“Not yet—by your own hand,” she said gently, and putting one arm about his neck, bent and kissed him. She turned to Peter once more, her courage stronger, a vague hope growing within her. But her eyes were filled with tears. “Would you kill my father? Would you do the work of Zorogoff, the Mongol? And see me surrendered to this half-blood Ataman? You! Peter Petrovitch—a Russian—a Russian from America!” She was not so much asking him these things, as she was asking herself if he could do them. She was not afraid—she was hurt. It all seemed incomprehensible to her—that any Russian could ally himself with Zorogoff, could commit a murder such as he had planned. She understood now that she had not been brave in her dealings with him, but that she had never allowed herself to believe he could be dangerous even though her dexterous manipulation of him were exposed. “Katerin Stephanovna!” said Peter, gazing at her with a trace of surprised awe in his tone and his look. “You—are Katerin Stephanovna!” She divined something of what was passing through his mind—he was thinking of her as a little girl, in the old days in Chita. A look of hope flashed across her face, though she took care that she did not betray to him that she saw an advantage. “I am Katerin Stephanovna,” she said, with a lift of her chin. She stood beside her father, one hand upon his shoulder to restrain him against any action, and yet in a posture which suggested defense. “The same little girl—who was in the sledge—that morning of the almanacs and——” went on Peter. Her mind leaped ahead of him as he paused—she knew now that he was mentally reconstructing the scene of his father’s death, and that from it would accrue a new burst of hate, a fresh impetus which might compel him to action against the restraint which her presence had interposed between him and her father. She left her father and moved toward Peter, seeking to distract his thoughts by drawing his attention to her. “Are you a true Russian?” she demanded passionately, as she approached him. “Are you a man of my race?” He seemed startled by the question, and once more his hand brushed his brow. “Russian?” he repeated simply, almost helplessly, as if it were something that it had never occurred to him before to question. He looked down at his uniform, and then lifted a khaki sleeve to study the brown band of tape at the cuff, the band of an officer’s sleeves. “Why, yes—I am Peter Petrovitch,” he said finally. He stepped to the window and looked out upon the Sofistkaya, and at the flattened gable-end of the little hut below which had been his and his father’s. Katerin drew close to him, and putting her hand softly upon his arm, looked into his face. Her own was drawn with suffering, and glistened with fresh tears. “Peter Petrovitch,” she whispered, “you look upon a new Russia—the one you knew has gone. The old prison on the hill is empty! Empty! Thank God for it! What more can you do?”