“Tell him if he chooses to behave in this way he has not two minutes to live.” “Nitshevo,” was the only reply. This went on for some minutes, every inquiry being met by a dogged silence, every threat by “Nitshevo.” At last Seppel lost patience, and told Féron to fire upon the prisoner. But Féron disliked the task, for he rather admired the courage of the Russian. He slowly laid his finger on the trigger of his musket, then withdrew it again. This he did twice, keenly watching the countenance of the prisoner, which showed no perceptible change. All the French soldiers had now crowded around them, and were watching the scene with interested faces. “Do not kill him, sergeant,” pleaded one. “He is a brave fellow. Try something else first,” said another. Seppel paused, and a new thought occurred to him. “Ah, yes,” he said, “these Russian slaves understand nothing except it comes to them through their bodily feelings. They are accustomed, I suppose, to be treated like beasts of the field.--Pole, tell him he is our prisoner; _that_, at least, we will make him know.--Féron, put down your musket, and bring that branding-iron I saw you make last night; there is enough fire yet in the stove to heat it red-hot.” Féron obeyed without hesitation, even with alacrity; for it seemed to him much better to brand a man on the hand than to shoot him through the heart. So the letter N, fashioned in sport the night before, was used in earnest now. It came down with burning pain, and left its mark, indelible for ever, upon the unresisting hand of Michael. For a moment his strong frame quivered, but his lips were silent, pressed closely together. Then he turned to the Pole, and, for the first time speaking of his own accord, he asked him, “What does that mean?” “It means that you belong now, soul and body, to our Emperor, the great Napoleon. That which you bear on your hand is his mark--the first letter of his name.” Michael smiled slightly, and advancing to the table, laid the wounded hand upon it. (Féron not unintentionally had made choice of the left one.) Then with one blow from the axe which he drew from the sash of his caftan, he severed it from his wrist. “Take what belongs to your Emperor,” he said, turning proudly to the astonished group. “As for me, I belong altogether to the Czar.”[25] A thrill of involuntary admiration passed through the spectators, and for some moments no one spoke. Meanwhile, in the calm summer sky outside, the sun was rising, and its first red beams flashed through the little window upon the homely features of the serf, which shone with a courage and devotion that were almost sublime. “Cut him down!” cried a solitary voice, that of the conscript who, the night before, had challenged Féron’s skill. But half-a-dozen other voices cried, “Shame!” while Seppel himself seemed to hesitate, and stood with the air of a man perplexed and confounded.