annot say what I felt. Pugatchef looked sidelong at Chvabrine,
and said to him with a bitter smile--

"Your hospital is well-ordered!" Then, approaching Marya, "Tell me, my
little dove, why your husband punishes you thus?"

"My husband!" rejoined she; "he is not my husband. Never will I be his
wife. I am resolved rather to die, and I shall die if I be not
delivered."

Pugatchef cast a furious glance upon Chvabrine.

"You dared deceive me," cried he. "Do you know, villain, what you
deserve?"

Chvabrine dropped on his knees. Then contempt overpowered in me all
feelings of hatred and revenge. I looked with disgust upon a gentleman
at the feet of a Cossack deserter. Pugatchef allowed himself to be
moved.

"I pardon you this time," he said, to Chvabrine; "but next offence I
will remember this one." Then, addressing Marya, he said to her, gently,
"Come out, pretty one; I give you your liberty. I am the Tzar."

Marya Ivanofna threw a quick look at him, and divined that the murderer
of her parents was before her eyes. She covered her face with her hands,
and fell unconscious.

I was rushing to help her, when my old acquaintance, Polashka, came very
boldly into the room, and took charge of her mistress.

Pugatchef withdrew, and we all three returned to the parlour.

"Well, your lordship," Pugatchef said to me, laughing, "we have
delivered the pretty girl; what do you say to it? Ought we not to send
for the pope and get him to marry his niece? If you like I will be your
_marriage godfather_, Chvabrine best man; then we will set to and drink
with closed doors."

What I feared came to pass.

No sooner had he heard Pugatchef's proposal than Chvabrine lost his
head.

"Tzar," said he, furiously, "I am guilty, I have lied to you; but
Grineff also deceives you. This young girl is not the pope's niece; she
is the daughter of Ivan Mironoff, who was executed when the fort was
taken."

Pugatchef turned his flashing eyes on me.

"What does all this mean?" cried he, with indignant surprise.

But I made answer boldly--

"Chvabrine has told you the truth."

"You had not told me that," rejoined Pugatchef, whose brow had suddenly
darkened.

"But judge yourself," replied I; "could I declare before all your
people that she was Mironoff's daughter? They would have torn her in
pieces, nothing could have saved her."

"Well, you are right," said Pugatchef. "My drunkards would not have
spared the poor girl; my gossip, the pop