“But do not be shocked, father, by the news which I am about to reveal to you. Your son is in the Mongolian encampment . . . a prisoner!”
“A prisoner?” he exclaimed as if struck by a thunderbolt. “No! That can’t be true! My son would first be rent to shreds before he would allow himself to be taken prisoner. It can’t be true! You are trying to deceive me, wicked girl!”
“No, father, I am not deceiving you, it’s really so. I have come straight from the Mongolian camp. I saw him there and talked with him. They overpowered him by trickery and fastened chains about his ankles and wrists. Himself unhurt, he was covered with the blood of foes. No, father, your son has brought no dishonor upon your name!”
“What did he say to you?”
“He told me to go to you father, to cheer and comfort you in your grief at his loss and to become your daughter, your ward, because I, father,” here her voice broke, “I am an orphan, I have no father!”
“No father? Why, has Tuhar Wolf died?”
“No, Tuhar Wolf is alive, but Tuhar Wolf has stopped being my father since he . . . turned informer . . . and became . . . a Mongolian slave.”
“That was to be expected,” replied Zakhar sullenly.
“That is why I cannot consider him as a father any longer, because I do not want to be a traitress. Father Berkut be my protector! Take me for your own! Your unfortunate son implores you through my lips.”
“My son, my unfortunate son!” groaned Zakhar Berkut, avoiding Peace-Renown’s eyes. “Who can ever compensate me for his loss?”
“Fear not, father, he may not be killed, we may yet succeed in freeing him. Please listen to the message he asked me to bring to you.”
“Go ahead speak!” said Zakhar, glancing at her briefly.
139
