I went out with them.  By the order of Khlopusha the sentry took me to the lockup, where I found Saveliitch, and I was left alone with him under lock and key.

My retainer was so astounded by the turn affairs had taken that he did not address a single question to me.  He lay down in the dark, and for a long while I heard him moan and lament.  At last, however, he began to snore, and as for me, I gave myself up to thoughts which did not allow me to close my eyes for a moment all night.

On the morrow morning Pugatchef sent someone to call me.

I went to his house.  Before his door stood a “kibitka” with three Tartar horses.  The crowd filled the street.  Pugatchef, whom I met in the ante-room, was dressed in a travelling suit, a pelisse and Kirghiz cap.  His guests of yesterday evening surrounded him, and wore a submissive air, which contrasted strongly with what I had witnessed the previous evening.

Pugatchef gaily bid me “good morning,” and ordered me to seat myself beside him in the “kibitka.”  We took our places.

“To Fort Belogorsk!” said Pugatchef to the robust Tartar driver, who standing guided the team.  My heart beat violently.

The horses dashed forward, the little bell tinkled, the “kibitka,” bounded across the snow.

“Stop! stop!” cried a voice which I knew but too well; and I saw Saveliitch running towards us.  Pugatchef bid the man stop.

“Oh! my father, Petr’ Andrejitch,” cried my follower, “don’t forsake me in my old age among the rob—­”

“Aha! old owl!” said Pugatchef, “so God again brings us together.  Here, seat yourself in front.”

“Thanks, Tzar, thanks my own father,” replied Saveliitch, taking his seat.  “May God give you a hundred years of life for having reassured a poor old man.  I shall pray God all my life for you, and I’ll never talk about the hareskin ‘touloup.’”

This hareskin “touloup” might end at last by making Pugatchef seriously angry.  But the usurper either did not hear or pretended not to hear this ill-judged remark.  The horses again galloped.

The people stopped in the street, and each one saluted us, bowing low.  Pugatchef bent his head right and left.

In a moment we were out of the village and were taking our course over a well-marked road.  What I felt may be easily imagined.  In a few hours I should see again her whom I had thought lost to me for ever.  I imagined to myself the moment of our reunion, but I also thought of the man in whose hands lay my destiny, and whom a strange concourse of events bound to me by a mysterious link.

I recalled the rough cruelty and bloody habits of him who was disposed to prove the defender of my love.  Pugatchef did not know she was the daughter of Captain Mironoff; Chvabrine, driven to bay, was capable of telling him all, and Pugatchef might learn the truth in other ways.  Then, what would become of Marya?  At this thought a shudder ran through my body, and my hair seemed to stand on end.