And presently the Cossacks returned dragging their spoils with them--three dead men and four more bleeding from bullet wounds, three bashed almost into pulp with rifle stocks. Whether any had escaped they could not be sure till the roll was called. The captain of the convoy stormed at his men, and they flung back his curses from the corners of their eyes. The prisoners looked downcastly on the bruised, the broken, and the dead, spread before them as an object lesson for future would-be absconders. Little Dushenka stared with the rest, her blue eyes wide with wonder. And suddenly she scrambled down from the barrow, and ran to one of the bodies, and knelt by it with her cat still in her arms. "Little father!" she cried, in her fluty treble. "Have the bad men hurt you? Oh, what have they done? Won't you speak to me, little father?" and the little round face bent anxiously over the grim dead one, which yet had been dear to her. Pavlof went to her where she knelt peering into the dead man's face. "Stand back there!" stormed the captain, in the middle of his furious harangue to his men. But there was a stricken little heart in question, and Pavlof paid no heed to him. He drew the child up into his arms and soothed her with gentle words. "Dushenka, little Dushenka! Your father has gone to be with your mother." "Has he, then?--truly?" "Truly, dear. He has gone home." "Back to Russia?" "To a much better place than even Russia." "Is it possible? Then why did he not take us with him?" "You will go too in God's good time if you are a good girl." "And Katinka too?" hugging her little cat close to make it quite clear that it must be both or none. "We must see how Katinka behaves." "What are they doing with my papasha?" "They are putting him into one of the carts. But that is only the outside of him. He himself has gone to your mother." "Ah--truly?" and the little maid, lost in wonder, settled herself in the arms of the tall man with the deep, kind eyes. "Give her to me, barin," said old Gregory, as the captain came striding up with menace in his face. "She won't feel so heavy in the barrow. I will be her papasha and take care of her now." "You are not my papasha, but you shall take care of us, Gregory Gregorievitch, because you are good and we like your barrow." "Now then, which of you were mixed up in this matter?" demanded the captain, of the quivering line. "You"--to Pavlof. "Whose child is that?" "Her father lies there," said Pavlof, pointing after the dead man. "And you knew him?" "Only through seeing him with the child." "You had an artel? Of course you had an artel. Who was president?" Pavlof shook his head. "You know artel rules, Excellency. He who speaks dies."