My reflections were interrupted by the entrance of a Cossack, who came to announce that the “great Czar” called me to his presence.  “Where is he?” I asked, preparing to obey.  “In the commandant’s house,” replied the Cossack.  “After dinner the Czar went to the vapor baths.  It must be confessed that all his ways are imperial!  He can do more than others; at dinner he deigned to eat two roast milk-pigs; afterward at the bath he endured the highest degree of heat; even the attendant could not stand it; he handed the brush to another and was restored to consciousness only by the application of cold water.  It is said that in the bath, the marks of the true Czar were plainly seen on his breast—­a picture of his own face and a double-headed eagle.”

I did not think it necessary to contradict the Cossack, and I followed him to the Commandant’s, trying to fancy in advance my interview with Pougatcheff, and its result.  The reader may imagine that I was not quite at ease.  Night was falling as I reached the house.  The gibbet with its victims still stood, black and terrible.  The poor body of our good Basilia was lying under the steps, near which two Cossacks mounted guard.  He who had brought me, entered to announce my arrival; he returned at once, and led me to the room where the evening before I had taken leave of Marie.  At a table covered with a cloth, and laden with bottles and glasses, sat Pougatcheff, surrounded by some ten Cossack chiefs in colored caps and shirts, with flushed faces and sparkling eyes, the effect, no doubt, of the wine-cup.

I saw neither of our traitors, Alexis or the Corporal, amongst them.

“Ah! your lordship, it is you?” said their chief, on seeing me.  “Be welcome!  Honor and place at the table!”

The guests drew closer together.  I took a place at the end of the table.  My neighbor, a young Cossack of slender form and handsome face, poured out a bumper of brandy for me.  I did not taste it.  I was busy considering the assembly.  Pougatcheff was seated in the place of honor, elbow on table, his heavy, black beard resting upon his muscular hand.  His features, regular and handsome, had no ferocious expression.  He often spoke to a man of some fifty years, calling him now Count, again Uncle.  All treated each other as comrades, showing no very marked deference for their chief.  They talked of the assault that morning; of the revolt, its success, and of their next operations.  Each one boasted of his prowess, gave his opinions, and freely contradicted Pougatcheff.  In this strange council of war, they resolved to march upon Orenbourg, a bold move, but justified by previous successes.  The departure was fixed for the next day.  Each one drank another bumper, and rising, took leave of Pougatcheff.  I wished to follow them, but the brigand said:  “Wait, I want to speak to you.”

Pougatcheff looked at me fixedly in silence for a few seconds, winking his left eye with the most cunning, mocking expression.  At last he burst into a long peal of laughter, so hearty, that I, just from seeing him, began to laugh, without knowing why.