"Yes," said Sergius, stepping out more energetically; "look at my father and yours, Michael. Always same, brave and faithful. But my mother! And little Clava! We can't expect them to feel like soldiers. They feel the hardships worse than we do. Katerina's baby is dead; and another baby died last night while were asleep. They have put it there, in the baggage-waggon. Only the strongest children will reach the end of the journey."
"Where will the other children go?" asked Clava, with her languid head resting on his shoulder. "Where shall I go, Serge?"
Sergius could not speak, but Michael answered in a cheerful, reassuring tone—
"Why, my little darling," he said, "you know they go to heaven, where there are beautiful gardens, and happy places for little children to live in. Marfa is there; and the Lord Jesus takes the little ones into His arms, and wipes away all their tears, and there is no more crying for ever and ever!"
"For ever and ever!" repeated the child, with a wan smile. "But, Michael, do you hear the children crying in the telega? Why doesn't the Lord Jesus take them all away into His beautiful garden, and keep them there for ever and ever? Oh, Michael, I wish He would take me!"
"Do you want to go?" asked Michael.
"If father and mother and Serge and you could go too," she said wistfully; "I'd be so alone by myself."
"But Marfa is there," Michael replied.
"Ah, Marfa! I forgot," she said, in a tone of content.
They plodded on in silence after this short conversation, until the midday halt was called, when Michael carried little Clava to her mother, and Sergius followed with their bag of coarse food, of which neither Tatiania nor her child could eat much.
THE EXILES' BEGGING SONG
SO the protracted, monotonous march went on; the only change, a change of guards. Some of these made the life more wretched than others; and now and then a captain would compel the whole cavalcade to make a forced march in quicker time than usual, if business or pleasure awaited him in the town they were approaching. Of the towns the exiles saw nothing, but in the villages on their route they were allowed to beg from the inhabitants; for the allowance of money made to each person by the Government was a pitiful pittance, quite too little to sustain life on the merest necessities.
As they drew near to a village, the chained prisoners let their fetters clink and jingle as loudly as possible, to call attention to their passing by. The shrill ring formed an accompaniment to the convicts' begging song, which each man sang, not in unison, but in an almost tuneless chant, which, however, had a heart-shaking modulation of its own.
"Have pity on us, O our fathers!
Don't forgot the unwilling travellers,
Don't forgot the long-imprisoned.
Feed us, O our father!—Help us!
"Feed and help the poor and needy!
Have compassion, O our fathers!
Have compassion, O our mothers!
For the sake of Christ, have mercy
On the prisoners—the shut-up ones!
Behind walls of stone and gratings,
Behind oaken doors and padlocks,
Behind bars and locks of iron,
We are held in close confinement.
We have parted from our fathers,
From our mothers;
We from all our kin have parted,
We are prisoners;
Pity us, O our fathers!"
This mournful chant rang on far in advance, and the pitiful notes brought many a peasant to the door, with half a loaf of bread or a few handfuls of meal. The Stundists were usually deputed to beg, as they could be trusted not to secrete any alms that might take the shape of money or tobacco. Alexis, with his grave and noble face, and old Matrona, whose bowed shoulders and wrinkled features appealed strongly for pity, were the most successful suppliants. The placid and grateful old woman often moved the peasant women to tears.
"You're too old to go on étape, mother," they said.
"I go with my only son," she would answer.
"God pity you both!" exclaimed the peasants.
"He pities us, and loves us too," said Matrona, with her peaceful smile.
When the midday halt was called, the food collected by the way was divided among them all. A rough sense of fairness and comradeship prevailed among this band of murderers, robbers, and criminals of various kinds and degrees; besides the political prisoners and persecuted Stundists. They slept under the same roof, and traversed side by side the same road; their lives were absolutely similar, as far as the Government could make them.
The autumn came, and with the rain the dust disappeared. For a short interval the long-drawn-out pilgrimage was more endurable. The weather was still warm, and the sunshine was soft and genial. The leaves were still upon the trees. The vast, unfenced cornfields were bare. Innumerable flocks of birds fluttered over the stubble, feeding on the grain which had been too ripe to carry. In the villages the gifts were more bountiful with the abundance of the harvest. Flowers lingered in dells and hollows, where the frosty night-breeze passed above them. The convict band felt this cheering change. There was a less languid stepping out, and they were better fed. The children began to laugh and play again; and even the women looked less wretched and exhausted.
But the autumnal rains grew heavy and persistent, and still the endless journey continued. The shoes provided for the convicts had fallen to pieces a week or two after they started; and they had tramped barefoot through the hot dust. One shirt of coarse linen was given to them once in six months; these were in rags. Their coats and trousers were also of grey linen, and were equally tattered. The voluntary exiles were scarcely better off, though they wore their own clothes. But each was allowed only a small bag for carrying all the possessions they wished to take with them into exile. Many of them had sold what they could spare for food. Under the pitiless rain, drenched to the skin, they travelled on, the chilly breeze benumbing their ill-fed and emaciated bodies, and the mud, half-frozen, oozing through their worn-out shoes.
Nor was there much relief when they gained the shelter of an étape, for they could not dry their saturated rags, nor had they any change of clothing. They must sleep as they were on the wooden platform, in their drenched and dirty garments; the natural warmth of so many closely packed human beings producing a malarious steam, added to the already foul air. Shivering with cold, yet seething in a reeking atmosphere, the miserable creatures could not rest in sleep.
THE PROCESSION CRAWLED ACROSS THE SNOWCLAD PLAINS.
Presently the rain changed to snow; the first snowstorm of the winter coming swiftly down upon them from the north. They were weather-bound for a few days, so blinding and baffling were the thickly-falling flakes. Then hunger set in; such hunger and starvation as had never yet befallen them, for no provisions were laid up for the exiles, and the peasants from whom they bought their food could no more go to them than they could march along the road. The convoy captain allowed them a scanty share of the soldiers' rations, just sufficient to keep them alive, but he could do no more for them. Without food or fire, in clothes that dried upon their bodies, huddled together, they passed the miserable days and nights.
At last the snowstorm ceased, and a sharp frost set in. A number of peasants came with rough sledges, judging rightly that all the women and children, and some of the convicts, would be unable to walk the next stage. The winter had come upon them so early and so unexpectedly that even the guards were not prepared. The convicts were in the rags of their summer clothing, and barefoot, but at the next forwarding prison winter garments would be given out.
But to the half-famished men and women the next few days were bitter, under the gloomy sky, with an icy wind whistling around them. In dead silence, except for the jingling of their chains, the procession crawled slowly and weariedly across the snowclad plains. The prisoners kept closely together, to avoid being frozen to death, but not a word did one man say to his fellow. In the telegas, and the sledges also, the women were speechless, in a half stupor; and only now and then the children uttered a cry at the death-like apathy of those around them.
Michael and Sergius kept as near as they could to the telega where Tatiania was crouching, with little Clava on her lap. But they too were appalled at this universal stupefaction, and could not speak of it to one another.
They reached at last the forwarding prison, where winter stores were kept. They were to rest there for a few days to recover strength, for several of the older convicts had broken down on the way. It was a great relief to them all. Tatiania, who had seemed near unto death, revived a little.
"Khariton," she said one night, as she lay beside him on the nari, "you know that little Clava and I are going to leave you soon?"
"Yes, dear wife," he answered.
"And you will not pray to our Lord to keep us back?" she said.
"No," he replied, with a sharp pain at his heart.
"It's time for me to give up what Alexis trusted me with," she whispered in his ear. "I've kept it safe; nobody has suspected. But if I die on the road, they'll find it, and you'll lose most of it—perhaps all."
"But who will take care of it for us?" he asked. "Matron is too old; who could expect her to live to the end? We have still many weeks to travel, and all the women are failing."
"Let the boys take charge of it," she continued, still whispering, "fifty roubles to Michael, and fifty to Sergius. They are both as wise and prudent as men. Oh, they've been a great comfort to us, good boys! There 'll not be too much to divide among you when you reach Irkutsk; only there you'll soon get work."
"I will ask Alexis to-morrow," said Khariton.
"Then my mind will be quite easy," she murmured; "I should have died to-day, only I prayed the Lord to spare me until I could give up my trust. Now I shall have nothing to think of but how blessed we shall be when we are all together again, with the Lord. We were very happy in Knishi, husband!"
"We were," he replied with a sob.
"We might have been happy in Irkutsk," she went on, "but I'm worn-out, body and mind. I long to get away out of this world. You'll let Clava and me go?"
"God's will be done!" he said.
SLEEP AND DEATH
TO Michael and Sergius it was a solemn charge to be entrusted with the funds on which the Stundists were to subsist when they reached their journey's end. To be sure, the convicts would still have the miserable pittance allowed by the Government, but this would not suffice for the women and children who accompanied them. Tatiania found an opportunity the next day to stitch the rouble notes into the boys' coats. It was a busy day; the baggage-waggons were unloaded, and winter clothes got out. But they were damp and mildewed, for the rain and snow had saturated the bags. The convicts receive their winter equipment from the Government stores, which were at least dry and warm. They set out again in renewed spirits.
It was well for the Stundists that Tatiania's precaution had been carried into effect. A day or two after they started, and were crossing the exposed steppe, over which a searching and freezing north wind was blowing, Sergius and Michael went as usual at the midday halt to carry food to Tatiania and Clava, who now never left the telega. The child was sleeping, and Tatiania was very drowsy.
"Are you well, mother?" asked Sergius.
"Quite well, dear boy," she answered. "I've no more pain; and I'm not tired even. But oh, so sleepy! Tuck the cloak over us, my son."
Sergius carefully folded the sheepskin cloak over her and Clava, and bent down to kiss the pallid faces. Both were chilly.
"The captain says we shall reach Irkutsk before Christmas," he said cheerily, "if we are not delayed by more storms."
"That's good news," she answered sleepily; "I'm glad for your father's sake. Be good like him, my Sergius."
During the short afternoon a light fall of snow and sleet came on. Every one of the cavalcade was covered with a fine, crisp powder. The telegas looked like silvered chariots; and the horses drawing them were beautifully white. Every blade of grass, and the bare stubble of the cornfields, was delicately frosted over. It was a white procession, long-drawn-out, passing through a white landscape. Towards the north the sky was of a livid darkness; and the captain of the convoy ordered a quick march.
"How beautiful it is!" exclaimed Michael.
"But it's terrible!" said Sergius.
They reached the half-way étape before the telegas came up, and were ready to lift down Tatiania and little Clava. They had not stirred since Sergius tucked the sheepskin round them; nor did they move when he lifted it off, and called "Mother!"
They were fast asleep, in a profound and peaceful slumber, little Clava locked in her mother's arms, never more to wake again to this world's pain and anguish. No trouble like this could befall them, the boys said to one another the next day, as they followed the telega which carried the dead bodies to the nearest cemetery; nothing worse could happen.
Yet in their inmost hearts there lurked a dream of other losses. Khariton looked fearfully ill to-day; and Alexis did not seem much better. Each one of the Stundist band was terribly cast down. Their wives and children were so exhausted and feeble they could hardly hope, nay, they could hardly wish, they would live to reach Irkutsk. Every now and then there were delays, made absolutely necessary from snowstorms, which made it impossible to continue the march for days together. Then came the alternative misery of semi-starvation. They never had enough to eat, but in these weather-bound intervals Famine laid its skeleton hand upon them. Christmas was past before they reached Irkutsk.
This was the end of their calamitous journey. Here Paraska's husband, Demyan, was already established, and probably awaiting their release under police regulations. In this place they would probably be allowed to settle down, thousands of miles from their native village. The Stundists gathered together, in sad and solemn thanksgiving. Of the nine women who had elected to go with them into Siberian exile, four were lying in scattered graves along the route, never to be visited by those who loved them. Of the fourteen children, only five were left; Michael and Sergius being two of them.
Even while the survivors sang their usual evening hymn, "Oh, happy band of pilgrims!" the tears rolled down their rugged and wasted faces, and their voices faltered.
"We praise Thee, O Lord!" said Alexis.
"We praise Thee!" echoed the others.
"Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord!" said Alexis.
"They are blessed!" was the response.
"Blessed are ye when men persecute you for Christ's sake," he continued.
"We are blessed," they answered.
Then Alexis opened his Bible, and read these words—
"'The ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Zion with songs
and everlasting joy upon their heads: they shall obtain joy and
gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.
"'I, even I, am He that comforteth you: who art thou, that thou
shouldest be afraid of a man that shall die, . . . and hast feared
continually every day because of the fury of the oppressor, as if he
were ready to destroy? and where is the fury of the oppressor?
"'The captive exile hasteneth that he may be loosed, and that he should
not die in the pit, nor that his bread should fail. But I am the Lord
thy God, that divided the sea, whose waves roared. The Lord of hosts is
His name.
"'And I have put My words in thy mouth, and I have covered thee in the
shadow of Mine hand.'"
Then Alexis turned the leaves to the New Testament, and read again—
"'Therefore being justified by faith, we have peace with God through
our Lord Jesus Christ:
"'By whom also we have access by faith into this grace wherein we
stand, and rejoice in hope of the glory of God.
"'And not only so, but we glory in tribulations also: knowing that
tribulation worketh patience; and patience, experience; and experience,
hope;
"'And hope maketh not ashamed; because the love of God is shed abroad
in our hearts by the Holy Ghost which is given unto us.'"
Over the faces of the women there stole an expression of placid resignation. The men looked at one another with exultation in their eyes. What were these light afflictions compared with the glory that would follow?
THE END OF THE JOURNEY
THEY expected their release every day. The band of exiles who had marched together for so many months was broken up, and scattered to various places of exile, excepting those criminals who were sentenced to the mines. But the Stundists seemed to be overlooked. Demyan was aware of their arrival, and sent in messages of welcome. He had already provided a shelter for them, and obtained promises of work in Irkutsk.
At last one morning they were summoned to the prison-yard, where a party was being made up for the Kara Mines. Was it possible that they were doomed to that place of horrors? The men were again chained to other prisoners, with leg-fetters; the women and children were placed in telegas; and once more, over ground frozen many feet deep, and with the thermometer, even at noonday, several degrees below zero, they set out on their dreary march, uncertain now what their destination might be.
They crossed to the eastern side of Lake Baikal, into a wild and desolate region, at this time lying under a thick cover of snow. But the second time they reached an étape, a few days after quitting Irkutsk, their fellow-prisoners started on without them. The captain of the convoy, which was now returning to Irkutsk, waited some time for the arrival of a police officer to take charge of the Stundists, but growing impatient at his delay, and afraid of the short day leaving him before he could reach a shelter, he called Alexis to him.
"You are a trustworthy man," he said, "and I must leave you to report yourselves at the police station. They will tell you under what conditions you are to live here. It's not a cheerful spot. Have you any complaint to make to me?"
"Not any, sir," answered Alexis respectfully.
"Then God go with you!" he said.
"And with you!" replied the exiles.
They watched the convoy until they were hidden in the frosty fog. Then they turned towards the village, which lay about half a mile away. At the barrier a wretched old man came out of a hut which looked like a huge snow-stack, and challenged them. Alexis explained who they were; whilst Michael and Sergius tried to decipher the inscription on a rotten post. They made out, "thirty-four houses, sixty-five males." The women and children did not count in the population.
But it was a small place. The houses were log-huts, and were scattered in two long, straggling lines on each side of the road. They too looked like edifices built wholly of snow. It was evident that extreme poverty prevailed. Such of the inhabitants as appeared in the street had a Mongolian cast of features, and seemed uncouth and savage.
The Stundists marched to the police station, and gave their names, and the paper entrusted to them by the convoy captain, to the village Ispravnik. He was certainly a Mongol. He looked at each one of the men keenly, as if to make sure of knowing them again; and told them they must report themselves to him once a week, and whenever he chose to summon them. The women and children stood outside the station, shivering in the freezing air.
"Where are we to go, sir?" asked Alexis.
"Just where you please," answered the police officer; "you're free to live where you like in this village, but nowhere else."
"Are there any houses to let?" Alexis inquired.
"None that I know of," said the man; "you see, brother, it is a very little place. There are two or three families in every house already."
"Can we find lodgings?" asked Alexis again.
"You can go and try, brother," he answered; "you are free, and the people are free. They may lodge you if they please."
Then began a weary search for shelter. At some of the huts the inmates would not even open the door, for fear of letting in a blast of freezing wind; they shouted to them through the frosted windows there was no room for them there. There were no young children in the homeless band, but the five women and the two girls who had survived the terrible journey were suffering from the intense cold. Their spirits, too, were depressed at the sight of the savage and inhospitable spot to which their husbands had been exiled for several years. Some of them would have wept but for fear of the tears freezing on their eyelashes. Khariton Kondraty silently thanked God that his wife and daughters had been mercifully taken from him.
At length, after traversing the village from end to end, they returned to the hut where a withered bush frosted over delicately proclaimed the village inn. They were quickly admitted, and the door closed behind them. The atmosphere was almost as foul as that of the kameras they had slept in, but they had grown used to it, and this roof was at least a shelter. Here they could rest and warm themselves, and get food to eat.
The innkeeper was a Jew, and more intelligent than anyone they had yet seen. But he could not tell them of any hut or barn, or shed even, where they could find a refuge. Nor could he tell them of any place where more than one could be lodged. The dwellings were all too full already. No work could possibly be had until the thaw came, and then strong labourers might earn a few pence a day on the common lands. No one wanted any women, he said; there were women enough and to spare.
At last he bethought himself of a half-ruined hut at the extreme end of the village, which had been empty for some years, ever since a whole family had been horribly murdered by some runaway convicts from mines. The innkeeper gave the details of the crime, with zest; and the women shuddered as they heard them.
"Folks here say the spirits of the dead people have never left the spot," he added; "they'll not go till murderers are punished. But you can have it for small rent if you dare."
The men went off, as soon as they had finished their meal, to inspect the place. It was a fair-sized hut, and the log walls and great stove were in tolerable repair, but the frozen snow showed white through the clunks in the roof. There were some out-buildings that also needed restoring. But little could be done before the thaw came.
There were thirteen of them; the nine men and the four boys who had outlived their hardships. They were gaunt, haggard, and emaciated; the women they had left in the inn were almost skeletons. Yet as they stood under the ragged roof, they lifted up their hands, and in solemn words dedicated themselves afresh to the service of their Lord. Here they would make homes; and here, too, should there be a church where they could worship God according to their conscience.
They decided, if possible, to find lodgings for the women; and to live together in this hut till they could put it in repair. The prospect lying before them was not cheerful, but the present was better than the past. They would have to endure hunger and cold and poverty of the greatest, but they would no longer witness the unutterable wretchedness and wickedness of the kameras. The misery they had passed through was stamped indelibly on their memories.
"There's one good thing," said Michael, "we may write what letters we like. The Ispravnik cannot read."
"Are you sure of it?" asked Alexis.
"Yes," answered Michael; "he held the list of your names upside down, and pretended to check them off, as if he was reading them. I'll begin a school as soon as the people know us a little."
"It is against the law," said his father; "and we are a law-abiding people."
DEMYAN'S TIDINGS
THE weeks of winter crept slowly by. But at last the thaw came, and the hut the men had occupied was deluged with melting snow.
By this time the new settlers had become favourably known to the inhabitants, and there was no difficulty in getting temporary lodgings whilst they repaired the haunted hut. With the coming of the spring, fresh hope and energy took possession of them. But their funds, however carefully husbanded, were melting like the snow. They were very near parting with their last rouble.
They were busily at work one day, mending the damaged roof, when a strange peasant came up, and gazed at them for a minute or two in silence.
"Khariton!" he cried at last, "Don't you know me?"
Khariton sprang down the sloping roof and over the low eaves, and clasped the stranger in his arms.
"It's Demyan!" he shouted.
He was a Knishi man who had been banished during the first persecution some years ago. They all knew him except Alexis and Michael. Until his banishment they had worked and worshipped together. It was a great joy to meet again.
"How vexed I was to hear you'd been sent on from Irkutsk!" he said. "There was work for you there, ready. But we soon found out where they'd sent you; and as soon as we could make a little collection, I just stole a march, and came out to bring it."
"But if they find you out!" exclaimed Khariton.
"Well, somebody must run a risk," he said doggedly; "we could not leave you to perish in this wilderness. You could not get our collection—it's only thirty roubles——without somebody venturing. But I want news. Tell me about Paraska."
"She is hoarding up every kopek to get enough money to join you," said Alexis.
"And she never found our little boys?" he said sorrowfully. "Oh, it was cruel!"
"They are quite lost sight of; we could find no trace of them," answered Alexis. "Even Father Cyril—a good man—could hear nothing of them."
"Ah!" he exclaimed. "That's the Batoushka Paraska speaks of. I've a letter from her, with Knishi news. But I must be quick, it's four days' journey here, and four back. I reported myself last Monday, and I must not be later than Wednesday or Thursday in showing up again. Oh, here's Paraska's letter! I was to tell you,—
"'Father Cyril has been sent away from Knishi, thanks to Father Paissy.
He was not permitted to take Velia with him—'"
"Who is Velia?" Demyan inquired.
"Read on!" cried Alexis.
"'He was compelled to leave her behind with the widow of Father Vasili;
and folks say she is going to marry again to old Okhrim, the Starosta.
If possible let Michael know at once—'"
"Who is Michael?" asked Demyan again.
"He is my son," said Alexis; "and Velia is my little daughter."
"All the children under ten years of age were taken from us," said Khariton; "and Velia was adopted by Father Cyril. This is terrible news!"
Every man there saw at once the threatening meaning of it. The tender, delicate child had been put into the hands of a tyrannical and unscrupulous woman; and possibly into the power of a brutal and cruel man, who would vent upon her his bigoted hatred of her people. Alexis fell down on his knees, and groaning, hid his face in his hands.
"Oh, my God! My God, save her!" he cried in a tone of anguish.
The letter had been written nearly four months ago. Thousands of miles stretched between them and the desolate child. Already she must have endured a winter of misery. What could be done for her?
"I must go, father!" exclaimed Michael. "If I have to beg my way, I must go. And oh, I'll save her, father! Velia, little Velia!" And the boy's voice rose into a passionate cry, as if he would make her hear him across all the space that divided them.
The affair had to be settled speedily, for if Michael went, it was best that he should go as far as Irkutsk with Demyan, before the roads were broken up by the thaw.
"Let him come with me," said Demyan; "we've got friends in Irkutsk. They'll give him letters to other friends on the way. We'll get a few more roubles together. And as soon as he catches up the railway, he'll spin along. He'll get to Knishi before next winter; and the summer is better. Yarina will befriend her, be sure of that."
"You must go, my boy," said Alexis, "but you must make your way first of all to Odessa, and get your kinsman there to help you. At any rate he will help you with money."
In a few hours Michael had said farewell to his father, and the whole band of Stundists. In a short time they would be settled in their new dwellings, and begin to make decent homes of them. "The winter's woe was past," and new hopes were springing up. But for this bad news Michael felt that life even in the Trans-Baikal might be full of gladness.
Sergius accompanied Michael as far as possible along the route to Irkutsk. They had much to say to one another, but for the last mile or so they were speechless. Knowing they could not meet again for years, if for ever, they embraced each other silently, and in silence each went on his way.
THE SEED OF THE CHURCH
THE news in Paraska's letter was true.
A revulsion of feeling had been brought about by the persecution that had made a clean sweep of the heretics from Knishi. As the crowd which collected to be spectators of the departure of the women and children saw their terrible distress, and heard their cries of lamentation on being driven from their old homes, a wave of pity and sympathy spread from heart to heart. They had only a vague idea of what exile to Siberia really meant; no one had ever returned to Knishi from that distant bourne, but it had always been the most fearsome threat held over them from infancy. What had these old neighbours, these brothers and sisters and cousins, done to deserve such a doom? They had always shown themselves kind and friendly, and ever ready to help in any time of trouble. And if they were somewhat conceited and crazy about their new religion, was that so wicked as to merit the loss of home and property?
The women especially began to brood over the question. The Stundist children under ten years of age, who had been distributed among the Orthodox families, were more intelligent and obedient than the others. In school they almost formed a class apart, several of them could read well, and these had, as usual, little Testaments of their own.
Copies of the New Testament began to appear as if by magic in the dwellings. The travelling colporteurs, who carried in their packs Testaments from the great Bible depot in Odessa, found many customers in Knishi. There was something attractive in listening to the Gospels read in one continuous narrative, instead of the detached fragments they heard in the church services. Here was the whole history. It was quite true what the Stundists said: there was not a word about confession, or the priest's dues, or the blessing of the houses and the fields, or the many feasts, when it was unorthodox to labour. The men liked to hear of this, but the women loved most to hear how the Lord Jesus treated the women and children.
There was a general movement of the slumbering intellect and conscience of the peasants; and Father Cyril was astonished at some of the shrewd questions put to him on doctrinal points. His own teaching favoured the movement. The persecution, shortsighted as all persecution is, was having its usual results.
Time after time, and by cautious degrees, Velia fetched the Bibles and hymn-books hidden in the roof of the hut in the forest, and distributed them among the Stundist children, who were as truly orphans as if their parents were really dead. Some of them had been so young when they were taken away that the remembrance of their parents perished in a few months. But most of them had been present when the carts carried off their weeping mothers, and nothing could ever efface the memory of that scene from their hearts. There was still a root of the Stundist heresy left in Knishi.
Yarina, the daughter-in-law of Okhrim, had been most touched and shocked by the banishment of the inoffensive Stundists. She had married, some years before, Panass, Okhrim's only son, who had proved an unkind and neglectful husband. But he was dead, and left her with an only child, a girl. At Father Cyril's urgent request, she had adopted two of the Stundist children to bring up with her little daughter. Secretly she was attaching herself to the Stundist faith, but she did not dare to avow it, for the sake of her child. Besides, Father Cyril's character, and the sermons he preached, still attracted her to the Orthodox Church.
The mental sufferings of Father Cyril during the persecution were greater and deeper than words could tell. He believed it to be mischievous as well as unchristian. The utmost limit of persecution he could find in Christ's teaching, was, "Let him be unto thee as a heathen man and a publican." This did not open the door to imprisonment, flogging, deprivation of civil rights, and exile. For how did Christ deal with the outcast classes? His own dealings with the publicans were full of forbearance and sympathy. He had visited them in their houses, and ate with them publicly. He had not driven away the heathen woman who besought Him to heal her daughter; or refused to see the Greeks, who came to Philip, saying, "Sir, we would see Jesus." Nay, when the disciples wished to call down fire from heaven on the Samaritans who refused to receive them into their town, He rebuked them, saying, "Ye know not what manner of spirit ye are of. For the Son of Man hath not come to destroy men's lives, but to save them." The utmost that could have been permitted by the law of Christ, was to leave the heretics alone. "Let them be as publicans and heathens."
Father Cyril could not himself think of the Stundists as heathens. He mourned over their separation from the Church, and believed they were mistaken in withdrawing from it. But he could not shut his eyes to their sobriety and integrity, their loyal submission to every law that did not go against their conscience, their faith and charity; and, more than all, their surrender of everything that makes life pleasant to man for the sake of their religious faith. He could not trust his own people to show equal devotion to their Church under similar circumstances.
Father Cyril and his wife did their best to make Velia happy. The girl was very affectionate, and responded warmly to the love they displayed. Father Cyril bestowed upon her more caresses and indulgences than he might have done if she had gone to him under happier circumstances. The little Stundist orphans left in his charge in the village gave him more anxious thought and care than all the rest of his flock. He felt more responsible to God for their welfare. Could he bring them back into the safe fold of the Church?
But Velia was not young enough to be made Orthodox. She was nearly ten years old when she was forcibly taken away from her own home, and she had been trained in the Stundist faith from her earliest childhood. The traditions of her mother's ancestors, the Scotch Covenanters, had been the fairy tales told to her by Michael, long before she could grasp their meaning. They had played at being persecuted whilst they were children—it was no new thing to her. But now she understood what it meant. These real persecutions linked her to the children who had suffered so long ago in Scotland; the mysterious tie of blood relationship awoke within her. She too would die rather than forsake the faith of her father and his people.
"My Velia," said Father Cyril one day, after the village schoolmistress had been complaining of her, "could not you, to please me, bow to the holy icon, and cross yourself when you go to school? The teacher complains of you and some of the other children. They will all do as you do, dear child."
"Oh, I cannot!" she cried, with tears. "If I could, I'd do it to please you. But I know it's wrong, and God would be displeased. I must obey God."
"My child, they are nothing but signs," urged Father Cyril. "Surely you love the Lord Christ, and couldn't you, to show your love to Him, use the sign of the cross on which He died for us? And you reverence the Mother of Christ—cannot you bow to a representation of her? All these actions are only symbols. I have seen you kiss the keepsakes your father and Michael gave you. Do these things in remembrance of our Lord and His Mother."
Velia stood looking into his face with an air of perplexity and hesitation.
"Oh, it does not mean that to them!" she answered, pointing towards the village. "They really pray to the icon as if it was God; and they cross themselves out of fear, not for remembrance. They think they will have bad luck. I cannot do it; no, never! But oh, I wish I could, to please you!"
The girl stooped down and kissed his hand fondly.
Father Cyril sighed, but said no more. He told the schoolmistress gently not to observe the Stundist children too closely. They would conform in time, if they were discreetly dealt with.
But Okhrim, the Starosta, was one of the managers of the school, and the zeal of the teacher led her to take her complaint to him.
"How can I teach religion," she asked, "if these little pagans defy me? I've punished, and punished, but they won't bow to the holy icon, and it's the Mother of God herself. And all the Batoushka says is, 'Be gentle.'"
Okhrim's eyes sparkled, and his hard mouth twitched. The lust of persecution had taken possession of him, and he must gratify it, even by persecuting children.
"So our Batoushka says, 'Be gentle!'" he snarled. "I'll be gentle with him! He's unorthodox himself—teaching the folks all sorts o' nonsense, and telling the men it's a sin to drink much vodka. We don't want doctrine like that here."
The village inn belonged to Okhrim, and since Father Cyril's influence had been felt the receipts had fallen off seriously. The church was filled, but the inn was comparatively empty. Okhrim hated the priest as fully as he hated the Stundists. At the first favourable opportunity, he drove over to Kovylsk, and going to the consistory, humbly asked for an interview with Father Paissy, through whose efforts Stundism had been rooted out of Knishi.
Shortly afterwards Father Cyril received a mandate to appear before his archbishop, who had always shown himself very friendly to him. But it was not the archbishop who received him, it was his old fellow-student, Father Paissy, who owed him many a grudge, and who treated him with scant courtesy.
"Father Cyril," he said sharply, "we thought we had destroyed, root and branch, the damnable heresy in your parish. But I am informed it is not so. I hear you are bringing up a Stundist girl as your own daughter in the church-house itself."
"She is a delicate child," answered Father Cyril, "scarcely eleven years of age; quite unfit for a rough life among the common peasants."
"Yet you must place her elsewhere," said Father Paissy; "we cannot permit a parish priest to make his house a refuge for heretics."
"Let me beg of you to leave her with me for a few years!" exclaimed Father Cyril. "Who knows whether love and kindness may not bring her back to the Church? She is a mere child, Father Paissy, most docile and tractable. In time—yes, in time, she may come back to us."
"Was her father Alexis Ivanoff, that dangerous agitator?" asked Father Paissy.
"Yes," he answered reluctantly, "but he was banished to Siberia in the early spring; and Michael, his only other child, went with him. She has not a soul related to her in the village. All the other children have relatives who can take some care of them. There has not been time yet for her to forget. But time does wonders. Let the child remain under my care and my instruction, and by and by she will comprehend the truths of our holy Orthodox Church. She will learn none of them by living with a peasant."
"Oh, I don't care to make the girl a theologian," said Father Paissy, with a sneer; "it will be sufficient for her to conform because she must. The people ought to obey the Church, without asking why."
"Alas! Too many of them do," thought Father Cyril; "and they only come to church and to confession because they must."
"I will make a servant of the girl," he said aloud; "and we will forego the monthly payment made for her. It would be dangerous to place her into a peasant's family, for she is thoroughly versed in all the Stundist doctrines."
"We have considered all that," replied Father Paissy, "and we will place her where she can do no harm. The archbishop requires you to deliver up this Stundist girl to the widow of your predecessor, who is still living at Knishi. She is a pious woman, though not over-learned. I am acquainted with her, and I have already apprised her of the archbishop's decision."
"The old Matoushka!" exclaimed Father Cyril in a tone of dismay. She bore the character of a virago; and there was not a woman in the village who would work for her.
"Yes; the most suitable person to deal with the girl," replied Father Paissy. "Before you go, take a friendly warning from me. We hear you secretly favour these ignorant and impious heretics. We hear also that you interfere too much with secular affairs. There are several complaints lodged against you; we had none in Father Vasili's time. Take care, Father Cyril; take care!"
A YOKE OF BONDAGE
THE long white line of the road to Knishi, running straight up to the distant horizon, lay before Father Cyril, as he drove slowly along it, lost in thought. He was very unhappy, and his heart felt like lead. There was not a home in Knishi where he would not rather have placed Velia than with the old Matoushka. He knew her to be a hard, mean, and hypocritical woman; very devout, for she never failed to be present at mass every day. But he felt that she hated him for the many changes he had made in Father Vasili's slovenly performance of his duties, though she paid him exaggerated deference as her priest. She came often to confession— a religious duty more painful to him than to her. How could he give up the dear child, Velia, to her?
There was, too, a painful sense that he was held in the iron hand of tyranny. He had never felt it before, and the touch penetrated to his very soul. It was a sin against humanity to give the child up to this woman; his conscience rebelled against it. Was it not also a sin against God?
Father Cyril dropped his reins, and let his horse crawl on slowly at its own pace. Here was the question of questions—the question that had sent his parishioners into banishment. The tyranny man exercised over man, piercing to the very thoughts of the heart—was it a thing to be endured? "No!" said the Stundist. "We stand fast in the liberty wherewith Christ has made us free."
But Father Cyril found himself bound fast under a yoke of bondage. It made him very miserable to feel its weight as he had never done before. He knew there was no help for him. He must do a thing which his soul and his conscience abhorred. The child would be taken from him by force, if he did not give her up.
It was heartrending to him to tell Velia of the doom that was pronounced against her. He took her on his knee, and pressed her head tenderly against his breast, not daring to look upon her face as he broke the painful news to her. He felt the little heart beating fast against his encircling arm, and the convulsive clasp of her small hand. At last she spoke.
"Father Cyril, is it true?" she asked.
"Yes, yes!" he said.
"Oh, if father and Michael only knew!" she cried. "They'd save me."
"They could not, my darling," he answered, tears stealing down his cheeks; "the Government is too strong, and the Church is too strong, for feeble folks like us to resist them. We must submit. I will do all I can for you, and watch over you; and you shall come here as often as possible."
"The old Matoushka will not let it be!" cried Velia in despair.
Father Vasili's widow lived a little way on the other side of the church, near to the cemetery, in a log-hut she had had built for herself when her husband died. She was very well off, thanks to her own thrift, and her clever faculty for squeezing gifts and dues out of the parishioners during Father Vasili's life. But she chose to live as if she was in the deepest penury. She had never kept a servant, but now she was growing old, she had to pay a woman—when she could get one—to do her washing and cleaning. To give her her due, her house was far cleaner than the peasants' huts. For some months she had coveted the possession of Velia and the three roubles a month paid for her maintenance. Now she had got her, her chief aim was to make her do as much work and to cost as small a sum as possible.
She had a secondary aim—that of making Velia into an Orthodox Christian. She never missed going to church, and thither Velia was bound to accompany her. Father Cyril, at the altar, saw the strong old woman take hold of Velia's reluctant hand, and make the sign of the cross with it, and force the girl to bend her head before the icon. The action scandalised him, and Velia's miserable face tormented him. It was in vain he remonstrated with the old Matoushka; she was only too glad to be able to wring his heart.
Father Cyril found himself powerless to soften Velia's lot. The woman was cruel, but not with such manifest cruelty as to arouse the indignation of the neighbours, and give him sufficient ground for a representation to the archbishop, and a petition to get Velia placed elsewhere. He knew she suffered from a want of nourishing food; and as the winter passed by he saw that she went shivering about in very deficient clothing. He felt that he should have to stand by, his hands tied, and his tongue silenced, whilst the child he loved was dying by inches. He made an effort to induce the old Matoushka to allow Velia to come to his home once a week, by promising to provide her with wood split ready for her stove—a task too heavy for the little girl.
"She may go if she'll go to confession," said the old Matoushka.
"That, of course, you could not forbid," replied Father Cyril.
But Velia could not be prevailed upon to go to confession. Her father had thought it wrong, she hardly knew why, but that was enough.
Father Cyril appealed to Yarina; and Yarina, who was the richest woman in Knishi, invited the old Matoushka to spend a day with her, and bring Velia to play with her children. The old Matoushka went, but she locked Velia up in a closet to which there was no window. The girl was her slave, and no one should interfere between them. The Starosta, Okhrim, was on her side, and both of them triumphed over Father Cyril. They held fast a scourge to flog him with. For Velia's sake, he gave up the useless conflict.
It was almost a relief to Father Cyril when he, found himself, through the influence of his wife's relatives, transferred to a larger and more important parish on the other side of Kovylsk. He could do nothing for Velia, and her misery was greater than he could bear to witness. No letter had reached him from Alexis, and he did not know how to find out his place of exile. Besides, what could Alexis do? The knowledge of his child's position would only torture him.
Father Cyril could not even bid the girl farewell, except in the presence of the old Matoushka, who would not let Velia go out of her sight. He drew the child to him, looked into her appealing eyes, kissed her forehead, and tearing himself away took refuge in his church, where, before the altar, he prayed long and fervently for the conversion of the misguided Stundists to the Orthodox faith.
After Father Cyril was gone, Velia's life was a blank despair. To children there is no hope in the future, for they can foresee nothing. The daily glimpse of Father Cyril in church, the fond and pitying glance he never failed to give to the eager, miserable little face always turned to him; the sight of the young Matoushka and her children—all these had been something to look forward to, day by day. They had been what Velia lived by, the scanty food on which her young heart fed. Now this food was taken away, she grew hungry, with a desperate hunger, for the sight of a beloved face. There was no face to be seen in her world save the harsh, forbidding visage of her mistress.
It was the gossip of the village that the old Matoushka was about to marry Okhrim, the Starosta. This was not true, though Okhrim went often to visit the widow. Neither could ever arrive at a satisfactory knowledge of how much property the other possessed. Their conversation was always of money, or of the almost as interesting topic—the Stundist heresy. Both were supremely Orthodox. When Okhrim was there, Velia hardly dared to breathe. She crept into the darkest corners, and made herself as small as possible. Nothing amused Okhrim more than to force the trembling child to make a profound obeisance to the "Mother of God," a really handsome icon which occupied the place of honour in the hut. It proved how devout the priest's widow was.
"She'll make a good Christian yet," he was wont to say, with a sneering smile which frightened Velia more than his worst oath.
"She's a stubborn little toad!" responded the mistress viciously.
By day Velia scarcely knew a moment's rest. The old Matoushka was a strong old woman, and she had never had a child of her own. She did not know, and she did not wish to know, the limits of a child's strength. As long as Velia could move, she must be kept to work. When she could work no longer it was time for her to go to bed, on a ragged mattress behind the oven. It was warm, but it swarmed with crickets and cockroaches. Velia worked till her young limbs ached, and her eyes grew dim with sleep, before she could resolve to seek rest. But every night nature compelled her to succumb, and creep exhausted to her dreaded bed.
So the long dreary months of the winter wore slowly away—those bitter days and nights when her father and brother were marching across the icebound wastes of Siberia, often congratulating themselves that Velia was safe, and cherished as a daughter in Father Cyril's home. The girl cried after them incessantly in her heart, though her tyrant knew nothing of it. It is terrible, but children are sometimes too sad for tears or cries.
VELIA'S TYRANTS
A STUNTED, emaciated, broken-spirited child, dumb, and not opening her mouth, was Velia when the spring came. Yarina's heart ached for her, but she could show the girl so little kindness! Her house was quite a mile away, on the farther side of Knishi; and the old Matoushka did not welcome visitors, unless they brought in their hands gifts worth having. Yarina was rich, and the old Matoushka was obsequious to her, but she gave her no chance of seeing Velia alone; and the warm clothes she brought for the girl lay in a chest till there was a chance of selling them.
The summer brought out-of-door work for Velia. It was better for her than the dark, cold days of winter, when she was always under the lash of her mistress's tongue. But in every other way her lot was unchanged, and the toil was even harder. She had never been at school since Father Cyril left.
The priest who had succeeded him was one of the old sort—a man after Okhrim's own heart, except that he was very eager after dues, and extorted a great deal more money from his parishioners than Father Cyril received. The new Batoushka could drink like a man, said Okhrim; and was a sharp hand at making bargains. The drinking shops prospered, and the congregation in church dwindled. But there were little secret meetings in the village for reading the Bible, where the seed sown by Father Cyril, as well as by the Stundists, was springing up. Many of the people in Knishi knew now the difference between true religion and the imitation of it. But the chance of a real revival of religion in the Orthodox Church was gone from Knishi.
Yarina felt it more deeply than anyone else, and her heart yearned after her old friends the Stundists. She felt speechless indignation at the thought of their sufferings. She longed to hear them sing praises as if God was really listening to them, and praying as to a real Father ready to give good gifts to His children. There were many besides herself who remembered them with affection, and almost with remorse. There was no man now like Alexis, to whom they could go for intelligent counsel, or the friendly settlement of disputes. There was no woman like Matrona, or Tatiania, to watch beside the dying, and pray for them with simple, heartfelt prayers, which the passing soul could join in.
The last days of harvest were come, and every man and woman, except Yarina, were busy in the golden harvest-field, when one evening, as the air grew cooler, she strolled down her garden to the margin of the river, which formed one of the boundaries of it. She was quite alone, for the children were gone with the servants to the harvest-field. A tall, thin, overgrown lad was hiding among the thick forest of reeds, but crept away as she came into sight.
"Come out! I see you!" she called, in spite of the fact that she saw nobody. "I see and hear you. Come out, or I'll send for the Starosta."
Still there was no sign of any human being. She could hear the joyous twittering of birds, and the distant lowing of cattle feeding along the banks of the river, the swish of the current and the rustling of reeds, but there was no other sound. Yet she was sure someone was near her.
"Come out," she said gently, "and I'll help you, if you need help. Perhaps you are hungry, I will bring you food. Even if you are a thief, I am sorry for you."
The reeds parted, and a face looked up to her.
She thought she had seen it before, but was not sure. It was a thin, pinched face—one that had been burned black under a scorching sun, and made pallid by cold and hunger. But the deep blue eyes that gazed beseechingly into her own touched some chord of memory.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"Michael Ivanoff," he answered.
"Oh, heavenly Tsaritza!" she exclaimed.
The next moment she took the wayworn face between her hands, and kissed the sunburnt forehead.
"I'm come back to save Velia," said Michael, with a sob of joy.
"Thank God!" she cried. "You're none too soon. But oh, we must be careful! Stay, while I fetch you something to eat."
She ran hastily to the house, and brought back with her a knitting-basket and a stool. She could sit knitting on the bank of the river without anyone suspecting she had a companion hidden among the reeds. This artifice she had learned when she was a girl.
So Michael, lying out of sight, ate his food, of which he was sorely in need, and told the story of the journey to Eastern Siberia.
Yarina wept bitter tears, and flew into a passion of anger and horror as she listened. So many of her old friends dead—murdered, she called it—and the children! Nine of them, did Michael say? Was it true? Oh, the pity and the shame and the sin of it!
"Where are you hiding now?" asked Yarina.
"Every night I go to the haunted hut," he said; "there's no danger of being found there. But all day long I linger here, on the chance of seeing Velia alone, but I have not seen her yet."
"You will never see her alone," said Yarina gloomily.
"I must!" he exclaimed. "I've money enough, if we can once get out of Knishi and reach Kovylsk. My mother's cousin in Odessa has given me money, and got somebody's passport for me. Only Velia will have to travel as a boy. I've got boy's clothes for her."
"But how to get her out of that old harridan's clutches!" exclaimed Yarina.
They discussed plans as long as they dared, until they heard the voices of the harvesters coming home in the bright moonlight. One thing only was settled, that Yarina should conceal enough food for every day among the reeds. Michael had been living on berries. It was a great thing to be supplied with food. He could afford to wait longer than he could have done otherwise.
But day after day passed by, bringing no chance of seeing Velia alone. The harvest was gathered in, and concealment among the reeds became more risky. The men had time to fish in the river; the children were playing about; and very soon the cutting of the reeds would begin. Then it would be impossible to hide among them.
Now, too, came the autumnal washing of clothes, after the harvest was over and before the winter set in. Troops of women and girls carried great bundles, hanging upon yokes, down to the little wooden pier, where the washing was done in the river, amid much laughing and gossiping. Michael was obliged to keep out of sight round a bend of the stream two or three hundred yards away. He could hear their voices, and often catch the words. Yarina stayed by the pier hour after hour, apparently watching her maid, but in reality hoping for a chance to speak to Velia, if the old Matoushka sent her down with any washing.
But the old Matoushka had no intention of exposing her rags to the criticism and derision of her neighbours. She reflected that she was the widow of a priest. Waiting till the bulk of the merry party had gone home with their dripping burdens, she went down to the pier, with Velia dragging after her, broken-hearted and despairing. The harvest had brought no joy to her, for she had not been permitted to speak to one of her old neighbours and friends.
The poor girl knelt down on the wet planks, and stooped over the water, washing the old clothing with her wasted hands and arms. The last peasant had gone, muttering a sulky "Good-night" to the old Matoushka.
They were quite alone now. Behind Velia was her oppressor—the hard woman to whom she was a slave, and from whom she could not escape. A terrible winter lay before her; for in this, the misery of children is greater than that of beasts—that they can foresee as well as remember. Life was a confusing mystery and an intolerable burden to her. Why did not God let her die? Her misery had taken such hold upon her that she had forgotten even the prayers her mother had taught her. Only the Lord's Prayer, which she heard daily in the church, remained in her memory, but even that was now connected in her mind with blows and curses.
The night was falling fast, but a lovely light was still lingering where the sun had gone down, and was reflected with changeful opal colours on the swift stream. She paused for a moment to look round, and then, as if some mischievous hand had snatched it from her, the old petticoat she was washing floated away down the shining river.
Velia sprang to her feet, and stood paralysed with terror for an instant or two. She heard the loud breathing of the old woman close beside her, and felt rather than saw the heavy hand lifted against her. With an agonised shriek, caring no longer what became of her, she sprang into the rapid current, which flowed under the end of the pier. To her dying day, the old Matoushka was not sure that her blow had not thrown her in.
Michael heard the cry, and saw a girl floating rapidly down towards him. In an instant, he plunged into the water, and dragged her out of the dangerous current into his hiding-place among the reeds. There was scarcely light enough for him to see the face, and this was not the sweet, smiling face of his young sister. Yet some hope, mingled with fear, set his pulses throbbing. Could this girl be Velia?
He did not know what to do. If he lingered, the life might leave the half-drowned frame, but if he called for aid, both of them would be discovered. He laid his hand on her heart to feel if it was beating, and in the bosom of her ragged dress, he found a Testament. No doubt it was Velia! No one but a Stundist girl would carry a Testament about her in secret. God had brought her to him as if by a miracle.
He would not stir, but he prayed fervently for direction. Was it a fancy, or did he really feel his mother's hand on him, restraining him? There was a sense of her soothing presence upon him, as there had been before in Knishi. No; he must keep silent. The water, heated all day by the sun, had not been very cold, and he held Velia closely pressed to him in his arms. As soon as it was quite dark, he saw a lantern moving hither and thither in Yarina's garden, and her clear voice came distinctly to his ear.
"No," she said, "it's not any use searching for it any longer. All of you go in, and get to bed. I'll stay out a little while."
But before Yarina came, he felt Velia stirring in his arms, and breathing with long-drawn sighs. She had not been many minutes in the water, and had become unconscious rather from fright than from drowning. Michael laid his hand gently on her mouth.
"Keep silent! Oh, keep silent!" he said. "I am here—Michael, your big brother."
"Are we dead?" she whispered, as she opened her eyes on the thick tangle of reeds. "Are we dead and buried?"
"No! Hush!" he answered. "We are in Yarina's garden."
Yarina herself was cautiously drawing near, swinging her lantern, and calling the cat in a loud voice. When she was sure everyone had returned to the house, she came on quickly.
"Michael!" she called softly.
He parted the reeds, and came towards her, carrying Velia in his arms. They listened to the girl's account of how she had flung herself into the river, but she could not say whether or no her mistress had pushed her.
"But she will rouse the neighbours to seek you!" cried Yarina. "They will come at once to search the river banks. And who knows! Okhrim squints askance at me, as if he suspected me of being one of you. He can't bear my adopted little ones. They may search my house, and all over the place. Michael, you and Velia must get away to the forest at once."
The village was already sinking into stillness and darkness, except the inn, where the window was still lit up. But they avoided the street as much as possible, and stole along little by-paths familiar to them. It was not so late that the watch-dogs were in full vigilance, and they only growled a little in the fold-yards. The sky was full of stars so bright as to cast their shadows before them as they stepped southwards. All the pleasant yet weird sounds of night accompanied them; the shrill sighing of the wind across the stubble of the cornfields; the drowsy twittering of the birds, roused a little by their passing footsteps; the melancholy cry of the owls flitting past them in pursuit of the night-moths; the bats were zig-zagging through the sweet air, especially over the ponds, and a thin white mist hung all over the land. Michael and Velia walked on hand in hand, almost speechless, but immeasurably happy. It seemed to them as if they were wandering in some utterly strange country, and, exhausted as they were with the perils and the strong emotions of the last few hours, they only felt a joy beyond words.
RESCUED
THE forest was dark with a blackness that blotted out every object. But here they were absolutely safe till morning. There was not a man in Knishi who would dare to enter it. Michael lighted Yarina's lantern, and guided Velia to the hut. His dreamy joy was changing into a clear, rejoicing triumph over the success of his perilous undertaking. He had rescued his sister, and the rapture of a saviour was his. True, there were perils ahead, but none like those through which they had already passed.
He made Velia lie down on his bed of dried leaves, but he slept little himself, his brain was too busy with exciting thoughts. All the past events crossed his memory—the happy life for a few years in Knishi, whilst the spirit of persecution slumbered a little; the goodness of Father Cyril, and the opposition he made to further persecution; the secret meetings for worship held in this haunted hut; the long fatal journey to Siberia; and the condition of the exiles, when he left them, just before the close of winter. All that was in the past, but it is a past which will never die out of his memory, and which will come back to him in every hour of quiet thought.
Before the first gleam of day, he roused Velia, for they were to meet Yarina at a corner of the forest past which the road to Kovylsk ran. In the glimpses they caught of the sky when they reached any opening of the trees, they saw the stars growing pale. Velia pressed closely to Michael's side as they drew near to the fearfully-haunted place. It was a grave in a deep ravine, and a tall, thin column of mist rose from it, wavering as if half alive. Trembling among the thick trees, which were still black with night, it had a mysterious and sinister appearance. Michael threw his arm round Velia, and bade her shut her eyes until they were well past the accursed spot.
At last they reached the outskirts of the forest. The sun was not above the distant horizon yet, but a sweet, soft light was everywhere diffused, a light without shadows. There was a murmur all about them of the awakening day. Michael turned towards the east, where dwelt his father and all his comrades, and watched the growing dawn. The same sun was already shining upon them, and the same Father in heaven was watching over them all.
It was not long before, in the stillness, they heard the shrill, complaining sound of creaking wheels; and Yarina came up driving alone in her dilijans. There was no time lost in climbing up beside her, for they were all anxious to put as great a distance as possible between themselves and Knishi. Yarina had heard nothing of any search after Velia.
Now, in the long, slow progress over the rough road, there was time enough for telling all the story of their lives since Michael and Velia were separated. Yarina listened, and often the tears filled her eyes. Why, these were children who were talking, young creatures who had never sinned against the laws of man, and not much against the laws of God. Yet they had suffered more than the worst of criminals ought to suffer.
It was true, then, what Father Cyril had once said incautiously—persecution was the weapon of the devil. Yarina left her dilijans at an inn, and accompanied Michael and Velia to Markovin's door, there bidding them good-bye, before ringing his bell. She kissed Velia again and again, and pressed her lips on Michael's forehead, sobbing and weeping.
"Tell them out there, in Siberia," she said, "that I'll not let my adopted children forget their own fathers and mothers. They shall hear all about it when they are old enough. I'm almost a Stundist myself, but I haven't got the spirit of a martyr, God forgive me!"
Neither had Markovin the spirit of a martyr. Nevertheless, he received his unwelcome visitors very kindly; taking care, however, to send a message to the presbyter of the church in Kovylsk that they were with him, and must be forwarded on their way immediately.
Michael noticed that the curtain which had formerly hung before the icon had been taken away, and a twinkling lamp burned in front of it. It was a significant sign that the spirit of persecution was abroad in Kovylsk, and that Markovin quailed before it.
Two days later Michael and Velia reached the railway station from which the exile party had started on their cruel journey. But they were going south now, instead of north. The train was almost due, and Michael ran with his passport in his hand to get their tickets.
The clerk glanced doubtfully at the passport, and pushed it back. "Not in legal form," he said curtly.
Michael's heart sank within him. How it was not legal he did not know, but any delay was dangerous.
At that moment Velia uttered a cry of joy, and he saw her rush away and fling her arms round a priest in a shabby cassock.
"Father Cyril!" she exclaimed. "Father Cyril!"
In a moment the priest took in the situation. Here was Velia, disguised as a boy; and yonder was Michael, turning away from the ticket clerk, distressed and perplexed. He took the passport from him.
"It is not visé'd properly," he said. "These two young people," he added, pleasantly, to the clerk, "have been parishioners of mine till a few months ago. I can vouch for them. Where are you going to?" he inquired of Michael.