"
And I must confess a strange feeling embittered my joy.
The recollection of the man covered with the blood of so many innocent
victims, and the thought of the punishment awaiting him, never left me
any peace.
"Emela,"[69] I said to myself, in vexation, "why did you not cast
yourself on the bayonets, or present your heart to the grapeshot. That
had been best for you."
_(After advancing as far as the gates of Moscow, which he might perhaps
have taken had not his bold heart failed him at the last moment,
Pugatchef, beaten, had been delivered up by his comrades for the sum of
a hundred thousand roubles, shut up in an iron cage, and conveyed to
Moscow. He was executed by order of Catherine II., in 1775.)_
Zourine gave me leave.
A few days later I should have been in the bosom of my family, when an
unforeseen thunderbolt struck me. The day of my departure, just as I was
about to start, Zourine entered my room with a paper in his hand,
looking anxious. I felt a pang at my heart; I was afraid, without
knowing wherefore. The Major bade my servant leave us, and told me he
wished to speak to me.
"What's the matter?" I asked, with disquietude.
"A little unpleasantness," replied he, offering me the paper.
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