y his chiefs. A white horse richly caparisoned
was led to him; tow Cossacks helped him into the saddle. He signified
to Father Garasim that he would dine with him. At this moment wild
heart-rending shrieks from a woman filled the air. Basilia, without her
mantle, her hair in disorder, was dragged out on the steps; one the
brigands had on her mantle; the others were carrying away her chests,
her linen, and other household goods. "O good men," she cried, "let
me go, take me to Ivan Mironoff." Suddenly she saw the gibbet and
recognized her husband. "Wretches," she cried, "What have you done? O my
light, Ivan! Brave soldier! no Prussian ball, nor Turkish sabre killed
thee, but a vile condemned deserter."

"Silence that old sorceress," said Pougatcheff.

A young Cossack struck her with his sabre on the head. She fell dead at
the foot of the steps. Pougatcheff rode off, all the people following.

VIII. THE UNEXPECTED VISIT.

I stood in the vacant square, unable to collect my thoughts, disturbed
by so many terrible emotions. Uncertainty about Marie's fate tortured
me. Where is she? Is she concealed? Is her retreat safe? I went to the
Commandant's house. It was in frightful disorder; the chairs, tables,
presses had been burned up and the dishes were in fragments. I rushed up
the little stairs leading to Marie's room, which I entered for the
first time in my life. A lamp still burned before the shrine which
had enclosed the sacred objects revered by all true believers. The
clothes-press was empty, the bed broke up. The robbers had not taken the
little mirror hanging between the door and the window. What had become
of the mistress of this simple, virginal abode? A terrible thought
flashed through my mind. Marie in hands of the brigands! My heart was
torn, and I cried aloud: "Marie! Marie!" I heard a rustle. Polacca,
quite pale, came from her hiding-place behind the clothes-press.

"Ah! Peter," said she, clasping her hands, "what a day! what horrors!"

"Marie?" I asked impatiently, "Marie--where is she?"

"The young lady is alive," said the maid, "concealed at Accoulina's, at
the house of the Greek priest."

"Great God!" I cried, with terror, "Pougatcheff is there!"

I rushed out of the room, made a bound into the street and ran wildly
to the priest's house. It was ringing with songs, shouts and laughter.
Pougatcheff was at table there with his men. Polacca had followed me;
I sent her in to call out Accoulina secr