“Well, you are right,” said Pugatchef.  “My drunkards would not have spared the poor girl; my gossip, the pope’s wife, did right to deceive them.”

“Listen,” I resumed, seeing how well disposed he was towards me, “I do not know what to call you, nor do I seek to know.  But God knows I stand ready to give my life for what you have done for me.  Only do not ask of me anything opposed to my honour and my conscience as a Christian.  You are my benefactor; end as you have begun.  Let me go with the poor orphan whither God shall direct, and whatever befall and wherever you be we will pray God every day that He watch over the safety of your soul.”

I seemed to have touched Pugatchef’s fierce heart.

“Be it even as you wish,” said he.  “Either entirely punish or entirely pardon; that is my motto.  Take your pretty one, take her away wherever you like, and may God grant you love and wisdom.”

He turned towards Chvabrine, and bid him write me a safe conduct pass for all the gates and forts under his command.  Chvabrine remained still, and as if petrified.

Pugatchef went to inspect the fort; Chvabrine followed him, and I stayed behind under the pretext of packing up.  I ran to Marya’s room.  The door was shut; I knocked.

“Who is there?” asked Polashka.

I gave my name.  Marya’s gentle voice was then heard through the door.

“Wait, Petr’ Andrejitch,” said she, “I am changing my dress.  Go to Akoulina Pamphilovna’s; I shall be there in a minute.”

I obeyed and went to Father Garasim’s house.

The pope and his wife hastened to meet me.  Saveliitch had already told them all that had happened.

“Good-day, Petr’ Andrejitch,” the pope’s wife said to me; “here has God so ruled that we meet again.  How are you?  We have talked about you every day.  And Marya Ivanofna, what has she not suffered anent you, my pigeon?  But tell me, my father, how did you get out of the difficulty with Pugatchef?  How was it that he did not kill you?  Well, for that, thanks be to the villain.”

“There, hush, old woman,” interrupted Father Garasim; “don’t gossip about all you know; too much talk, no salvation.  Come in, Petr’ Andrejitch, and welcome.  It is long since we have seen each other.”

The pope’s wife did me honour with everything she had at hand, without ceasing a moment to talk.

She told me how Chvabrine had obliged them to deliver up Marya Ivanofna to him; how the poor girl cried, and would not be parted from them; how she had had continual intercourse with them through the medium of Polashka, a resolute, sharp girl who made the "ouriadnik" himself dance (as they say) to the sound of her flageolet; how she had counselled Marya Ivanofna to write me a letter, etc.  As for me, in a few words I told my story.

The pope and his wife crossed themselves when they heard that Pugatchef was aware they had deceived him.