"Why was that?"
He laughed peculiarly; his lips rose as those of a wicked dog do when he shows his teeth, and he answered only after a while.
"I wished to have those places in my power, and to secure the homeward road for your grace."
"If the troops return from the steppes, there will be forces there then."
"The troops will not come back so soon."
"Whence do you know that?"
"They cannot, because first they must learn clearly what Doroshenko is doing; that will occupy about three or four weeks."
"If that is the case you did well to leave those men."
They rode a while in silence. Azya looked from time to time at the rosy face of Basia, half concealed by the raised collar of her mantle and her cap, and after every glance he closed his eyes, as if wishing to fix that charming picture more firmly in his mind.
"You ought to talk with Eva," said Basia, renewing the conversation.
"You talk altogether too little with her; she knows not what to think.
You will stand before the face of Pan Novoveski soon; alarm even seizes me. You and she should take counsel together, and settle how you are to begin."
"I should like to speak first with your grace," said Azya, with a strange voice.
"Then why not speak at once?"
"I am waiting for a messenger from Rashkoff; I thought to find him in Yampol. I expect him every moment."
"But what," said Basia, "has the messenger to do with our conversation?"
"I think that he is coming now," said the Tartar, avoiding an answer.
And he galloped forward, but returned after a while. "No; that is not he."
In his whole posture, in his speech, in his look, in his voice, there was something so excited and feverish that unquietude was communicated to Basia; still the least suspicion had not risen in her head yet.
Azya"s unrest could be explained perfectly by the nearness of Rashkoff and of Eva"s terrible father; still, something oppressed Basia, as if her own fate were in question. Approaching the sleigh, she rode near Eva for a number of hours, speaking with her of Rashkoff, of old Pan Novoveski, of Pan Adam, of Zosia Boski, finally of the region about them, which was becoming a wilder and more terrible wilderness. It was, in truth, a wilderness immediately beyond Hreptyoff; but there at least a column of smoke rose from time to time on the horizon, indicating some habitation. Here there were no traces of man; and if Basia had not known that she was going to Rashkoff, where people were living, and a Polish garrison was stationed, she might have thought that they were taking her somewhere into an unknown desert, into strange lands at the end of the world.
Looking around at the country, she restrained her horse involuntarily, and was soon left in the rear of the sleighs and hors.e.m.e.n. Azya joined her after a while; and since he knew the region well, he began to show her various places, mentioning their names.
This did not last very long, however, for the earth began to be smoky; evidently the winter had not such power in that southern region as in woody Hreptyoff. Snow was lying somewhat, it is true, in the valleys, on the cliffs, on the edges of the rocks, and also on the hillsides turned northward; but in general the earth was not covered, and looked dark with groves, or gleamed with damp withered gra.s.s. From that gra.s.s rose a light whitish fog, which, extending near the earth, formed in the distance the counterfeit of great waters, filling the valleys and spreading widely over the plains; then that fog rose higher and higher, till at last it hid the sunshine, and turned a clear day into a foggy and gloomy one.
"There will be rain to-morrow," said Azya.
"If not to-day. How far is it to Rashkoff?"
Azya looked at the nearest place, barely visibly through the fog, and said,--
"From that point it is nearer to Rashkoff than to Yampol." And he breathed deeply, as if a great weight had fallen from his breast.
At that moment the tramp of a horse was heard from the direction of the cavalry, and some horseman was seen indistinctly in the fog.
"Halim! I know him," cried Azya.
Indeed, it was Halim, who, when he had rushed up to Azya and Basia, sprang from his horse and began to beat with his forehead toward the stirrup of the young Tartar.
"From Rashkoff?" inquired Azya.
"From Rashkoff, my lord," answered Halim.
"What is to be heard there?"
The old man raised toward Basia his ugly head, emaciated from unheard-of toils, as if wishing to inquire whether he might speak in her presence; but Tugai Bey"s son said at once,--
"Speak boldly. Have the troops gone out?"
"They have. A handful remained."
"Who led them?"
"Pan Novoveski."
"Have the Pyotroviches gone to the Crimea?"
"Long ago. Only two women remained, and old Pan Novoveski with them."
"Where is Krychinski?"
"On the other bank of the river; he is waiting."
"Who is with him?"
"Adurovich with his company; both beat with the forehead to thy stirrup, O son of Tugai Bey, and give themselves under thy hand,--they, and all those who have not come yet."
""Tis well!" said Azya, with fire in his eyes. "Fly to Krychinski at once, and give the command to occupy Rashkoff."
"Thy will, lord."
Halim sprang on his horse in a moment, and vanished like a phantom in the fog. A terrible, ominous gleam issued from the face of Azya. The decisive moment had come,--the moment waited for, the moment of greatest happiness for him; but his heart was beating as if breath were failing him. He rode for a time in silence near Basia; and only when he felt that his voice would not deceive him did he turn toward her his eyes, inscrutable but bright, and say,--
"Now I will speak to your grace with sincerity."
"I listen," said Basia, scanning him carefully, as if she wished to read his changed countenance.
CHAPTER x.x.xIX.
Azya urged his horse up so closely to Basia"s pony that his stirrup almost touched hers. He rode forward a few steps in silence; during this time he strove to calm himself finally, and wondered why calmness came to him with such effort, since he had Basia in his hands, and there was no human power which could take her from him. But he did not know that in his soul, despite every probability, despite every evidence, there glimmered a certain spark of hope that the woman whom he desired would answer with a feeling like his own. If that hope was weak, the desire for its object was so strong that it shook him as a fever. The woman would not open her arms, would not cast herself into his embrace, would not say those words over which he had dreamed whole nights: "Azya, I am thine;" she would not hang with her lips on his lips,--he knew this. But how would she receive his words? What would she say? Would she lose all feeling, like a dove in the claws of a bird of prey, and let him take her, just as the hapless dove yields itself to the hawk? Would she beg for mercy tearfully, or would she fill that wilderness with a cry of terror? Would there be something more, or something less, of all this? Such questions were storming in the head of the Tartar. But in every case the hour had come to cast aside feigning, pretences, and show her a truthful, a terrible face. Here was his fear, here his alarm. One moment more, and all would be accomplished.