would not be
difficult after nightfall. As for purchasing a carriage to replace the
tarantass, that was impossible. There were none to be let or sold. But
what want had Michael Strogoff now for a carriage? Was he not alone,
alas? A horse would suffice him; and, very fortunately, a horse could
be had. It was an animal of strength and mettle, and Michael Strogoff,
accomplished horseman as he was, could make good use of it.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon. Michael Strogoff, compelled
to wait till nightfall, in order to pass the fortifications, but not
desiring to show himself, remained in the posting-house, and there
partook of food.

There was a great crowd in the public room. They were talking of the
expected arrival of a corps of Muscovite troops, not at Omsk, but at
Tomsk--a corps intended to recapture that town from the Tartars of
Feofar-Khan.

Michael Strogoff lent an attentive ear, but took no part in the
conversation. Suddenly a cry made him tremble, a cry which penetrated
to the depths of his soul, and these two words rushed into his ear: "My
son!"

His mother, the old woman Marfa, was before him! Trembling, she smiled
upon him. She stretched forth her arms to him. Michael Strogoff arose.
He was about to throw himself--

The thought of duty, the serious danger for his mother and himself in
this unfortunate meeting, suddenly stopped him, and such was his command
over himself that not a muscle of his face moved. There were twenty
people in the public room. Among them were, perhaps, spies, and was it
not known in the town that the son of Marfa Strogoff belonged to the
corps of the couriers of the Czar?

Michael Strogoff did not move.

"Michael!" cried his mother.

"Who are you, my good lady?" Michael Strogoff stammered, unable to speak
in his usual firm tone.

"Who am I, thou askest! Dost thou no longer know thy mother?"

"You are mistaken," coldly replied Michael Strogoff. "A resemblance
deceives you."

The old Marfa went up to him, and, looking straight into his eyes, said,
"Thou art not the son of Peter and Marfa Strogoff?"

Michael Strogoff would have given his life to have locked his mother in
his arms; but if he yielded it was all over with him, with her, with
his mission, with his oath! Completely master of himself, he closed his
eyes, in order not to see the inexpressible anguish which agitated the
revered countenance of his mother. He drew back his hands, in order not
to touch those tr