“Murdered by the Nyemtzi shall _our_ women never be, Joseph,” said Ivan, with a flash in his eyes. “At the worst, we know what to do. Tell thy wife the countess must be induced to quit this house before to-morrow night. If she will not leave the city, like a sensible woman, at least she must go to the Devitshei Convent, and Maria must go with her. I suppose even the infidel French will scarcely outrage _that_ asylum. Meanwhile, send in this mujik; perhaps he brings tidings.” A tall figure entered, with a bandaged arm, and wearing a rough, soiled caftan, and heavy Russia leather boots that left their traces on the inlaid floor. Ivan looked up, started, hesitated, then exclaimed in great surprise, “Michael Ivanovitch! One-eared Michael!” “One-handed Michael now, at your service, Ivan Barrinka; and well if _that_ were the only loss I had to tell of.” “Have you come from Nicolofsky?” asked Ivan. “Yes, I come from Nicolofsky. Barrinka, the Nyemtzi have been there.” “Ah!” cried Ivan. “Curse them!” “I have done with cursing them, Ivan Barrinka--I cannot find words--so I leave them to God. He knows what wages they have earned, and he will pay them one day. But as for me, my heart is hot and dry, and unless I can go and fight and kill some of them I shall die.” “What has happened, Michael? what have they done to you?” “At Christmas I was to be married to Anna Popovna. You remember her, Ivan Barrinka?” “_Remember_ her!” cried Ivan angrily. “Of what are you dreaming, Michael? Do you not know that I--I--” “Oh, I forgot--it seems a thousand years ago,” said Michael, in a sad, dreamy voice. “Besides, it was never anything but child’s play with you. Ivan Barrinka, we quarrelled in the old days, you and I. She used to like you better than me, because you were handsome and a boyar. But that is all over now. We shall quarrel no more, for Anna Popovna is with the saints. The Nyemtzi have killed her.” Ivan’s agitation was extreme. He still fancied he loved the village girl, no real passion having as yet taken possession of his heart to “put the old cheap joy in the scorned dust.” In wild excitement he strode up and down the room, uttering incoherent lamentations and cursing the French; but at last he stopped before Michael and asked briefly, in a choking voice, “How?” Michael’s grief had been his companion for weary days and nights--he was used to it now, so he answered very quietly, “One evening we saw the blue-coats coming, and some of us went out to show fight and keep them off a little, while the rest convoyed our women safely into the wood. But the scoundrels saw them, and fired. The distance was long, and they did not take good aim. Only two shots told: one of them wounded the lad we used to call little Peter rather badly in the shoulder; the other--killed her--” “At once!”