Zorogoff’s breathing became audible to Peter, and he saw the flat nostrils of the Ataman twitch, and growing anger flashing in his eyes. But he did not take his eyes from Peter’s, nor was there the slightest change of expression in the Mongol’s immobile face after that lifting of the nostrils. Behind the Ataman stood Shimilin, smiling sneeringly over the shoulder of his chief, in an obvious attempt to break through Peter’s armor of stolid patience. “My officers must not interfere!” echoed the Ataman. “Is it that I take orders from the Americans?” “No, it is not an order, but——” “Good!” blustered the Ataman. “It is not an order!” “It is not an order,” went on Peter, in the same even tones. “But you must take care that you do not interfere with American officers. I tell you now, sir, that if these people are arrested in my room, I shall demand to know the reason for their arrest, that they are properly charged and tried, and given the right to a proper defense. Otherwise it may appear to the Russian people that an American officer has betrayed this old man and his daughter to you, and delivered them into your hands. I cannot prevent you from arresting them, from executing them if you wish, but I can reveal to the commander of the American army and to the people of America, the methods of your rule, sir.” “I rule here, and in my own way. I ask no help in ruling from the Americans,” grunted Zorogoff. “And the Americans are vitally interested in _how_ you rule, sir,” retorted Peter. “I rule as I please, with account to no one!” raged Zorogoff. “Captain Shimilin! Take the old man and the woman!” “Wait!” cried Peter, throwing up his hand to Shimilin. “You are invading my room! I claim the only right to give orders here!” “I take Russian subjects where I find them, and I do with them as I see fit!” thundered Zorogoff, his face seeming to swell with rage at Peter’s words. Captain Shimilin turned as if to obey the Ataman’s order, but he hesitated, the same sneering smile upon his lips. He appeared much amused at Peter’s defiance, and only too willing to let him further enrage the Ataman. “You speak of subjects of Russia, sir,” said Peter, addressing Zorogoff. “Am I to have the honor of reporting that the Ataman Zorogoff occupies the throne of all the Russias? And perhaps part of Mongolia?” Zorogoff made a grimace, and the flesh about his eyes crinkled tightly. Peter saw that he had struck a vital spot in the pride of Zorogoff, and had touched upon a matter which revealed some of Zorogoff’s power as a pretender—his strength came from his affinity with Asiatic people through his Asiatic blood. His leadership was racial, for he was exploiting his Mongol heritage and behind him were princes of ancient Tartary whispering against white ascendancy in their own land. “That is the Russian speaking,” said Zorogoff, “not the American! You turned your back on your own people, and come now in a strange coat to give orders with——”