They had not till then been able
to get through those who crowded the banks, but at last they came
to drink in their turn.
The old woman bent over the clear stream, and Nadia, plunging in
her hand, carried it to Marfa's lips. Then she refreshed herself.
They found new life in these welcome waters. Suddenly Nadia started up;
an involuntary cry escaped her.
Michael Strogoff was there, a few steps from her. It was he.
The dying rays of the sun fell upon him.
At Nadia's cry Michael started. But he had sufficient command over
himself not to utter a word by which he might have been compromised.
And yet, when he saw Nadia, he also recognized his mother.
Feeling he could not long keep master of himself at this
unexpected meeting, he covered his eyes with his hands and
walked quickly away.
Nadia's impulse was to run after him, but the old Siberian murmured
in her ear, "Stay, my daughter!"
"It is he!" replied Nadia, choking with emotion. "He lives, mother!
It is he!"
"It is my son," answered Marfa, "it is Michael Strogoff,
and you see that I do not make a step towards him!
Imitate me, my daughter."
Michael had just experienced the most violent emotion which a man
can feel. His mother and Nadia were there!
The two prisoners who were always together in his heart,
God had brought them together in this common misfortune.
Did Nadia know who he was? Yes, for he had seen Marfa's gesture,
holding her back as she was about to rush towards him.
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