His features, regular and
agreeable, wore no fierce expression. He often addressed a man of about
fifty years old, calling him sometimes Count, sometimes Timofeitsh,
sometimes Uncle.
Each man considered himself as good as his fellow, and none showed any
particular deference to their chief. They were talking of the morning's
assault, of the success of the revolt, and of their forthcoming
operations.
Each man bragged of his prowess, proclaimed his opinions, and freely
contradicted Pugatchef. And it was decided to march upon Orenburg, a
bold move, which was nearly crowned with success. The departure was
fixed for the day following.
The guests drank yet another bumper, rose from table, and took leave of
Pugatchef. I wished to follow them, but Pugatchef said--
"Stay there, I wish to speak to you!"
We remained alone together, and for a few moments neither spoke.
Pugatchef looked sharply at me, winking from time to time his left eye
with an indefinable expression of slyness and mockery. At last he gave
way to a long burst of laughter, and that with such unfeigned gaiety
that I myself, regarding him, began to laugh without knowing why.
"Well, your lordship," said he, "confess you were afraid when my fellows
cast the rope about your neck.
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