The rebellion of the Princess

WHEN I came to myself my first thought was of the tryst: was it the hour to meet the Princess Daria? and then my mind trailed off into confused recollections; I was conscious of a sharp pain in my head and my nostrils were assailed by the ill-smelling smoke from a fire of dried dung and straw. Fuel not being over-plentiful on the wide steppes of Russia, the moujik commonly resorted to these unsavoury materials. I opened my eyes slowly, as we do after a heavy sleep or a swoon, and perceived that I was lying on the ground in a hovel. The door—too low for a man to stand in upright—was open, and the draught from it made the fire smoke, while two men were squatted at the threshold, throwing dice. I tried to turn over to gain a better view of these ruffians, but I found that I was bound, hand and foot, and, determined to learn something of my surroundings before they discovered my revival, I lay still, looking askance at them and little reassured by my observations. They were as pretty a pair of knaves as any man would care to see, and a closer inspection showed me the purple mark on the forehead of one, that I had seen on the man at Troïtsa, and now, at closer quarters, it seemed even more familiar. At last, I recognised him; it was my Streltsi of the Zemlianui-gorod, the dispenser of roubles, Martemian, son of Stenko. Was it possible that the rogue had pursued me even to Troïtsa, that this was the fruit of the steward’s revenge? I could not think so, but I did think that these ruffians were hired by the Prince Voronin to remove me, and why they had not killed me I could not divine, but reflected that they might think they had, and it behoved one to lie still and await developments. Meanwhile, however, the two rogues were deeply engaged in their game and helping themselves to frequent potations from a large jug that stood between them. As I watched from under my half-closed eyelids, one of them turned and looked at me, while he was holding the jug to his lips.

“Thou hast killed him, Martemian,” he said gruffly, “and thou hast exceeded thine orders—now the pay will be lost!”

Martemian cast a scowling glance at me.

“He’s not dead,” he said, in his deep bass; “think you I do not know a dead rat, when I see it? He’ll come about presently and start on his journey,” and he laughed harshly. “The Prince Galitsyn is a blockhead to show such squeamishness; the fellow is better dead than in Archangel.”

Prince Galitsyn! Ah! I strained my ears at that; not Voronin, but Galitsyn—yet it might be both.

“What’s he doing it for?” asked the first speaker thickly, his mouth full. “Is the fellow a Naryshkin?”

Martemian laughed. “What do you care?” he asked. “’Twill bring you your wages, and”—he shrugged his shoulders—“if he is over-troublesome, Mikhail, there are accidents that can happen on the road to the north.”

Mikhail laughed deeply and threw his dice, but after a moment he looked up shrewdly at the other man—his superior in rank and in intelligence.

“What do you get for it, comrade?” he asked sharply, “what d’ye get? There’ll be a fair division, or I’ll not go with you, not I.”

Martemian glared at him fiercely. “You rogue,” he said; “who saved your back from the lash a month since? You’ll get your pay and hold your tongue, or by Saint Nikolas of Mojaïsk, I’ll hold it for you!”

The other villain cowered, and I scarcely blamed him; there was something terrible in the fierce face with the purple mark on the forehead. Yet, though cowed, Mikhail was not content; he would have said more, if I had not stirred—my bonds cutting my wrists—and Martemian’s quick ear caught the sound, and he rose and, striding up to me, bent down and scrutinised my face. He thought I knew no Russ.

“He’s well enough, Mikhail,” he said, stirring me with his foot; “bring the horses—we must travel.”

My blood boiled at his touch and I tried to rise, but could not, and he stood watching me grimly until I heard the horses come to the door. Then Mikhail was bidden to loose my bonds, and I rose with some difficulty, for my head swam. They had stripped me of my weapons and now they did not untie my wrists. Not yet determined on my line of action, I let them think I knew no Russ, hoping to hear more from them, and they resorted to signs, accented with flourishes of their pistols, to make me understand that I was to mount one of the three horses. It is no time to disobey when two pistols are held to your head, and I got on the horse and awaited developments. I thought that I could, at least, guide the horse with my knees, and if the opportunity offered, I could run for it. But opportunities were not to be plentiful. We started northward, in single file, Mikhail ahead of me and Martemian behind; both men armed and ready, as I knew, to shoot me down at the first sign of flight.

It was not until we were mounted that I became aware of my surroundings, and saw that we had been lying in a hut on the outskirts of the pilgrims’ village at Troïtsa. I could see the great dome of the monastery, and the light of the setting sun shone on the crosses. I gnawed my lip in silence; it was the hour that the Princess Daria would look for me. Ah, if my hands had but been free to fight them! Something of my wrath and disappointment must have showed on my face, for Martemian gave me a grim look and touched my horse on the flank.

“Get on with you!” he commanded harshly; “no loitering—forward, march!”

It was on the tip of my tongue to offer him a bribe, when it occurred to me that my money must have gone with my weapons, and as I rode between the two ruffians, I tried to feel, by raising my bound hands to my bosom, and to my surprise the bag was there and felt as weighty as ever. This perplexed me until a sudden thought solved the mystery. Martemian was master of the situation and Martemian intended to have all the gold. He had not searched further than my pockets with Mikhail, because he meant to keep the spoil, and later I found this surmise to be correct and it gave me a clew to a solution of my trouble, and set me to plotting and planning as we jogged along the long straight road, due north from Troïtsa. As we travelled I heard far off, and fainter and fainter, the sweet call of the bells to prayer—to prayer—but I never felt less like praying; I was in a perfect tempest of passion and baffled rage, the captive of two ruffians and as helpless as a clown—with my hands tied.

And yet it was May, and the breath of the northern spring was in the air. The afterglow softened the wide sweep of the steppe, shadows lay here and there, before us grew some trees. There was a sublimity in the solitude of the scene, wide stretching as the sky above us, and tipped at the western edge with crimson.

Before me rode Mikhail, and as he rode he sang a Slavic love song:

sang the soldier, at the top of his trumpet voice:

“‘Golden boughs and boughs of silver.’”

Behind me came Martemian—pistol in hand—a grim, purple-scarred man, who had no mercy and no music in him. Between the two, I made my choice. If I could have killed them then—and I would have done it if I could—Martemian would have been the first.

We rode thus—passing, once or twice, a peasant pilgrim travelling slowly and patiently toward the shrine of Saint Sergius, a brown-skinned, lean moujik with a sheepskin caftan, and legs swathed in folds of cloth, and shoes of lime-tree bark; a man whose life was only labour and starvation and prayer. They came many, many leagues, on foot, to pray, and they went back, on foot, praying still. They looked at us with dull eyes, like dumb beasts, and passed with bowed heads. On we went riding swiftly, ever northward; on and on, and night fell and the stars shone overhead.

At last Martemian halted us, and getting me off my horse, coolly bound my ankles and tethered me to a stump. Then they built a fire of fagots, for we were on the edge of a little wood, and Mikhail cooked a meal of fish, and while he was thus engaged, Martemian, aided by the light of the fagots, came nearer to me and, taking a moment when the other’s back was turned, searched me, and I lay still waiting, determined, now, on my course. He found the bag of roubles and hid it quickly in his own breast and was back, sitting on the ground and feigning sleep when Mikhail brought the fish and bread. Liquor they had in plenty, but they offered me only a cup of water, from a stagnant pool beside us, and a piece of bread. Evidently my food was to be only sufficient to keep body and soul together, but I ate it and said nothing; as yet I knew no Russ, and I saw already a way to deal with this matter and watched the two—suspicious enough now of each other—with grim satisfaction. If I could not outwit two clownish rogues, surely I deserved my fate, and yet—all night I lay, tied to a tree as helpless as a log, and heard them snore beside me. And all the while I cursed my fate and thought of the Princess Daria. It was madness, too, to think of her. I had not kept the tryst; did she suspect the truth, or think me a poor craven frightened by her father? I writhed then in my bonds and plotted vengeance on Martemian; the other villain was but a slave and a dupe.