nor for you, sons and grandsons, true and well-beloved though you are, to change it now. Here have I lived, and here will I die. The Nyemtzi shall enter holy Moscow only over my body."[1]
"A vain sacrifice, useless as it is cruel," said Ivan Petrovitch in a broken voice.
"My son, it is neither. I have no strong arm to fight for the Czar, but I have yet a voice with which to hurl defiance against his enemies. It is the mightiest of all voices, though it makes no sound—the voice of blood. My blood shall cry to the invader from the gate of the city I have loved: 'It is but vain the labour that you take to conquer this land for your Prince. A land where youth and manhood arm to resist you, while old age dies beneath your feet rather than submit to your sway—such a land is unconquerable.' Therefore, my children, no more words. They are but needless pain, and time presses. I think my soldier lads should even now be rejoining their regiments. Are you all here, my brave boys whom I have given to the Czar?"
The sergeant of grenadiers answered for the rest, "Yes, my father, all."
"Four sons and nine sons' sons—thirteen in all—have I given to our lord. Soldiers of holy Russia, fight bravely; and may God prosper your arms and give you the victory! I doubt not he will, for your cause is just."
"My father, ere we go," said the sergeant, advancing and kneeling before him, "bless thy sons."
In a voice tremulous with deep feeling the solemn patriarchal blessing was given. One after another the members of the family advanced to receive it: first the soldier sons and grandsons, keeping down their emotion with manly self-control; then Ivan Petrovitch, and a few others whose circumstances
- ↑ The story of Petrovitch is historical. Scarcely anything has been added, and only a few rather improbable details have been omitted.
