13. They Approach Tchigurine

Maroussia and her friend walked a good part of the night without speaking to one another. From time to time Tchetchevik stopped and offered to carry the child.

“I am not tired,” she always said.

The hours to Maroussia seemed to fly away like swift birds. Her heart was filled with enthusiasm. Her good friend was well satisfied. He had learned many things during the musical entertainment which he had dared to give in the camp. At the same time that he had heard with his ears he had looked and examined with his eyes. The conquerors did not sing of victory, the vanquished need not regret their efforts. Oh, if they could only be united together, disciplined, and their efforts be well directed! If this could be done, although the struggle was unequal, he would not despair. All depended on what he was going to find at Tchigurine, and it was necessary first to reach there.

What time was it? The starless heavens did not give very certain sign.

However, after hours and hours of walking, small red spots appeared before the travelers in the depths of the darkness. They were the lights of the city. Very soon the walls and large buildings could be seen.

There was something mournful in the aspect of this somber city, with a few uncertain lights scattered at great distances. There was no noise, no sign of life. It was not the refreshing silence of sleep, but that of some restless expectation. The feeling of a near, terrible danger seemed to weigh on these houses crowded closely together.

The obscurity in which Tchigurine was hid seemed voluntary. A bright light would be a signal by which the enemy might profit. The high towers, parapets, forts, and ramparts, white in spots, had surely just been repaired. It was a good sign! The nightingales were singing as usual in the little gardens with which many houses were surrounded. Nothing told them of the danger threatening their country.

Tchetchevik and Maroussia approached the gate of the city. It did not seem to be guarded! How could that be? The little gate, it is true, was only half-open, but behind it was no one, not even a gate-keeper.

They pushed it backward, it turned without noise on its hinges. No one stopped them, no one questioned them. Was it a trap? Nevertheless, it seemed to them that the eyes of some few passers-by, coming unexpectedly on their path, followed them with persistence.

“Listen to me, my brother,” Tchetchevik said to a young Cossack, whom he saw leaning with his elbow on a garden fence, “listen to me; be a good fellow and show me the street which leads to our Ataman’s house.” The young man, lifting his cap a little as a salutation, pointed to the end of the street, where a few half-lighted windows could be seen, and said to him:

“At the end of this street, turn to the left and you will be in front of the house of the great Ataman.”

“Thank you, my brother.”

They took the road shown to them, turned to the left, and found themselves before the dwelling they sought.