Michael opened his eyes and stared up at Peter, and let his hands fall upon Katerin’s head. A spasm of pain crossed his graying face, and he opened his mouth several times before he could speak. “Save her!” he gasped to Peter. “Now I—no longer stand between you—forgive—forgive——” His breath failed him, and his breast heaved as he was shook by a mighty convulsion. “Die in peace, Michael Kirsakoff,” said Peter. “I forgive.” Michael recovered himself for a brief space. “Good!” he whispered. “Every man has his wolf to kill, but it is better—I was but a millstone hanging from her neck—but now you can save her—you forgive——” “As I hope to be forgiven, I forgive,” said Peter, putting his face down close to Michael. “Do you hear me, Michael Alexandrovitch?” A smile came into Michael’s pain-tortured face—a smile of helpless assent, with which was mingled his joy at Peter’s words. But still he was troubled, and his head shook with his effort to express his further wishes. “Save her—from the Ataman!” he pleaded. “The Ataman is dead,” said Peter. “Look! There upon the floor!” Michael’s eyes roved as Peter stepped aside, and finally rested upon the prone body of Zorogoff. “A-h-h!” cried Michael. “The Ataman submits to the general of his Emperor! My Katerin, do not be sad for me—let the birds sing for both of you—I go happy—God’s blessing upon you both—Gorekin—I, who go to meet the dead, sal—ute——” Shimilin came and stood beside Peter. The Cossack captain drew off his cap, crossed himself, and uttered a few words of prayer. Michael’s dimming eyes saw him—and revealed a new terror. “Shimilin!” he gasped. “Have no fear of me, Michael Alexandrovitch,” said Shimilin. “You, nor your daughter need have no fear of me.” Peter glanced at Shimilin in surprise, for the Cossack captain was strangely gentle and sympathetic for a man who might be expected to take vengeance for the slaying of his chief. “I saved you both from Zorogoff, the time at the house,” said Shimilin. “It was I who prevented an execution because you would not give up your money. If you had trusted me and given me the money, I would have protected you, for I could have been Ataman then—as I am the Ataman now.” “You have succeeded Zorogoff?” asked Peter, in startled amazement. “I am the new Ataman,” repeated Shimilin. “We Cossacks had a plot, but all was not ready——” “God’s blessing—on—my little——” Michael’s head fell forward upon his chest, and he was dead. Katerin gave a wailing cry and put her hands tenderly upon the cheeks of her father. Peter and Shimilin turned away to leave her with her dead, while Slipitsky stole out into the other room to return with the icon from the corner in which stood Michael’s bed. The Jew put the sacred image into the wasted hands of him who had been Michael Alexandrovitch Kirsakoff, governor and general of the Czars in the Valley of Despair. ------------------------------------------------------------------------