now—with the city in our very hands? It must be those accursed treacherous Austrians or those fools of Prussians who are showing the white feather. But the Czar will never listen to them—never!"
"Never!" eagerly assented all around. "He remembers the flames of Moscow."
They were not left long in suspense. Presently an aide-de-camp, galloping along the lines, brought the orders of the Czar: "Extinguish your matches. Pile your muskets. The city is about to capitulate."
The order was obeyed, but with a great and bitter cry, like the cry of a wild beast that sees his prey escape him. Rage and disappointment filled every heart to overflowing. Michael flung himself on his knees beside his now useless gun, covering his face with his one hand, while the tears rolled down his weather-beaten cheeks.
Touched by his distress, Ivan called him to his side. "What is the matter, friend?" he asked gently.
"Matter, Barrinka? Matter enough to break the heart of a man who has marched from Moscow to Paris with only one thought, one hope in his heart—the hope of vengeance."
"I cannot blame you, Michael. You have bitter wrongs to avenge."
"Ay, Barrinka," answered he, choking down the emotion he did not wish to betray. "I see nothing day and night but that sweet pale face with the look of death upon it. Only killing Nyemtzi makes it go away now and then for a little while. All this time I have been thinking, perhaps if we kill Nyemtzi enough—kill and destroy them utterly—utterly," he repeated, sending out the word with a hissing sound through his clenched teeth, "that face may go or change—change back again," he added more gently, "to the old happy look it used to have in the bygone days when she was my betrothed, before the Nyemtzi came and ruined everything."
