Michael Strogoff gripped the muzhik’s hand. Then, recovering himself with a sudden effort, “Friend,” said he, “how long have I been in thy hut?”
“Three days.”
“Three days lost!”
“Three days hast thou lain unconscious.”
“Hast thou a horse to sell me?”
“Thou wishest to go?”
“At once.”
“I have neither horse nor carriage, little father. Where the Tartar has passed there remains nothing!”
“Well, I will go on foot to Omsk to find a horse.”
“A few more hours of rest, and thou wilt be in a better condition to pursue thy journey.”
“Not an hour!”
“Come now,” replied the muzhik, recognizing the fact that it was useless to struggle against the will of his guest, “I will guide thee myself. Besides,” he added, “the Russians are still in great force at Omsk, and thou couldst, perhaps, pass unperceived.”
“Friend,” replied Michael Strogoff, “Heaven reward thee for all thou hast done for me!”
“Reward! Only fools expect reward on earth,” replied the muzhik.
Michael Strogoff went out of the hut. When he tried to walk he was seized with such faintness that, without the assistance of the muzhik, he would have fallen; but the fresh air quickly revived him. He then felt the wound in his head, the violence of which his fur cap had lessened. With the energy which he possessed, he was not a man to succumb under such a trifle. Before his eyes lay a single goal—far-distant Irkutsk. He must reach it! But he must pass through Omsk without stopping there.
“God protect my mother and Nadia!” he murmured. “I have no longer the right to think of them!”
Michael Strogoff and the muzhik soon arrived in the mercantile quarter of the lower town, and although under military occupation, they entered it without difficulty. The surrounding earthwork had been destroyed in many places, and there were the breaches through which the marauders who followed the armies of Feofar-Khan had penetrated.
Within Omsk, in its streets and squares, the Tartar soldiers swarmed like ants; but it was easy to see that a hand of iron imposed upon them a discipline to which they were but little accustomed. In fact, they walked nowhere alone, but in armed groups, for the purpose of defending themselves against surprise.
In the chief square, transformed into a camp, guarded by many sentries, 2,000 Tartars bivouacked. The horses, picketed but still saddled, were ready to start at the first order. Omsk could only be a temporary halting-place for this Tartar cavalry, which preferred the rich plains of Eastern Siberia, where the towns were more wealthy, the country more fertile, and, consequently, pillage more profitable.
Above the mercantile town rose the upper quarter, which Ivan Ogareff, notwithstanding several assaults vigorously made but bravely repelled, had not yet been able to reduce. Upon its embattled walls floated the national colors of Russia.
It was not without a legitimate pride that Michael Strogoff and his guide, vowing fidelity, saluted them.
Michael Strogoff was perfectly acquainted with the town of Omsk, and he took care to avoid those streets which were much frequented. This was not from any fear of being recognized. In the town his old mother only could have called him by name, but he had sworn not to see her, and he did not. Besides—and he wished it with his whole heart—she might have fled into some quiet portion of the steppe.
The muzhik very fortunately knew a postmaster who, if well paid, would not refuse at his request either to let or to sell a carriage or horses. There remained the difficulty of leaving the town, but the breaches in the fortifications would, of course, facilitate his departure.
The muzhik was accordingly conducting his guest straight to the posting-house, when, in a narrow street, Michael Strogoff, coming to a sudden stop sprang behind a jutting wall.
“What is the matter?” quickly asked the astonished muzhik, mush astonished at this sudden movement.
“Silence!” hastily replied Michael, with his finger on his lips.
At this moment a detachment debouched from the principal square into the street which Michael Strogoff and his companion had just been following.
At the head of the detachment, composed of twenty horsemen, was an officer dressed in a very simple uniform. Although he glanced rapidly from one side to the other he could not have seen Michael Strogoff, owing to his precipitous retreat.
The detachment went at full trot into the narrow street. Neither the officer nor his escort concerned themselves about the inhabitants. Several unlucky ones had scarcely time to make way for their passage. There were, therefore, a few half-stifled cries, to which thrusts of the lance gave an instant reply, and the street was immediately cleared.
When the escort had disappeared, “Who is that officer?” asked Michael Strogoff, returning towards the muzhik.
And while putting the question his face was pale as that of a corpse.
“It is Ivan Ogareff,” replied the Siberian, in a deep voice which breathed hatred.
“He!” cried Michael Strogoff, from whom the word escaped with a fury he could not conquer.
He had just recognized in this officer the traveler who had struck him at the posting-house of Ishim. And, although he had only caught a glimpse of him, it burst upon his mind, at the same time, that this traveler was the old Zingari whose words he had overheard in the market place of Nizhny Novgorod.
Michael Strogoff was not mistaken. The two men were one and the same. It was under the garb of a Zingari, mingling with the band of Sangarre, that Ivan Ogareff had been able to leave the town of Nizhny Novgorod, where he had gone to seek amongst the numerous strangers which the fair had gathered from Central Asia the confidants whom he had associated in the accomplishment of his accursed task. Sangarre and her Zingari, well paid spies, were absolutely devoted to him. It was he who, during the night, on the fairground had uttered that singular sentence, which Michael Strogoff could not understand the sense; it was he who was voyaging on board the Caucasus, with the whole of the Bohemian band; it was he who, by this
