“Do you understand that you can save your life if you will follow the advice of Captain Shimilin?” asked the stranger. “I do not seek the advice of Captain Shimilin—nor any other person,” said Katerin. “You prefer to die?” “I have done with life.” “You talk like a brave woman,” went on the stranger. “Oh, be done! I am cold!” said Katerin. She noted that a group of soldiers had fallen into line before her, and that the others about the yard gathered closer, regarding her with curious eyes. The tall officer drew apart again with Shimilin, and they carried on a low conversation once more. The men in line began to examine their rifles to be in readiness. Both Shimilin and the other officer returned and stood before her again. “Because your father, General Kirsakoff, was Governor here in the old days, is no reason why you should expect to oppose the new ruler,” said the officer. Katerin did not answer. The officer threw open his long coat, showing a uniform of gray tunic and blue breeches. He pulled the strap from his face and revealed the dark face of a Mongol. Sparse mustaches fell from the ends of his upper lip, clinging to his jowls as they drooped past the side of his mouth. His black eyes were set in close to a wide flat nose. Yet his face had a proud and serious mien—the face of an Asiatic of high degree, the face of a stoical and cruel man. “I am the Ataman Zorogoff,” he said. “I rule. Your father would not loan his fortune to my government. That is all I ask of you. I give you your choice—submit or die.” Katerin looked at him scornfully. “I am nobody,” she said. “I submit only to God and the saints of heaven. I do not recognize your right to rule, even though you take my life. Tell your brave soldiers to shoot.” Zorogoff laughed harshly. “You have the spirit of the devil, mistress.” “Speak of the devil and we see his tail,” retorted Katerin, using an old Russian proverb. “You are a brave woman,” repeated Zorogoff. “You have the blood of good ancestors—a fighting, ruling breed—as were mine.” “My ancestors have never feared death.” “Do you know that I am a prince in Mongolia?” asked Zorogoff tartly. He seemed nettled by Katerin’s way of looking at him, rather than by her scornful words. “I do not doubt it, sir. And you belong there.” “Ah! Is that true? Though your father is governor no longer, you still tell people where they belong. My people ruled this land before your people came, and once more we shall rule. But if you will give up your money to the government, in time you shall have it back. My soldiers need food and clothing. What is your answer, mistress?” A tremor of cold shook Katerin’s body. The air was stifling her, and she was chilled till she no longer felt pain. “Death!” she answered through quivering lips. Zorogoff turned to Shimilin.