13. They Approach Tchigurine

“You are welcome,” the great Ataman answered. “What song will you sing for us, brave singer?”

The very sound of his voice told them that he was a man accustomed to command, a man not knowing how to restrain himself when his opinion must be declared or defended.

“What song, great Ataman? I have more than one for you to hear, and of my own composition, if you will deign to listen to them.” The great Ataman answered nothing. But what words, however strong they might be, could better express sadness, than this silence of a few moments!

“Whence do you come? ” he said at last.

“From Zaporogie,” Tchetchevik answered. “The brave men of Zaporogie present their respects to the great Ataman.”

“In times such as these, no one should make or receive compliments,” the Ataman answered. “Walk into my room.”

Tchetchevik, holding Maroussia by the hand, followed the great Ataman and entered the next room.

This room was as simple as the first: white-washed walls and stools of linden wood, such as can be found in every peasant’s house.

But there were many very choice weapons, pistols and daggers, glistening on the walls.

Papers and notes covered the table, on these papers could be seen the boulava, the Ataman staff of command.

One side of the wall was furnished with large wooden hooks, upon which hung the costumes for holidays, all embroidered with gold, silver, and precious stones. This embroidery sparkled in the room and gave it a very strange appearance.

There was a bed in a corner, which seemed not to have given rest to him for whom it was intended.

The pillows thrown about told clearly how feverish the head was, which had sought sleep there.

“Be seated, I pray you,” said the great Ataman.

He seated himself also, and his shining eyes glanced alternately on the faces of Tchetchevik and Maroussia.

“Why is this child here?”

“She is deaf and dumb, pay no attention to her. Her head is only a little rose-bud which droops on its stem from fatigue, she needs sleep.”