My imagination pictured the fate of Marie, and I trembled for her.

“Listen, Captain Mironoff,” said I to the Commandant, “our duty is to defend the fortress to our last breath; that is understood, but the safety of the women must be thought of; send them to a more distant fortress,—­to Orenbourg, if the route be still open.”

Mironoff turned to his wife.  “You see my dear! indeed it would be well to send you somewhere farther off until we shall have defeated the rebels.”

“What nonsense!” replied she.  “Where is the fortress that balls have not reached?  In what respect is our fortress unsafe?  Thank God, we have lived here twenty and one years.  We have seen Bashkirs and Kirghis; Pougatcheff can not be worse than they.”

“My dear, stay if you will, since your faith is so great in our fortress.  But what shall we do with Marie?  It will be all well if we can keep off the robber, or if help reach us in time.  If the fortress, however, be taken—­”

Basilia could only stammer a few words, and was silent, choked by her feelings.

“No, Basilia,” continued the Commandant, who remarked that his words made a deep impression on his wife, perhaps for the first time in his life, “it is not advisable that Marie stay here.  Let us send her to Orenbourg, to her god-mother’s.  That is a well-manned fortress, with stone walls and plenty of cannon.  I would advise you to go there yourself; think what might happen to you were your fortress to be taken by assault.”

“Well! well! let us send Marie away,” said the Captain’s wife, “but do not dream of asking me to go, for I will do nothing of the kind.  It is not becoming, in my old age, to separate myself from thee and seek a solitary grave in a strange place.  We have lived together; let us die together.”

“You are right,” said the Commandant.  “Go, and equip Marie; there is no time to lose; tomorrow, at the dawn of day, she shall set out; she must have a convoy, though indeed there is no one to spare.  Where is she?”

“She is at Accoulina’s,” said his wife.  “She fainted upon hearing that the fortress had been taken.”

Basilia went to prepare for her daughter’s departure.  The discussion still continued at the Commandant’s, but I took no further part in it.  Marie reappeared at supper with eyes red from tears.  We supped in silence and rose from the table sooner than usual.  Having bade the family good night, each one sought his room.  I forgot my sword, on purpose, and went back for it; I anticipated finding Marie alone.  In truth she met me at the door and gave me my sword.

“Adieu, Peter,” she said, weeping, “they send me to Orenbourg.  Be happy.  Perhaps God will permit us to meet again; if not—­”

She burst into tears.  I folded her in my arms.

“Adieu, my angel!” I said, “adieu my cherished, my beloved; what ever happens, be sure that my last thought, my last prayer, will be for thee.”  Leaning of my breast, Marie wept.  I kissed her and rushed out.