like sea sickness. Michael Strogoff, whether the soil beneath his feet was solid, or whether it sank under him, galloped on without halt, leaping the space between the rotten joists, but however fast they traveled the horse and the horsemen were unable to escape from the sting of the two-winged insects which infest this marshy country. Travelers who are obliged to cross the Baraba during the summer take care to provide themselves with masks of horsehair, to which is attached a coat of mail of very fine wire which covers their shoulders. Notwithstanding these precautions there are few who come out of these marshes without having their faces, necks, and hands covered with red spots. The atmosphere there seems to bristle with fine needles, and one would almost say that a knight's armor would not protect him against the darts of these dipterals. It is a dreary region which man dearly disputes with tipuli, gnats, mosquitoes, horse flies, and millions of microscopic insects which are not visible to the naked eye, but although they are not seen, they make themselves felt by their intolerable stinging, to which the most callous Siberian hunters have never been able to endure themselves. Michael Strogoff's horse, stung by these venomous insects, sprang forward as if the rowels of a thousand spurs had pierced his flanks. Mad with rage he tore along over versed after versed with the speed of an express train, lashing his sides with his tail, seeking by the rapidity of his pace an alleviation of his torture. It required as good a horseman as Michael Strogoff not to be thrown by the plungings of his horse, and the sudden stops and bounds which he made to escape from the stings of his persecutors. Having become insensible, so to speak, to physical suffering, possessed only with the one desire to arrive at his destination at whatever cost, he saw during this mad race only one thing that the road flew rapidly behind him. Who would have thought that this district of the Baraba, so unhealthy during the summer, could have afforded an asylum for human beings? Yet it did so. Several Siberian hamlets appeared from time to time among the giant canes. Men, women, children and old men, clad in the skin of beasts, their faces covered with hardened blisters of skin, pastured their poor herds of sheep. In order to preserve the animals from the attack of the insects, they drove them to the leeward of fires of green wood, which were kept burning night and day, and the pungent smoke of which floated over the vast swamp. When Michael Strogoff perceived that his horse, tired out, was on the point of succumbing, he halted at one of these wretched hamlets, and there, forgetting his own fatigue, he himself rubbed the wounds of the poor animal with hot grease according to the Siberian custom, then he gave him a good feed, and it was only after he had well groomed and provided for him that he thought of himself, and recruited his strength by a hasty meal of bread and meat and a glass of cross. One hour afterwards, or at the most too, he resumed with all speed the interminable road to Irkutsk. On the thirtieth of July, at four o'clock in the afternoon, Michael Strogoff, insensible of every fatigue, arrived at Ilamsk. There it became necessary to give a night's rest to his horse. The brave animal could no longer have continued the journey. At Ilamsk, as indeed elsewhere, there existed no means of transport, for the same reasons as at the previous villages, neither carriages nor horses were to be had. Michael Strogoff resigned himself therefore to pass the night at Ilamsk, to give his horse twelve hours rest. He recalled the instructions which had been given to him at Moscow, to cross Siberia incognito, to arrive at Irkutsk, but not to sacrifice success to the rapidity of the journey, and consequently it was necessary that he should husband the sole means of transport which remained to him. On the morrow, Michael Strogoff left Ilamsk at the moment when the first Tartar scouts were signaled ten bursts behind upon the road to the Baraba, and he plunged again into the swampy region. The road was level, which made it easy, but very tortuous, and therefore long. It was impossible, moreover, to leave it, and to strike a straight line across that impassable network of pools and bogs. On the next day, the first of August, eighty miles farther, Michael Strogoff arrived at midday at the town of Spasko, and at two o'clock he halted at Pokrovsk. His horse, jaded since his departure from Ilamsk, could not have taken a single step more. There Michael Strogoff was again compelled to lose, for necessary rest, the end of that day and the entire night, but starting again on the following morning, and still traversing the semi-inundated soil, on the second of August at four o'clock in the afternoon, after a stage of fifty miles he reached Kamsk. The country had changed. This little village of Kamsk lies, like an island, habitable and healthy in the midst of the uninhabitable district. It is situated in the very center of the Baraba. The immigration caused by the Tartar invasion had not yet depopulated this little town of Kamsk. Its inhabitants probably fancied themselves safe in the center of the Baraba, whence at least they thought they would have time to flee if they were directly menaced. Michael Strogoff, although exceedingly anxious for news, could ascertain nothing at this place. It would have been rather to him that the governor would have addressed himself had he known who the pretended merchant of Irkutsk really was. Kamsk, in fact, by its very situation seemed to be outside the Siberian world and the grave events which troubled it. Besides, Michael Strogoff showed himself little, if at all. To be unperceived was not now enough for him, he would have wished to be invisible. The experience of the past made him more and more circumspect in the present and the future, therefore he secluded himself, and not caring to traverse the streets of the village, he would not even leave the inn in which he had halted. As for his horse, he did not even think of exchanging him for another animal. He had become accustomed to this brave creature. He knew to what extent he could rely upon him. In buying him at Kamsk he had been lucky, and in taking him to the postmaster the generous Muzik had rendered him a great service. Besides, if Michael Strogoff had already become attached to his horse, the horse himself seemed to become enured, by degrees, to the fatigue of such a journey, and provided that he got several hours of repose daily, his rider might hope that he would carry him beyond the invaded provinces. So, during the evening and night of the second of August, Michael Strogoff remained confined to his inn, at the entrance of the town, which was little frequented and out of the way of the importunate and curious. Exhausted with fatigue, he went to bed after having seen that his horse lacked nothing, but his sleep was broken. What he had seen since his departure from Moscow showed him the importance of his mission. The rising was an extremely serious one, and the treachery of Ogarev made it still more formidable. And when his eyes fell upon the letter bearing upon it the authority of the Imperial Seal, the letter which, no doubt, contained the remedy for so many evils, the safety of all this war-ravaged country, Michael Strogoff felt within himself a fierce desire to dash on across the steppe, to accomplish the distance which separated him from Irkutsk as the crow would fly it, to be an eagle that he might overtop all obstacles, to be a hurricane that he might sweep through the air at a hundred bursts an hour, and to be at last face-to-face with the Grand Duke and to exclaim, Your Highness, from his Majesty the Tsar! On the next morning at six o'clock Michael Strogoff started off again. Thanks to his extreme prudence, this part of the journey was signalized by no incident whatever. At Ubynsk he gave his horse a whole night's rest, for he wished on the next day to accomplish the hundred bursts which lie between Ubynsk and Ikulsko without halting. He started therefore at dawn, but unfortunately the Baraba proved more detestable than ever. In fact, between Ubynsk and Kamakore, the very heavy rains of some previous weeks were retained by this shallow depression as in a watertight bowl. There was, for a long distance, no break in the succession of swamps, pools, and lakes. One of these lakes, large enough to warrant its geographical nomenclature, Chang, Chinese in name, had to be coasted for more than twenty bursts, and this with the greatest difficulty. Hence certain delays occurred which all the impatience of Michael Strogoff could not avoid. He had been well advised in not taking a carriage at Kamsk, for his horse passed places which would have been impracticable for a conveyance on wheels. In the evening at nine o'clock Michael Strogoff arrived at Ikulsko, and halted there overnight. In this remote village of the Baraba news of the war was utterly wanting. From its situation, this part of the province, lying in the fork formed by the two tartar columns which had bifurcated, one upon Omsk and the other upon Tomsk, had hitherto escaped the horrors of the invasion. But the natural obstacles were now about to disappear, for if he experienced no delay Michael Strogoff should on the morrow be free of the Baraba and arrive at Kolibane. There he would be within eighty miles of Tomsk. He would then be guided by circumstances, and very probably he would decide to go around Tomsk, which, if the news were true, was occupied by Fyofar Kahn. But if the small towns of Ikulsko and Karguinsk which he passed on the next day were comparatively quiet owing to their position in the Baraba, was it not to be dreaded that upon the right banks of the Obi Michael Strogoff would have much more to fear from man? It was probable. However, should it become necessary, he would not hesitate to abandon the beaten path to Irkutsk. To journey then across the steppe he would, no doubt, run the risk of finding himself without supplies. There would be, in fact, no longer a well-marked road. Still, there must be no hesitation. Finally, towards half-past three in the afternoon, Michael Strogoff left the last depressions of the Baraba, and the dry and hard soil of Siberia rang out once more beneath his horse's hoofs. He had left Moscow on the fifteenth of July, therefore on this day the fifth of August, including more than seventy hours lost on the banks of the Irkutsk, twenty days had gone by since his departure. One thousand miles still separated him from Irkutsk. Michael's Fear of Meeting the Tartars in the Plains Beyond the Baraba was by no means ungrounded. The fields, trodden down by horses' hoofs, afforded but too clear evidence that their hordes had passed that way. The same indeed might be said of these barbarians as of the Turks, who were in the middle of the Tartars, who were in the middle of the Tartars, who were in the middle of the Tartars, who were in the middle of the Tartars, who were in the middle of these barbarians as of the Turks, where the Turk goes, no grass grows. Michael saw at once that in traversing this country the greatest caution was necessary. Reeds of smoke curling upwards on the horizon showed that huts and handlets were still burning. Had these been fired by the advance guard, or had the Emir's army already advanced beyond the boundaries of the province, was Fyofar Khan himself in the government of Yenisesk. Michael could settle on no line of action until these questions were answered. Was the country so deserted that he could not discover a single Siberian to enlighten him? Michael rode on for two bursts without meeting a human being. He looked carefully for some house which had not been deserted. Every one was tenantless. One hut, however, which he could just see between the trees, was still smoking. As he approached he perceived, at some yards from the ruins of the building, an old man surrounded by weeping children. A woman still young, evidently his daughter and the mother of the poor children, kneeling on the ground, was gazing on the scene of desolation. She had at her breast a baby but a few months old. Shortly she would have not even that nourishment to give it. Ruin and desolation were all around. Michael approached the old man. Will you answer me a few questions, he asked. Speak, replied the old man. Have the Tartars passed this way? Yes, for my house is in flames. Was it an army or a detachment? An army, for as far as I could reach, our fields are laid waste. Commanded by the Ymir. By the Ymir, for the Obie's waters are red. Has Fyofar Khan entered Tomsk? He has. Do you know if his men have entered Kolivan? No, for Kolivan does not yet burn. Thanks, friend. Can I aid you and yours? No. Goodbye, farewell. And Michael, having presented five and twenty rubles to the unfortunate woman who had not even strength to thank him, put spurs to his horse once more. One thing he knew he must not pass through Tomsk. To go to Kolivan which the Tartars had not yet reached was possible. Yes, that is what he must do. There he must prepare himself for another long stage. There was nothing for it but having crossed the Obie to take the Yurkutsk Road and avoid Tomsk. This new route decided on, Michael must not delay an instant. Nor did he, but putting his horse into a steady gallop, he took the road towards the left bank of the Obie, which was still forty bursts distant. Would there be a ferry boat there, or should he, finding that the Tartars had destroyed all the boats, be obliged to swim across? As to his horse, it was by this time pretty well worn out, and Michael intended to make it perform this stage only, and then to exchange it for a fresh one at Kolivan. Kolivan would be like a fresh starting point, for on leaving that town his journey would take a new form. So long as he traversed a devastated country the difficulties must be very great. But if, having avoided Tomsk, he could resume the road to Yurkutsk across the province of Yenisisk, which was not yet laid waste, he would finish his journey in a few days. Night came on, bringing with it refreshing coolness after the heat of the day. At midnight the step was profoundly dark. The sound of the horses hoofs alone was heard on the road, except when, every now and then, its master spoke a few encouraging words. In such darkness as this great care was necessary lest he should leave the road, bordered by pools and streams, tributaries of the obi. Michael therefore advanced as quickly as was consistent with safety. He trusted no less to the excellence of his eyes, which penetrated the gloom than to the well-proved sagacity of his horse. Just as Michael dismounted to discover the exact direction of the road he heard a confused murmuring sound from the west. It was like the noise of horses hoofs at some distance on the parched ground. Michael listened attentively, putting his ear to the ground. It is a detachment of cavalry coming by the road from Omsk, he said to himself. They are marching very quickly, for the noise is increasing. Are they Russians or Tartars? Michael again listened. Yes, said he, they are at a sharp trot. My horse cannot outstrip them. If they are Russians, I will join them. If Tartars, I must avoid them. But how? Where can I hide in this step? He gave a look around, and through the darkness discovered a confused mass at a hundred paces before him on the left of the road. There is a corpse, he exclaimed, to take refuge there is to run the risk of being caught if they are in search of me, but I have no choice. In a few moments Michael, dragging his horse by the bridle, reached a little larch wood through which the road lay. Beyond this it was destitute of trees and wound among bogs and pools separated by dwarfed bushes, winds, and heather. The ground on either side was quite impracticable, and the detachment must necessarily pass through the wood. They were pursuing the high road to Irkutsk. Plunging in about forty feet, he was stopped by a stream running under the brushwood, but the shadow was so deep that Michael ran no risk of being seen unless the wood should be carefully searched. He therefore led his horse to the stream and fastened him to a tree, returning to the edge of the road to listen and ascertain with what sort of people he had to do. Michael had scarcely taken up his position behind a group of larches when a confused light appeared, above which glared brighter lights waving about in the shadow. Torches, said he to himself, and he drew quickly back, gliding like a savage into the thickest underwood. As they approached the wood the horse's pace was slackened, the horsemen were probably lighting up the road with the intention of examining every turn. Michael feared this, and instinctively drew near to the bank of the stream, ready to plunge in if necessary. Arrived at the top of the wood the detachment halted, the horsemen dismounted. There were about fifty, a dozen of them carried torches lighting up the road. By watching their preparations Michael found to his joy that the detachment were not thinking of visiting the cops, but only bivouacking near to rest their horses and allow the men to take some refreshment. The horses were soon unsettled and began to graze on the thick grass which carpeted the ground. The men meantime stretched themselves by the side of the road and partook of the provisions they produced from their knapsacks. Michael's self-possession had never deserted him, and creeping amongst the high grass he endeavored not only to examine the newcomers, but to hear what they said. It was a detachment from Omsk, composed of Uzbek horsemen, a race of the Mongolian type. These men, well built, above the medium height, rough and wild featured, wore on their heads the talpak, or black sheepskin cap, and on their feet yellow high-heeled boots with turned-up toes like the shoes of the Middle Ages. Their tunics were close fitting and confined at the waist by a leathern belt braided with red. They were armed defensively with a shield and offensively with a curved sword and a flintlock musket slung at the saddle-bowl, from their shoulders hung gay colored cloaks. The horses which were feeding at liberty at the edge of the wood were like their masters of the Uzbek race. These animals are rather smaller than the Turkomanian horses, but are possessed of remarkable strength and no no other pace than the gallop. This detachment was commanded by a pinjabashi, that is to say a commander of fifty men, having under him a debashi, or simple commander of ten men. These two officers wore helmets and half-coats of mail, little trumpets fastened to their saddle-bowls were the distinctive signs of their rank. The pinjabashi had been obliged to let his men rest, fatigued with a long stage. He and the second officer, smoking beng, the leaf which forms the base of the hasshish, strolled up and down the wood, so that Michael strove off without being seen, could catch and understand their conversation, which was spoken in the Tartar language. Michael's attention was singularly excited by their very first words. It was of him they were speaking. This courier cannot be much in advance of us, said the pinjabashi, and on the other hand it is absolutely impossible that he can have followed any other route than that of the Baraba. Who knows if he has left Omsk, replied the debashi, perhaps he is still hidden in the town. That is to be wished certainly. Colonel Ogarev would have no fear then that the dispatchers he bears should ever reach their destination. They say that he is a native, a Siberian, resumed the debashi. If so, he must be well acquainted with the country, and it is possible that he has left the air-coatsk road, depending on rejoining it later. But then we should be in advance of him, answered the pinjabashi, for we left Omsk within an hour after his departure, and have since followed the shortest road with all the speed of our horses. He has either remained in Omsk, or we shall arrive at Omsk before him, so as to cut him off, in either case he will not reach air-coatsk. A rugged woman that old Siberian, who is evidently his mother, said the debashi. At this remark Michael's heart beat violently. Yes, answered the pinjabashi, she stuck to it well that the pretended merchant was not her son, but it was too late. Colonel Ogarev was not to be taken in, and as he said he will know how to make the old witch speak when the time comes. These words were so many dagger thrusts for Michael. He was known to be a courier of the Tsar, a detachment of horsemen on his track could not fail to cut him off, and worst of all, his mother was in the hands of the Tartars, and the cruel Ogarev had undertaken to make her speak when he wished. Michael well knew that the brave Siberian would sacrifice her life for him. He had fancied that he could not hate Ivan Ogarev more, yet a fresh tide of hate now rose in his heart. The wretch who had betrayed his country now threatened to torture his mother. The conversation between the two officers continued, and Michael understood that an engagement was imminent in the neighborhood of Kulivan between the Muscovite troops coming from the north and the Tartars. A small Russian force of two thousand men, reported to have reached the lower course of the Obi, were advancing by forced marches towards Tomsk. If such was the case, this force which would soon find itself engaged with the main body of Fyofar Khan's army would be inevitably overwhelmed, and the Irkutsk road would be in the entire possession of the invaders. As to himself, Michael learned by some words from the Punjabashi that a price was set on his head and that orders had been given to take him dead or alive. It was necessary, therefore, to get the start of the Uzbek horsemen on the Irkutsk road and put the Obi between himself and them, but to do that he must escape before the camp was broken up. His determination taken, Michael prepared to execute it. Indeed, the halt would not be prolonged, and the Punjabashi did not intend to give his men more than an hour's rest, although their horses could not have been changed for fresh ones since Omsk, and must be as much fatigued as that of Michael Strogoff. There was not a moment to lose. It was within an hour of mourning. It was needful to profit by the darkness to leave the little wood and dash along the road, but although night favored it, the success of such a flight appeared to be almost impossible. Not wishing to do anything at random, Michael took time for reflection, carefully weighing the chances so as to take the best. From the situation of the place the result was this, that he could not escape through the back of the wood, the stream which bordered it being not only deep but very wide and muddy. Beneath this thick water was a slimy bog on which the foot could not rest. There was only one way open, the high road, to endeavor to reach it by creeping round the edge of the wood without attracting attention, and then to gallop at headlong speed required all the remaining strength and energy of his noble steed. Too probably it would fall dead on reaching the banks of the Obie when, either by boat or by swimming, he must cross this important river. This was what Michael had before him. His energy and courage increased in sight of danger. His life, his mission, his country, perhaps the safety of his mother were at stake. He could not hesitate. There was not a moment to be lost. Already there was a slight movement among the men of the detachment. A few horsemen were strolling up and down the road in front of the wood. The rest were still lying at the foot of the trees, but their horses were gradually penetrating towards the center of the wood. Michael had at first thought of seizing one of these horses, but he recollected that, of course, they would be as fatigued as his own. It was better to trust to his own brave steed, which had already rendered him such important service. The good animal, hidden behind a thicket, had escaped the sight of the Uzbeks. They, besides, had not penetrated so far into the wood. Michael crawled up to his horse through the grass and found him lying down. He patted and spoke gently to him and managed to raise him without noise. Fortunately the torches were entirely consumed, and now went out, the darkness being still profound under shelter of the larches. After replacing the bit, Michael looked to his girths and stirrups and began to lead his horse quietly away. The intelligent animal followed his master without even making the least ney. A few Uzbek horses raised their heads and began to wander towards the edge of the wood. Michael held his revolver in his hand, ready to blow out the brains of the first Tartar who should approach him, but happily the alarm was not given, and he was able to gain the angle made by the wood where it joined the road. To avoid being seen, Michael's intention was not to mount until after turning a corner some two hundred feet from the wood. Unfortunately, just at the moment that he was issuing from the wood, an Uzbek's horse, sending him, made and began to trot along the road. His master ran to catch him, and seeing a shadowy form moving in the dim light, Look out! he shouted. At the cry, all the men of the Bivouac jumped up and ran to seize their horses. Michael leaped on his steed and galloped away. The two officers of the detachment urged on their men to follow. Michael heard a report and felt a ball pass through his tunic. Without turning his head, without replying, he spurred on, and clearing the brushwood with a tremendous bound, he galloped at full speed toward the OB. The Uzbek's horses being unsettled gave him a small start, but in less than two minutes he heard the tramp of several horses gradually gaining on him. Day was now beginning to break, and objects at some distance were becoming visible. Michael turned his head and perceived a horseman rapidly approaching him. It was the debashi. Being better mounted, this officer had distanced his detachment. Without drawing rain, Michael extended his revolver and took a moment's aim. The Uzbek officer, hit in the breast, rolled on the ground. But the other horseman followed him closely, and without waiting to assist the debashi, exciting each other by their shouts, digging their spurs into their horses' sides, they gradually diminished the distance between themselves and Michael. For half an hour only was the latter able to keep out of range of the tartars, but he well knew that his horse was becoming weaker and dreaded every instant that he would stumble never to rise again. It was now light, although the sun had not yet risen above the horizon. Two versed distant could be seen, a pale line bordered by a few trees. This was the obi which flows from the southwest to the northeast, the surface almost level with the ground, its bed being but the steppe itself. Several times shots were fired at Michael but without hitting him, and several times too he discharged his revolver on those of the soldiers who pressed him too closely. Each time an Uzbek rolled on the ground, midst cries of rage from his companions. But this pursuit could only terminate to Michael's disadvantage. His horse was almost exhausted. He managed to reach the bank of the river. The Uzbek detachment was now not more than fifty paces behind him. The obi was deserted, not a boat of any description which could take him over the water. Courage, my brave horse! cried Michael. Come, a last effort! And he plunged into the river, which here was half a versed in width. It would have been difficult to stand against the current. Indeed, Michael's horse could get no footing. He must therefore swim across the river, although it was rapid as a torrent. Even to attempt it showed Michael's marvelous courage. The soldiers reached the bank but hesitated to plunge in. The penjabashi seized his musket and took aim at Michael, whom he could see in the middle of the stream. The shot was fired, and Michael's horse, struck in the side, was born away by the current. His master, speedily disentangling himself from his stirrups, struck out boldly for the shore. In the midst of a hailstorm of balls he managed to reach the opposite side and disappeared in the rushes. Michael was in comparative safety, though his situation was still terrible. Now that the faithful animal who had so bravely born him had met his death in the waters of the river, how was he to continue his journey? He was on foot, without provisions, in a country devastated by the invasion, overrun by the emir's scouts, and still at a considerable distance from the place he was striving to reach. By heaven I will get there, he exclaimed, in reply to all the reasons for faltering, God will protect our sacred Russia. Michael was out of reach of the Uzbek horsemen. They had not dared to pursue him through the river. Once more on solid ground Michael stopped to consider what he should do next. He wished to avoid Tomsk, now occupied by the Tartar troops. Nevertheless he must reach some town, or at least a post house, where he could procure a horse. A horse once found, he would throw himself out of the beaten track and not again take to the Irkutsk road until in the neighborhood of Krasnoyarsk. From that place, if he were quick, he hoped to find the way still open, and he intended to go through the Lake Baikal provinces in a southeasterly direction. Michael began by going eastward. By following the course of the obi two versed further, he reached a picturesque little town lying on a small hill. A few churches, with Byzantine cupolas, colored green and gold, stood up against the gray sky. This is Kolivan, where the officers and people employed at Kamsk and other towns take refuge during the summer from the unhealthy climate of the Baraba. According to the latest news obtained by the Tsar's courier, Kolivan could not be yet in the hands of the invaders. The Tartar troops, divided into two columns, had marched to the left on Omsk, to the right on Tomsk, neglecting the intermediate country. Michael Strogov's plan was simply this, to reach Kolivan before the arrival of the Uzbek horsemen, who would ascend the other bank of the obi to the ferry. There he would procure clothes and a horse, and resume the road to Irkutsk across the southern steppe. It was now three o'clock in the morning. The neighborhood of Kolivan was very still, and appeared to have been totally abandoned. The country population had evidently fled to the northwards, to the province of Yenisesk, dreading the invasion which they could not resist. Michael was walking at a rapid pace towards Kolivan when distant firing struck his ear. He stopped and clearly distinguished the dull roar of artillery, and above it a crisp rattle which could not be mistaken. It is cannon and musketry, said he. The little Russian body is engaged with the Tartar army. Pray heaven that I may arrive at Kolivan before them! The firing became gradually louder, and soon to the left of Kolivan a mist collected, not smoke, but those great white clouds produced by discharges of artillery. The Uzbek horsemen stopped on the left of the Obi to await the result of the battle. From them Michael had nothing to fear as he hastened towards the town. In the meanwhile the firing increased and became sensibly nearer. It was no longer a confused roar but distinct reports. At the same time the smoke partially cleared, and it became evident that the combatants were rapidly moving southwards. It appeared that Kolivan was to be attacked on the north side. But were the Russians defending it, or the Tartars, it being impossible to decide this, Michael became greatly perplexed. He was not more than half a verse from Kolivan when he observed flames shooting up among the houses of the town, and the steeple of a church fell in the midst of clouds of smoke and fire. Was the struggle then in Kolivan? Michael was compelled to think so. It was evident that Russians and Tartars were fighting in the streets of the town. Was this a time to seek refuge there? Would he not run a risk of being taken prisoner? Should he succeed in escaping from Kolivan as he had escaped from Omsk? He hesitated and stopped a moment. Would it not be better to try, even on foot, to reach some small town and there procure a horse at any price? This was the only thing to be done, and Michael, leaving the Obi, went forward to the right of Kolivan. The firing had now increased in violence. Flames soon sprang up on the left of the town. Fire was devouring one entire quarter of Kolivan. Michael was running across the steppe endeavouring to gain the covert of some trees when a detachment of Tartar cavalry appeared on the right. He dared not continue in that direction. The horsemen advanced rapidly, and it would have been difficult to escape them. Suddenly in a thick clump of trees he saw an isolated house, which it would be possible to reach before he was perceived. Michael had no choice but to run there, hide himself, and ask or take something to recruit his strength, for he was exhausted with hunger and fatigue. He accordingly ran on towards this house, still about half a burst distant. As he approached he could see that it was a telegraph office. Two wires left it in westerly and easterly directions, and a third went towards Kolivan. It was to be supposed that under the circumstances this station was abandoned, but even if it was, Michael could take refuge there and wait till nightfall, if necessary, to again set out across the steppe covered with Tartar scouts. He ran up to the door and pushed it open. A single person was in the room once the telegraphic messages were dispatched. This was a clerk, calm, phlegmatic, indifferent to all that was passing outside. Faithful to his post he waited behind his little wicket until the public claimed his services. Michael ran up to him and in a voice broken by fatigue. What do you know? he asked. Nothing, answered the clerk smiling. Are the Russians and Tartars engaged? They say so. But who are the victors? I don't know. Such calmness, such indifference in the midst of these terrible events was scarcely credible. And is not the wire cut? said Michael. It is cut between Kolivan and Krasnoyarsk, but it is still working between Kolivan and the Russian frontier, for the government, for the government when it thinks proper, for the public when they pay, ten co-pecks a word whenever you like, sir. Michael was about to reply to this strange clerk that he had no message to send, that he only implored a little bread and water when the door of the house was again thrown open. Thinking that it was invaded by Tartars, Michael made ready to leap out of the window when two men only entered the room who had nothing of the Tartar soldier about them. One of them held a dispatch written in pencil in his hand, and passing the other he hurried up to the wicket of the imperturbable clerk. In these two men Michael recognized with astonishment, which everyone will understand, two personages of whom he was not thinking at all, and whom he had never expected to see again. They were the two reporters, Harry Blount and Alcide Jolivet, no longer travelling companions, but rivals, enemies, now that they were working on the field of battle. They had left Ishim only a few hours after the departure of Michael Strogoff, and they had arrived at Kolivan before him, by following the same road, in consequence of his losing three days on the banks of the Irtysh. And now, after being both present at the engagement between the Russians and Tartars before the town, they had left just as the struggle broke out in the streets, and ran to the telegraph office, so as to send off their rival dispatches to Europe, and forestall each other in their report of events. Michael stood aside in the shadow, and without being seen himself he could see and hear all that was going on. He would now hear interesting news, and would find out whether or not he would enter Kolivan. Blount, having distanced his companion, took possession of the wicket, whilst Alcide Jolivet, contrary to his usual habit, stamped with impatience. "'Ten co-pecks a word,' said the clerk. Blount deposited a pile of rubles on the shelf, whilst his rival looked on with a sort of stupa faction. "'Good,' said the clerk, and with the greatest coolness in the world he began to telegraph the following dispatch. Daily telegraph London, from Kolivan, government of Omsk, Siberia, 6th August, engagement between Russian and Tartar troops. The reading was in a distinct voice, so that Michael heard all that the English correspondent was sending to his paper. Russians repulsed with great loss. Tartars entered Kolivan today. These words ended the dispatch. "'Might turn now,' cried Alcide Jolivet, anxious to send off his dispatch addressed to his cousin. But that was not Blount's idea, who did not intend to give up the wicket, but have it in his power to send off the news just as the events occurred. He would therefore not make way for his companion. "'But who have finished?' exclaimed Jolivet. "'I have not finished,' returned Harry Blount quietly, and he proceeded to write some sentences which he handed into the clerk, who read out in his calm voice. John Gilpin was a citizen of credit and renown. A train-band captain, Ike, was he of famous London town. Harry Blount was telegraphing some verses learned in his childhood, in order to employ the time and not give up his place to his rival. It would perhaps cost his paper some thousands of rubles, but it would be the first informed. France could wait.' Jolivet's fury may be imagined, though under any other circumstances he would have thought it fair or fair. He even endeavored to force the clerk to take his dispatch in preference to that of his rival. "'It is that gentleman's right,' answered the clerk coolly, pointing to Blount, and smiling in the most amiable manner. And he continued faithfully to transmit to the daily telegraph the well-known verses of Calper. Whilst he was working, Blount walked to the window, and his field-glass to his eyes watched all that was going on in the neighborhood of Collivan so as to complete his information. In a few minutes he resumed his place at the wicket, and added to his telegram, "'Two churches are in flames. The fire appears to gain on the right. John Gilpin's spouse said to her, Dear, though wedded we have been these twice-ten tedious years, yet we no holiday have seen. Alcyd Jolivet would have liked to strangle the honourable correspondent of the daily telegraph.' He again interrupted the clerk, who quite unmoved, merely replied, "'It is his right, sir, it is his right,' at ten co-pecks a word. And he telegraphed the following news just brought him by Blount. Russian fugitives are escaping from the town. Away went Gilpin. Who but he? His fame soon spread around. He carries weight. He rides a race. Tis for a thousand pound.' And Blount turned round with a quizzical look at his rival. Alcyd Jolivet fumed. In the meanwhile Harry Blount had returned to the window, but this time his attention was diverted by the interest of the scene before him. Therefore, when the clerk had finished telegraphing the last lines dictated by Blount, Alcyd Jolivet noiselessly took his place at the wicket, and just as his rival had done, after quietly depositing a respectable pile of rubles on the shelf, he delivered his dispatch, which the clerk read aloud. Madeleine Jolivet, 10, Faubourg Montmartre, Paris. From Kulivan, government of Ormsk, Siberia, 6th August, fugitives are escaping from the town. Russians defeated, fiercely pursued by the Tata cavalry. And as Harry Blount returned, he heard Jolivet completing his telegram by singing in a mocking tone. Il est un petit tome. Tout a biais de gris dans Paris. Imitating his rival, Alcyd Jolivet had used a merry refrain of béranger. Hello! said Harry Blount. Josson! answered Jolivet. In the meantime, the situation at Kulivan was alarming in the extreme. The battle was raging nearer, and the firing was incessant. At that moment the telegraph office shook to its foundations. A shell had made a hole in the wall, and a cloud of dust filled the office. Alcyd was just finishing writing his lines, but to stop dart on the shell, seize it in both hands, throw it out of the window, and return to the wicket was only the affair of a moment. Five seconds later the shell burst outside. Continuing with the greatest possible coolness, Alcyd wrote, a six-inch shell has just blown up the wall of the telegraph office, expecting a few more of the same size. Michael Strogoff had no doubt that the Russians were driven out of Kulivan. His last resource was to set out across the southern steppe. Just then renewed firing broke out close to the telegraph house, and a perfect shower of bullets smashed all the glass in the windows. Harry Blount fell to the ground, wounded in the shoulder. Jolivet, even at such a moment, was about to add this post-script to his dispatch. Harry Blount, correspondent of the Daily Telegraph, has fallen at my side, struck by, when the imperturbable clerk said calmly, Sir, the wire has broken. And, leaving his wicket, he quietly took his hat, brushed it round with his sleeve, and, still smiling, disappeared through a little door which Michael had not before perceived. The house was surrounded by tartar soldiers, and neither Michael nor the reporters could effect their retreat. Alcyd Jolivet, his useless dispatch in his hand, had run to Blount, stretched on the ground, and had bravely lifted him on his shoulders with the intention of flying with him. He was too late, both were prisoners, and at the same time Michael, taken unawares as he was about to leap from the window, fell into the hands of the tartars. At a day's march from Kulivan, several versts beyond the town of Dyachinks, stretches a wide plain, planted here and there with great trees, principally pines and cedars. This part of the steppe is usually occupied during the warm season by Siberian shepherds and their numerous flocks. But now it might have been searched in vain for one of its nomad inhabitants, not that the plain was deserted, it presented a most animated appearance. There stood the Tartar tents, there Pheofar Khan, the terrible emir of Bokhara, was encamped, and there on the following day, the 7th of August, were brought the prisoners taken at Kulivan after the annihilation of the Russian force which had vainly attempted to oppose the progress of the invaders. Of the two thousand men who had engaged the two columns of the enemy, the bases of which rested on Tomsk and Omsk, only a few hundred remained, thus events were going badly, and the imperial government appeared to have lost its power beyond the frontiers of the Ural, for a time at least, for the Russians could not fail eventually to defeat the savage hordes of the invaders, but in the meantime the invasion had reached the center of Siberia, and it was spreading through the revolted country both to the eastern and the western provinces. If the troops of the Amur and the province of Takkutsk did not arrive in time to occupy it, Irkutsk, the capital of Asiatic Russia, being insufficiently garrisoned, would fall into the hands of the Tartars, and the Grand Duke, brother of the emperor, would be sacrificed to the vengeance of Ivan Ogarev. What had become of Michael Strogoff, had he broken down under the weight of so many trials? Did he consider himself conquered by the series of disasters which, since the adventure of Ichim, had increased in magnitude? Did he think his cause lost, that his mission had failed, that his orders could no longer be obeyed? Michael was one of those men who never give in while life exists. He was yet alive, he still had the imperial letter safe, his disguise had been undiscovered. He was included amongst the numerous prisoners whom the Tartars were dragging with him like cattle, but by approaching Tomsk he was at the same time drawing nearer to Irkutsk, besides he was still in front of Ivan Ogarev. I will get there, he repeated to himself. Since the affair of Kulivan, all the powers of his mind were concentrated on one object, to become free. How should he escape from the Amir soldiers? Vyufar's camp presented a magnificent spectacle. Numberless tents of skin, felt, or silk glistened in the rays of the sun. The lofty plumes which surmounted their conical tops, waved amidst banners, flags and penions of every color. The richest of these tents belonged to the Seids and the Kojas, who are the principal personages of the Khanate. A special pavilion, ornamented with a horse's tail issuing from a sheaf of red and white sticks artistically interlaced, indicated the high rank of these Tartar chiefs. Then in the distance rose several thousand of the Turkmen tents called Karioy, which had been carried on the backs of camels. The camp contained at least a hundred and fifty thousand soldiers, as many foot as horse soldiers, collected under the name of Alamaniz. Amongst them, and as the principal types of Turkistan, would have been directly remarked the Tajiks from their regular features, white skin, tall forms and black eyes and hair. They formed the bulk of the Tartar army, and of them the Khanates of Kokand and Kanduj had furnished a contingent nearly equal to that of Bokhara. With the Tajiks were mingled specimens of different races who either reside in Turkistan or whose native countries border on it. There were Uzbeks, red bearded, small in stature similar to those who had pursued Michael. Here were Kurgis, with flat faces like the Kalmukhs, dressed in coats of mail. Some carried the lance, bows and arrows of Asiatic manufacture, some the sabre, a matchlock gun, and the chakane, a little short handled axe, the wounds from which invariably proved fatal. There were Mongols of middle height with black hair plated into pigtails, which hung down their back, round faces, swarthy complexions, lively deep-set eyes, scanty beards, dressed in blue nankine trimmed with black plush, sword belts of leather with silver buckles, coats gaily braided, and silk caps edged with fur and three ribbons fluttering behind. Brown-skinned Afghans, too, might have been seen, Arabs having the primitive type of the beautiful Semitic races, and Turkomans, with eyes which looked as if they had lost the pupil, all enrolled under the Ymir's flag, the flag of incendiaries and devastators. Among these free soldiers were a certain number of slave soldiers, principally Persians, commanded by officers of the same nation, and they were certainly not the least esteemed of Fyofar Khan's army. If to this list are added the Jews who acted as servants, their robes confined with a cord, and wearing on their heads instead of the turban which has forbidden them, little caps of dark cloth, if with these groups are mingled some hundreds of calendars, a sort of religious mendicants clothed in rags, covered by leopard skin, some idea may be formed of the enormous agglomerations of different tribes included under the general denomination of the Tartar army. Nothing could be more romantic than this picture, in delineating which the most skillful artist would have exhausted all the colors of his palette. Fyofar's tent overlooked the others, draped in large folds of a brilliant silk looped with golden cords and tassels, surmounted by tall plumes which waved in the wind like fans. It occupied the center of a wide clearing, sheltered by a grove of magnificent birch and pine trees. Before this tent, on a Japan table inlaid with precious stones, was placed the sacred book of the Quran, its pages being of thin gold leaf delicately engraved. Above floated the Tartar flag, quartered with the emir's arms. In a semi-circle round the clearing stood the tents of the great functionaries of Bukhara. There resided the chief of the stables, who has the right to follow the emir on horseback, even into the court of his palace. The grand falconer, the hoshbegui, bearer of the royal seal, the top shibashi, grand master of the artillery, the koja, chief of the council, who receives the prince's kiss, and may present himself before him with his girdle untied. The shik-ul-izlam, chief of the ulimas, representing the priests. The kazi-askev, who in the emir's absence settles all disputes raised among the soldiers. And lastly, the chief of the astrologers, whose great business is to consult the stars every time the Khan thinks of changing his quarters. When the prisoners were brought into the camp, the emir was in his tent. He did not show himself. This was fortunate, no doubt. A sign, a word from him, might have been the signal for some bloody execution. But he entrenched himself in that isolation which constitutes in part the majesty of eastern kings. He who does not show himself is admired, and above all, feared. As to the prisoners, they were to be pinned up in some enclosure, where ill-treated, poorly fed, and exposed to all the inclinancies of the weather, they would await Feofar's pleasure. The most docile and patient of them all was undoubtedly Michael Strogoff. He allowed himself to be led, for they were leading him where he wished to go, and under conditions of safety which free he could not have found on the road from Kolevan to Tomsk. To escape before reaching that town was to risk again falling into the hands of the scouts who were scouring the steppe. The most eastern line occupied by the Tartar columns was not situated beyond the 85th Meridian, which passes through Tomsk. This Meridian once passed, Michael considered that he should be beyond the hostile zones, that he could traverse Geneski without danger, and gain Krasnoyarsk before Feofar Khan had invaded the province. Once at Tomsk, he repeated to himself to repress some feelings of impatience which he could not entirely master. In a few minutes I should be beyond the outposts, and twelve hours gained on Feofar, twelve hours on Ogarev that surely would be enough to give me a start of them to Irkutsk. The thing that Michael dreaded more than everything else was the presence of Ivan Ogarev in the Tartar camp. Besides the danger of being recognized, he felt by a sort of instinct that this was the traitor whom it was especially necessary to precede. He understood, too, that the union of Ogarev's troops with those of Feofar would complete the invading army, and that the junction once effected, the army would march en masse on the capital of eastern Siberia. All his apprehensions came from this quarter, and he dreaded every instant to hear some flourish of trumpets, announcing the arrival of the lieutenant of the Emir. To this was added the thought of his mother, of Nadia, the one a prisoner at Omsk, the other dragged on board the ear-teach boats, and no doubt a captive as Marfa Strogoff was. He could do nothing for them. Should he ever see them again? At this question, to which he dared not reply, his heart sank very low. At the same time with Michael Strogoff and so many other prisoners, Harry Blount and Alcide Jolivet had also been taken to the Tartar camp. Their former traveling companion, captured like them at the telegraph office, knew that they were pinned up with him in the enclosure, guarded by numerous sentinels, but he did not wish to accost them. Yet mattered little to him, at this time especially, what they might think of him since the affair at Itchim. Besides, he desired to be alone, that he might act alone, if necessary. He therefore held himself aloof from his former acquaintances. From the moment that Harry Blount had fallen by his side, Jolivet had not ceased his attentions to him. During the journey from Jolivet to the camp, that is to say, for several hours, Blount, by leaning on his companion's arm, had been enabled to follow the rest of the prisoners. He tried to make known that he was a British subject, but it had no effect on the barbarians, who only replied by prods with a lance or a sword. The correspondent of the daily telegraph was, therefore, obliged to submit to the common lot, resolving to protest later, and obtain satisfaction for such treatment. But the journey was not the less disagreeable to him, for his wound caused him much pain, and without Alcide Jolivet's assistance, he might never have reached the camp. Jolivet, whose practical philosophy never abandoned him, had physically and morally strengthened his companion by every means in his power. His first care, when they found themselves definitely established in the enclosure, was to examine Blount's wound. Having managed carefully to draw off his coat, he found that the shoulder had been only grazed by the shot. This is nothing, he said. I'm mere scratch. After two or three dressings you will be all to rights. But these dressings, asked Blount, I will make them for you myself. Then you are something of a doctor. All Frenchmen are something of doctors. And on this affirmation, Alcide, tearing his handkerchief, made lint of one piece, bandages of the other, took some water from a well dug in the middle of the enclosure, bathed the wound, and skillfully placed the wet rag on Harry Blount's shoulder. I treat you with water, he said. This liquid is the most efficacious sedative known for the treatment of wounds, and is the most employed now. Doctors have taken six thousand years to discover that. Yes, six thousand years in round numbers. I thank you, Monsieur Jollivet, answered Harry, stretching himself on a bed of dry leaves, which his companion had arranged for him in the shade of a birch tree. But it's nothing. You would do as much for me. I am not quite so sure, said Blount candidly. Nonsense, stupid! Only English are generous. Doubtless. But the French? Well, the French. They are brutes, if you like. But what redeems them is that they are French. Say nothing more about that, or rather say nothing more at all. Rest is absolutely necessary for you. But Harry Blount had no wish to be silent. If the wound in prudence required rest, the correspondent of the Daily Telegraph was not a man to indulge himself. Monsieur Jollivet, he asked, do you think that our last dispatches have been able to pass the Russian frontier? Why not, answered Alcide? By this time you may be sure that my beloved Cousin knows all about the affair at Collivan. How many copies does your cousin work off of her dispatches? Asked Blount for the first time, putting his question direct to his companion. Well, answered Alcide, laughing, my Cousin is a very discreet peissant, who does not like to be talked about, and who would be in despair if she troubled the sleep of which you are in need. I don't wish to sleep, replied the Englishman. What will your cousin think of the affairs of Russia? That they seem, for the time, in a bad way, but, bah, the Muscovite government is powerful. It cannot be really uneasy at the invasion of barbarians. Too much ambition has lost the greatest empires, answered Blount, who was not exempt from a certain English jealousy with regard to Russian pretensions in Central Asia, or do not let us talk politics, cried Jolivet. It is forbidden by the faculty. Nothing can be worse for wounds in the shoulder, unless it was to put you to sleep. Let us then talk of what we ought to do, replied Blount. Mr. Jolivet, I have no intention at all of remaining a prisoner to these tartars for an indefinite time, nor I either, by Jove. We will escape on the first opportunity? Yes, if there is no other way of regaining our liberty, do you know of any other? Asked Blount, looking at his companion, subtly, we are not belligerents, we are neutral, and we will claim our freedom. From that brute of a fee of arcane, no, he would not understand, entered Jolivet, but from his lieutenant, Ivan Ogarev, he is a villain, no doubt. But the villain is a Russian. He knows that it does not do to trifle with the rice of men, and he has no interest to retain us, on the contrary. But to ask a favour of that gentleman does not quite suit my taste. But that gentleman is not in the camp, or at least I have not seen him here, observed Blount. He will come. He will not fail to do that. He must join the Emyr. Siberia is cut in two now, and very subtly, Fyofa's army is only waiting for him to advance on Irkutsk. And once free, what shall we do? Once free, we will continue our campaign, and follow the totals, until the time comes when we can make our way into the Russian camp. We must not give up the game. No, indeed, we have only just begun. You, friend, have already had the honour of being wounded in the service of the Daily Telegraph. Well, Stai, I have as yet suffered nothing in my Cousin's service. Well, well, good, murmured Elsie Jolivet. There he is asleep. A few hours sleep and a few cold water compresses are all that are required to set an Englishman on his legs again. These fellows are made of cast iron. And whilst Harry Blount rested, Elsie watched near him, after having drawn out his notebook, which he loaded with notes determined besides to share them with his companion for the greater satisfaction of the readers of the Daily Telegraph. Events had united them one with the other. They were no longer jealous of each other. So then the thing that Michael Strogoff dreaded above everything was the most lively desire of the two correspondents. Ivan Ogarev's arrival would evidently be of use to them. Blount and Jolivet's interest was, therefore, contrary to that of Michael. The latter well understood the situation, and it was one reason added to many others, which prevented him from approaching his former traveling companions. He therefore managed so as not to be seen by them. Four days passed thus without the state of things being in any wise altered. The prisoners heard no talk of the breaking up of the Tartar camp. They were strictly guarded. It would have been impossible for them to pass the cordon of foot and horse soldiers, which watched them night and day. As to the food which was given them it was barely sufficient. Twice in the twenty-four hours they were thrown a piece of the intestines of goats grilled on the coals, or a few bits of that cheese called Krut, made of sour-yew's milk, and which soaked in mare's milk forms the Kyrgyz dish, commonly called kumis. And this was all. It may be added that the weather had become detestable. There were considerable atmospheric commotions, bringing squalls mingled with rain. The unfortunate prisoners, destitute of shelter, had to bear all the inclementies of the weather, nor was there the slightest alleviation to their misery. Several wounded women and children died, and the prisoners were themselves compelled to dig graves for the bodies of those whom their jailers would not even take the trouble to bury. During this trying period, Alcide Jullivet and Michael Strogoff worked hard, each in the portions of the enclosure in which they found themselves. Healthy and vigorous, they suffered less than so many others, and could better endure the hardships to which they were exposed. By their advice and the assistance they rendered, they were of the greatest possible use to their suffering and despairing fellow-captives. Was this state of things to last? Would Fyofar Kahn, satisfied with his first success, wait some time before marching on Irkutsk? Such it was to be feared would be the case. But it was not so. The event so much wished for by Jullivet and Blount, so much dreaded by Michael, occurred on the morning of the 12th of August. On that day the trumpets sounded, the drums beat, the cannon roared, a huge cloud of dust swept along the road from Kulivan, Ivan Ogarev, followed by several thousand men, made his entry into the Tartar camp.