“If you die, I shall not live,” said Katerin, and taking his face between her hands, kissed him tenderly on the forehead and threw her arms about his neck, dry-eyed in her anguish. “I should like to reach the sky, but my arms are too short,” said Michael, expressing his helplessness by the old Russian proverb. “I think of having an army at my back—I, an old man, weak and already looking into my own grave. It is of you I think, Katerin Stephanovna! I would sell my soul to save you—yet the money must be kept if you are to live!” “I can hear the soldiers in the yard,” said Katerin. “What can we do? We have a few rubles in the Chinese casket—five thousand in fives and tens. They make a fat bundle. We can give them up—and say they are all we have.” “Do not be too ready to surrender the money,” said Michael. “But that is what we shall do. If they demand more——” “Hush! They are coming up the stairs. Come! Quick! Sit here by the table! And take your saber! Be bold with them, as befits your rank and your old place, but remember that we cannot resist!” As she talked, Katerin grabbed from a chest her father’s saber and snapped it into the old general’s belt. Then she pulled him to the table and sat him on a bench so that he faced toward the fire. This was no more than done when a man could be heard mounting the top of the stairs, and presently the visitor looked in cautiously at the open door. The intruder was a Cossack officer. He wore a tall cap of white, shaggy wool, thrust back on his head. A lock of his black hair hung down athwart his forehead. His eyes were black and small, his mouth heavily lipped, his cheeks inclined to swartness from exposure, though the cold of the morning had given his skin a ruddy glow. He wore a long greatcoat with the cream-colored skin of the sheep outside and the wool inside visible at the edge in front and at the bottom of the skirt. On his shoulders were tin stars—he was a captain in Zorogoff’s army. From the skirt of his coat on one side hung the toe of a heavy saber-scabbard. The captain stepped into the room after a sharp glance at Katerin and her father. Then he looked about the room suspiciously, and having made sure that no others were present, he bowed politely, at the same time clicking the spurred heels of his black boots. “You are Kirsakoff,” said the officer abruptly. “I am Captain Shimilin, and I have come from the Ataman Zorogoff.” Michael, his hand on the hilt of his saber, sitting erect, turned his head and surveyed the Cossack coldly. Finally, he said, “Captain, you are speaking to General Kirsakoff.” Shimilin shrugged his shoulders, and a smile lurked on his lips. “You were once a general—but the Czar is dead. I do not have to be told who you are, Kirsakoff.” “Oh, you have heard of the Czar!” said Katerin.