“Ah, ah! so it is you, your lordship,” said Pugatchef, upon seeing me.  “You are welcome.  All honour to you, and a place at our feast.”

The guests made room.  I sat down in silence at the end of the table.

My neighbour, a tall and slender young Cossack, with a handsome face, poured me out a bumper of brandy, which I did not touch.  I was busy noting the company.

Pugatchef was seated in the place of honour, his elbows on the table, and resting his black beard on his broad fist.  His features, regular and agreeable, wore no fierce expression.  He often addressed a man of about fifty years old, calling him sometimes Count, sometimes Timofeitsh, sometimes Uncle.

Each man considered himself as good as his fellow, and none showed any particular deference to their chief.  They were talking of the morning’s assault, of the success of the revolt, and of their forthcoming operations.

Each man bragged of his prowess, proclaimed his opinions, and freely contradicted Pugatchef.  And it was decided to march upon Orenburg, a bold move, which was nearly crowned with success.  The departure was fixed for the day following.

The guests drank yet another bumper, rose from table, and took leave of Pugatchef.  I wished to follow them, but Pugatchef said—­

“Stay there, I wish to speak to you!”

We remained alone together, and for a few moments neither spoke.

Pugatchef looked sharply at me, winking from time to time his left eye with an indefinable expression of slyness and mockery.  At last he gave way to a long burst of laughter, and that with such unfeigned gaiety that I myself, regarding him, began to laugh without knowing why.

“Well, your lordship,” said he, “confess you were afraid when my fellows cast the rope about your neck.  I warrant the sky seemed to you the size of a sheepskin.  And you would certainly have swung beneath the cross-beam but for your old servant.  I knew the old owl again directly.  Well, would you ever have thought, sir, that the man who guided you to a lodging in the steppe was the great Tzar himself?” As he said these words he assumed a grave and mysterious air.  “You are very guilty as regards me,” resumed he, “but I have pardoned you on account of your courage, and because you did me a good turn when I was obliged to hide from my enemies.  But you shall see better things; I will load you with other favours when I shall have recovered my empire.  Will you promise to serve me zealously?”

The robber’s question and his impudence appeared to be so absurd that I could not restrain a smile.

“Why do you laugh?” he asked, frowning.  “Do you not believe me to be the great Tzar?  Answer me frankly.”

I did not know what to do.  I could not recognize a vagabond as Emperor; such conduct was to me unpardonably base.  To call him an impostor to his face was to devote myself to death; and the sacrifice for which I was prepared on the gallows, before all the world, and in the first heat of my indignation, appeared to me a useless piece of bravado.  I knew not what to say.