“The better the horse the worse his bite,” said the Ataman. “But once he is broken, you have a good horse. I do not want to kill a woman so brave as this one.” Turning to Katerin, he went on, “Your sons would know how to rule, mistress.” “I leave no sons,” she said, now too chilled to care or perceive what the Ataman’s meaning might be. “I was thinking of what your sons might be like,” went on Zorogoff. “Do not be too sure about sons.” Katerin gave a cry of agony. She knew now what Zorogoff meant—and she feared now that she might not die after all. She looked at Zorogoff, as he stood before her, peering into her face. “Kill me!” she cried, and then realizing that unless she angered him by insults, he might not give the order to the soldiers, she spoke with infinite loathing, loud enough so that the soldiers might hear. “You are a lowborn dog! Your mother was a scullion and your father a mover of dead bodies! You are neither Cossack nor Mongol, but vermin from mud huts and a disgrace to both white and yellow!” “Ah!” said Zorogoff. “Now I know that there is fear in you, and fear for what, my lady! You prefer the rifles to a palace. What if I should give you the fate you dislike?” “Go to the market place for your women, you swine!” cried Katerin. The Ataman stepped aside and beckoned Shimilin after him. “Let us see how brave she is,” whispered Zorogoff, and he made a gesture to the men with the rifles. The muzzles lifted promptly and the men took aim at Katerin. “I will show you who rules now,” called Zorogoff. “And I will show you how a woman of the nobility can die, lowborn one!” “Fire!” commanded Zorogoff, throwing up an arm in a gesture of command. But the rifles did not speak, though they remained leveled at Katerin. She began a prayer, gazing steadily into the muzzles which faced her, and waiting for the impact of the bullets. Seconds passed. They became minutes. Katerin closed her eyes against the cold. After a wait she opened her eyes again and eight rifles still pointed straight at her. “Shoot!” she pleaded. “Please shoot!” She closed her eyes once more. The minutes passed, and Katerin’s body wavered, swayed, and she collapsed in a faint across the fresh mound of earth. “Take her up and carry her into the house,” commanded the Ataman. “She is a brave woman—but stubborn. She shall submit.” The soldiers picked Katerin up and carried her through the hall to the kitchen. Wassili and the old serving woman began to scream, thinking that their mistress had been killed. Zorogoff and Shimilin walked out of the yard and into the street. Shimilin whistled on his fingers. Soon the troika of the Ataman swung out of a side street and the horses came galloping up. There were three men in the troika—two soldiers—and Michael. “Where is my daughter?” demanded the old general. “What have you done with her? Does she still live?” “You will find her inside the house,” said Shimilin. “She is not dead.”