14. The Object—And Afterwards

Tchetchevik folded the letter and hid it in the handle of a dagger which he carried under his robe.

“When shall you take it to its destination?” the Ataman asked him. “When will he know that I am ready to do anything for Ukraine, even to fight under his orders, he who, alone, is not capable of giving any?”

“Do you not know who inspires these orders,” said Tchetchevik, “and who advises the person who suggests them to the other Ataman? Well! It is there that your letter will first be read. I will deliver it myself as soon as I have finished my tour. I will not lose an hour, my Ataman, you may rely upon it, and if everything does not go well, if I feel that your letter will be useless, be easy, I will destroy it. It will not have been written.” He arose.

Much moved by the end of this scene, Maroussia rushed forward near her good friend.

“Kiss the hand of him who has just written this letter,” Tchetchevik said to her.

“Ah! I wish to do so,” Maroussia exclaimed. “I am dumb when he wishes it,” she said to the Ataman, “deaf when he commands me, I forget everything when he makes me a sign, and I love and honor all those whom he loves and honors.”

And taking the Ataman’s hand before he could withdraw it, Maroussia most respectfully kissed it.

“Ah!” the great Ataman said to Tchetchevik, “you are beloved!”

“You also are beloved,” Maroussia said to him, “you are beloved by my good friend and by all of us because you love Ukraine.”

The Ataman conducted them to the threshold of the door and there they separated: their last words had been: “Everything for Ukraine.”

They left the Ataman standing, thoughtful, in the door of his house, and directed their steps toward the gate of the city. The streets were deserted, the little gardens were filled with cherry-trees white with blossoms, in the distance they could hear the fresh, gentle murmur of a river. After they had gone a hundred steps, Maroussia turned around to look at the Ataman’s house.

His tall figure was still in the door, and he was thoughtfully looking after them.

His face was scarcely visible by the uncertain light of the stars, but what they saw of his figure showed so much suffering that Maroussia’s heart beat for him.