“Ha! Do you not see the divinity behind all this? You run squealing to an American officer to save you from your Cossacks—and the American is Peter Petrovitch! And now that your own skin is threatened, you plead for life because of your daughter! Did you give my father a chance to plead for his son? Michael, _I am the boy_ who saw his father die in the snow before the post-house—and you come now seeking my protection from the Ataman——” “A half-blood Mongol,” put in Michael. “I would save my daughter from a Mongol—for myself I ask nothing. And I would kill you if I had the power——” “Stop! I shall do the talking!” Peter’s body trembled with his rage. All the hatred which he had built up in twenty years, all the concentrated venom in his soul against Kirsakoff was now diffusing through his body and poisoning his brain. He lunged at Michael, and took the frail old body in his arms, swinging him upward from the floor as a child might be lifted in play by its father. “Come!” commanded Peter, looking down into the white face of Michael. “I will show you your Valley of Despair! I will show you the spot before the old post-house where I watched my father pour out his blood into the snow! I will show you where Peter Petrovitch, who now holds you in his arms, could but scream in terror against you and your Cossacks—and vow to have your life!” He turned with Michael, and thrust the old man’s face against the pane of the window, holding him high enough so that he could see over the stratum of frost on the lower part of the glass. “Look, Michael Alexandrovitch! Up the Sofistkaya! The post-house where the mail-sledges stopped when they came in from Irkutsk! That is the spot! And I cannot even find the bones of my beloved father in the old cemetery by the prison on the hill. And below—the little hut where Gorekin the bootmaker lived! See it? The chimney and a part of the old roof. It has taken twenty years for God to put you in my hands—twenty years, before He has let you, a leaf which is ready to fall, come into my power. Can you doubt that He let you live that I might show you where you stood one cold morning, master of lives in the Valley of Despair and death waiting the snap of your finger? Times have changed, Michael. The light has come to Russia—a new day, and for such as you who gave us but black despair, black night has come. And justice without mercy!” Peter swung round from the window and threw Michael upon his feet. The old general swayed dizzily and saved himself from falling by grasping at the table. Peter stood glowering, arms hanging out from his sides with fingers widespread as if he were about to seize Michael again. “You shall have your vengeance!” cried Michael, and held up an arm to restrain Peter for a time.