The General bid them take us away.  We went out together.  I looked calmly at Chvabrine, and did not say one word to him.  He smiled a smile of satisfied hatred, gathered up his fetters, and quickened his pace to pass before me.  I was taken back to prison, and after that I underwent no further examination.

I was not witness to all that I have still to tell my readers, but I have heard the whole thing related so often that the least little details have remained graven in my memory, and it seems to me I was present myself.

Marya was received by my parents with the cordial kindness characteristic of people in old days.  In the opportunity presented to them of giving a home to a poor orphan they saw a favour of God.  Very soon they became truly attached to her, for one could not know her without loving her.  My love no longer appeared a folly even to my father, and my mother thought only of the union of her Petrusha with the Commandant’s daughter.

The news of my arrest electrified with horror my whole family.  Still, Marya had so simply told my parents the origin of my strange friendship with Pugatchef that, not only were they not uneasy, but it even made them laugh heartily.  My father could not believe it possible that I should be mixed up in a disgraceful revolt, of which the object was the downfall of the throne and the extermination of the race of “boyars.”  He cross-examined Saveliitch sharply, and my retainer confessed that I had been the guest of Pugatchef, and that the robber had certainly behaved generously towards me.  But at the same time he solemnly averred upon oath that he had never heard me speak of any treason.  My old parents’ minds were relieved, and they impatiently awaited better news.  But as to Marya, she was very uneasy, and only caution and modesty kept her silent.

Several weeks passed thus.  All at once my father received from Petersburg a letter from our kinsman, Prince Banojik.  After the usual compliments he announced to him that the suspicions which had arisen of my participation in the plots of the rebels had been proved to be but too well founded, adding that condign punishment as a deterrent should have overtaken me, but that the Tzarina, through consideration for the loyal service and white hairs of my father, had condescended to pardon the criminal son, and, remitting the disgrace-fraught execution, had condemned him to exile for life in the heart of Siberia.

This unexpected blow nearly killed my father.  He lost his habitual firmness, and his sorrow, usually dumb, found vent in bitter lament.

“What!” he never ceased repeating, well-nigh beside himself, “What! my son mixed up in the plots of Pugatchef!  Just God! what have I lived to see!  The Tzarina grants him life, but does that make it easier for me to bear?  It is not the execution which is horrible.  My ancestor perished on the scaffold for conscience sake,[71] my father fell with the martyrs Volynski and Khuchtchoff,[72] but that a ‘boyar’ should forswear his oath—­that he should join with robbers, rascals, convicted felons, revolted slaves!  Shame for ever—­shame on our race!”