"Nothing?" asked Ogareff.
"Nothing."
"Have patience."
"Is the time approaching when you will force the old woman to speak?"
"It is approaching, Sangarre."
"When will the old woman speak?"
"When we reach Tomsk."
"And we shall be there--"
"In three days."
A strange gleam shot from Sangarre's great black eyes, and she
retired with a calm step. Ogareff pressed his spurs into his
horse's flanks, and, followed by his staff of Tartar officers,
rode towards the Emir's tent.
Feofar-Khan was expecting his lieutenant. The council,
composed of the bearer of the royal seal, the khodja,
and some high officers, had taken their places in the tent.
Ivan Ogareff dismounted and entered.
Feofar-Khan was a man of forty, tall, rather pale, of a fierce
countenance, and evil eyes. A curly black beard flowed over his chest.
With his war costume, coat of mail of gold and silver, cross-belt and
scabbard glistening with precious stones, boots with golden spurs,
helmet ornamented with an aigrette of brilliant diamonds, Feofar presented
an aspect rather strange than imposing for a Tartar Sardana-palus,
an undisputed sovereign, who directs at his pleasure the life and fortune
of his subjects.
When Ivan Ogareff appeared, the great dignitaries remained seated
on their gold-embroidered cushions; but Feofar rose from a rich
divan which occupied the back part of the tent, the ground being
hidden under the thick velvet-pile of a Bokharian carpet.
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