“Well, my lord,” said he, “confess that you were frightened, when my boys put the rope around your neck?  The sky must have seemed to you then as big as a sheep-skin.  And if not for your servant, you would have been swinging up there from the cross-beam; but at that very instant I recognized the old owl.  Would you have thought that the man who led you to a shelter on the steppe was the great Czar himself?” Saying these words, he assumed a grave and mysterious air.  “You have been very guilty,” continued he, “but I have pardoned you, for having done me a kindness, when I was obliged to hide from my enemies.  I shall load you with favors, when I shall have regained my empire.  Do you promise to serve me with zeal?”

The bandit’s question and impudence made me smile.

“Why do you laugh?” said he, frowning, “do you not believe that I am the great Czar?  Answer frankly.”

I was troubled.  I could not recognize a vagabond as the emperor; to call him an impostor to his face was to doom myself to death; and the sacrifice which I was ready to make under the gibbet that morning, before all the people, in the first flush of indignation, seemed now a useless bravado.  Pougatcheff awaited my answer in fierce silence.  At last (I still remember with satisfaction that duty triumphed over human weakness) I replied to Pougatcheff.

“I will tell you the truth and let you decide.  Should I recognize you as the Czar, as you are a man of intelligence, you would see that I am lying.”

“Then who am I? in your opinion.”

“God knows, but whoever you are, you are playing a dangerous game.”

Pougatcheff gave me a sharp, quick glance.  “You do not believe that I am the emperor, Peter III?  Be it so.  Have not bold men succeeded before me and obtained the crown?  Think what you please about me, but stay with me.  What matters it whom you serve?  Success is right.  Serve under me, and I will make you a field-marshal, a prince.  What say you?”

“No,” said I.  “I am a nobleman.  I have taken an oath to her majesty, the Empress; I can not serve with you.  If truly you wish me well, send me to Orenbourg.”

Pougatcheff reflected.  “If I send you there, you will, at least, promise not to bear arms against me?”

“How can I promise that?  If I am ordered to march against you, I must go.  You are now a chief; you desire your subordinates to obey you.  No, my life is in your hand; if you give me liberty, thanks; if you put me to death, may God judge you.”

My frankness pleased him.  “Be it so,” said he, slapping me on the shoulders, “pardon or punish to the end.  You can go the four quarters of the world, and do as you like.  Come tomorrow, and bid me good-bye.  Now go to bed—­I require rest myself.”