Time passed: life and death were struggling for the mastery, and the conflict was tedious and protracted. It was no even contest. From the first, victory seemed to incline to the side of the sable king. The chance of life, always desperate, lessened apparently with every minute, and when the minutes grew to hours it seemed to vanish altogether away. At last the tall surgeon shook his head, and turning to the boyar said something in a foreign tongue that evidently expressed despair. But _he_ would not admit the thought. Ivan knew not, of course, what he said in answer, but it was easy to see that he had steadfastly resolved not to abandon hope, and that he was entreating, urging, even commanding the rest to continue their efforts. Apparently for no purpose but to please him they obeyed. An interval followed of renewed exertion, though of ever-waning hope. At length, however, the surgeon’s instrument flashed out once more, and almost immediately afterwards a thrill of emotion passed through the entire group. One shuddering sigh, one faint, low groan was heard from the lips that had seemed to be sealed for ever in death. “Thank God!” said the boyar, raising the military cap from his stately head with its clustering chestnut curls. “This is amongst the brightest days of my life.” Ivan stood near enough to see that his blue eyes were full of tears. Whilst they gave Stefen a little vodka, and prepared a kind of litter in which to carry him to the post-house, several other persons came up, including the priest and the starost of the nearest village; for some of the mujiks had gone away and spread the story of the strange things they had been witnessing. Then to Ivan’s young eyes the scene became confused. Much happened that he could not exactly understand. But Stefen was alive--that at least was certain, for he saw him try to kiss the hand that had so patiently drawn him back from the gates of the grave. And now, for the first time, the thought occurred to Ivan that his triumph over Michael would be complete and glorious. Michael assuredly had never seen a dead man brought to life again! At last the great people seemed to be preparing to pursue their journey. Ivan watched “his boyar” as he talked for some time to the priest and the starost, who stood before him with uncovered heads and an air of the deepest reverence; then, seeing him look for his horse, he led his charge forward, and held the stirrup gracefully while he mounted. He got a word of praise for his “long patience,” and a bright piece of gold glittered in his hand. “Take me with you, my boyar,” he cried, with a sudden impulse. “Let me serve you; I would _love_ to do it.” “My child, you shall serve me one day--not yet,” said the boyar, smiling. A few moments more, and the stately cavalcade had moved away. Ivan stood in silence, unable to withdraw his gaze from the retreating figure of his hero until it was lost in the distance.