“So the old wolf has a snap left in him yet,” taunted Peter, as he bore the frail Michael back against the table and wrested the derringer from his fingers. Michael made no struggle, but relaxed in Peter’s hands, and when released, sank weakly to his knees. Peter pocketed the derringer, and then leaned down to Michael. “You would kill me, would you? You have not forgotten your tricks, Michael! Perhaps you came prepared to kill me! So the escape to Harbin was all pretty talk, to throw me off my guard that you might——” “Mercy!” gasped Michael. “Mercy for my daughter’s sake—I ask none for myself!” “You have discovered mercy. Who called for mercy for Peter Petrovitch twenty years ago when you ordered him and his father sent to prison—and then his father was cut down by your Cossacks? Answer me that?” “If my daughter were safe from the Ataman, you could take your vengeance,” said Michael simply. “I have lived beyond——” “Oh, hush!” cried Peter angrily, clapping his hand over Michael’s mouth. He slipped his fingers under the folds of the bandage about Michael’s face, and slipped it back over his head, pulling it upward from the chin. “Let me see your face, Michael! It has been a long time since we looked at one another—and each knew the other. On that day you were the bold, brave Governor, surrounded by your soldiers. Life was cheap then—to you. Come! Stand upon your feet like a man!” And Peter lifted him up against the table. “I have no fear of death,” said Michael proudly. “No,” said Peter, laughing. “You are so ready to meet death that you tie your face up in rags. But you look like yourself, Michael! Yes, I would have known you but for the rags. Life is not so strong in you, now, it is true, but you are the same, yes.” Peter stood before him, with folded arms, and scanned Michael’s face with reflective memory. He spoke quietly, almost soothingly, and his face was lighted by his joyful exultation. He thought of nothing but that his triumph had come, and he cared for nothing but that he should drink his fill of the wine of revenge. “I am helpless now—an old man,” said Michael. “But I can die—Gorekin.” “I suppose you can,” said Peter, “much as you would throw away a lemon that had been sucked dry. But I am thinking now of my father, twenty years ago. You were brave with his life, too—and mine! I was a helpless boy and you left me in your filthy prison. I might be there now for all you cared.” “Do your will with me,” said Michael wearily. Peter put a hand upon his shoulder, and bent his body back, so that he might peer into the old man’s eyes in better light. “You have not lost your cunning, Michael. I can see it still in your eyes, faded as they are. You thought that I, Peter Petrovitch, would save your life—I, who have come half way round the world to take it, I, who have waited twenty years to see the breath leave your body!” “To save my daughter, yes,” said Michael.