Suddenly his countenance lighted up, and his features assumed an expression of joy.  He hastened rapidly to the door and summoned his body servant and slave, Ivan Petrowitsch.  “Ivan,” said he, with the stern and cold composure of a Russian—­“Ivan, I have a commission for you, and if you are successful in its execution, I will not have your son Feodor hung, although I know that yesterday, contrary to my order, he was present at the plundering of a house.”

“Speak, master, what am I to do?  I will save my son, even if it cost my own life.”

“It will cost your life, Ivan.”

“I am your property, master, and my life belongs to you,” said the serf, sadly.  “You can have me whipped to death any time it pleases you.  Say, then, what I must do to save my son.”

“Fifty Cossacks are to ride immediately to the powder-mills to bring powder.  You will accompany them.”

Ivan looked at him with astonishment.  “Is that all I have to do?” asked he.

Tottleben was not yet sufficiently Russian.  His German heart would assert its rights.  As he met the inquiring look of Ivan, he turned his eye away.  He forgot that it was only a serf he was speaking to, and not a human being.

But he soon recalled it.  “You will accompany these Cossacks to the powder-mills, I say, and as you do so you will smoke your pipe, and see that the tobacco burns well, and that you are burning tinder on top of it.”

An expression of comprehension shone in Ivan’s eyes.  “I will smoke, master,” said he, sadly.

“When you are in the powder-mills, and the Cossacks are loading the powder, you will help them, and in doing so you will let the pipe fall out of your mouth,” said Tottleben, in an undertone, and his voice trembled ever so little.  There was a pause—­Ivan leaned, pale and trembling, against the wall.  General Tottleben had turned away, as if afraid to encounter the pallid, terrified countenance of his slave.

“If you do not execute my command,” said he, finally, “I will have your only son hung, as he deserves to be.  If you betray to any one soever a word of my order, I will have your wife whipped to death.  Now think of it.”

Ivan shook as if in an ague.  His teeth chattered together.  “I will smoke, master,” said he, at last, with an effort, “and I will drop my pipe in the powder-mills.  Have pity on my son, master, and spare my wife!”

“I will do so, Ivan,” said Tottleben.  “I will give them both their freedom, and a pension.”

Ivan dropped his head, and a convulsive groan burst from his breast.

“Time passes; make haste!” cried the general, with assumed harshness.

“I go, master,” sighed Ivan.  “You will not, then, string up my poor Feodor, nor have my wife whipped?”

“If you execute my order strictly and punctually, I will care for them.”

Two tears coursed slowly down Ivan’s brown cheek.  “I will carry out your orders, master; I will smoke, and I will drop my pipe.  Farewell, master!”