"I think, Michael, there may be another way to bring the change you long for," began Ivan; but Michael interrupted him.
"No!" he cried passionately—"no way but killing Nyemtzi. That is all the joy left me now upon earth. And the Czar will not let us do it."
"He will not," said Ivan. "That is true. Remember, Michael, that he who forbids it is the Czar Alexander Paulovitch—no one else."
"If it were any one else," returned Michael gloomily, "we should tear him to pieces."
"What do you suppose has made the Czar forbid it? Ever since we entered this land of the enemy, he has held back his avenging armies, as one might hold a bloodhound in the leash from springing on his prey. Is it that he has no wrongs to revenge; that he has forgotten holy Moscow and the Kremlin and the outraged tombs of his fathers?"
"'The Czar is God upon earth,'" said Michael, quoting the proverb of his people. "He does what he pleases. How could such as I pretend to understand him?—Are you suffering, Barrinka?" he asked, as Ivan stirred uneasily and shivered.
"Not much. I think it is the chill before the morning that I feel. Wrap that cloak around me, please, and give me a little more brandy."
Michael did so, saying, as he tried to fasten the cloak, "If I had my other hand, I would do it better for you, Barrinka."
"You have done it well, my friend; but you must often miss your hand, and regret its loss."
"Regret it!" cried Michael with the old enthusiasm flashing from his eyes. "Never! Did I not give it for the Czar?"
"Michael, listen to me. As you love and honour the Czar, so the Czar loves and honours his King."
"His king?" repeated Michael, wondering. But a moment afterwards he made the sign of the cross. "I understand," he said in a lower voice.
