She was a savage worthy to share the wigwam of an Apache or the hut
of an Andaman.
Since her arrival at Omsk, where she had rejoined him with
her Tsiganes, Sangarre had not again left Ogareff. The circumstance
that Michael and Marfa Strogoff had met was known to her.
She knew and shared Ogareff's fears concerning the journey
of a courier of the Czar. Having Marfa Strogoff in her power,
she would have been the woman to torture her with all the refinement
of a RedSkin in order to wrest her secret from her. But the hour
had not yet come in which Ogareff wished the old Siberian to speak.
Sangarre had to wait, and she waited, without losing sight
of her whom she was watching, observing her slightest gestures,
her slightest words, endeavoring to catch the word "son" escaping
from her lips, but as yet always baffled by Marfa's taciturnity.
At the first flourish of the trumpets several officers of high rank,
followed by a brilliant escort of Usbeck horsemen, moved to the front
of the camp to receive Ivan Ogareff. Arrived in his presence,
they paid him the greatest respect, and invited him to accompany them
to Feofar-Khan's tent.
Imperturbable as usual, Ogareff replied coldly to the deference paid
to him. He was plainly dressed; but, from a sort of impudent bravado,
he still wore the uniform of a Russian officer.
As he was about to enter the camp, Sangarre, passing among
the officers approached and remained motionless before him.
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