“God is good,” said Michael, at once careful of his words. “Go back to your house,” said Zorogoff, “and wait till I return.” “So?” asked Michael. “And why do you return?” “You shall know then. There has been too much talk to-day.” Michael got out of the troika and the Ataman got in with Shimilin. Already the soldiers were marching out from the yard, and swinging back into the city. “Take care that you do not leave the house,” warned Zorogoff, as Michael stood waiting for the soldiers to be clear of the gate. “I do not wish to have you and your daughter run the danger of being fired upon by the sentries. I wish you both to live as long as God lets you.” Michael, afraid that there was still a trap and that the Ataman had no intention of leaving, though he had been covered by the robes in the troika and had swathed his face and head in furs, did not dare turn his back upon the precious pair in the vehicle. “I thank you for your consideration,” said the old general. “I thought I was to die, but I still live and my daughter is safe.” Zorogoff leaned out and spoke earnestly. “If the cat wants a fish, let her wet her feet,” he said. And then added with taunting irony, “You are proud of your rank and your race, Michael Alexandrovitch—you and your daughter hold yourselves superior to a Mongol who is of the blood of rulers, and who rules. But I, too, have pride. You should know more of me and mine, and to that purpose you and your daughter shall live in my palace. I go to prepare for you, and you shall both live under my roof.” “What?” cried Michael. “That is a new string to the fiddle! Why should we live in your palace?” “So that I may take care of your health, Michael. And I shall need your advice in government.” “My advice in your government! You come with a firing squad to kill me and now you talk of taking me to your palace! Surely, this is a day of madness, and I do not understand!” “You will in time,” replied the Ataman. “You have a lesson to learn. It is that you must not hold yourselves superior to Mongol princes. For your grandchildren, Michael, are to be Mongols, and you and your daughter shall hold them in your arms. You both shall love them—though they be of Mongol blood.” Zorogoff spoke to the driver and the horses galloped away, leaving Michael cursing under his breath. Then he ran into the yard as fast as his cold-stiffened legs could carry him, and entered the house, calling for Katerin. Wassili burst through the door of the kitchen into the hall, and cried out in terror at sight of the master whom he supposed to be dead. The _moujik_ fell to his knees, crossing himself and making the sign to ward off devils. “Katerin! Katerin!” shouted Michael, as he saw the form of his daughter stretched upon an old bench that had been turned into a couch. The old serving woman was giving her mistress restoratives and attempting to warm her—but she fled, screaming, as Michael entered.