"
Then, suddenly, at a signal, all the lights of the fantasia
were extinguished, the dances ceased, and the performers disappeared.
The ceremony was over, and the torches alone lighted up the plateau,
which a few instants before had been so brilliantly illuminated.
On a sign from the Emir, Michael was led into the middle of the square.
"Blount," said Alcide to his companion, "are you going to see
the end of all this?"
"No, that I am not," replied Blount.
"The readers of the Daily Telegraph are, I hope, not very eager
for the details of an execution a la mode Tartare?"
"No more than your cousin!"
"Poor fellow!" added Alcide, as he watched Michael. "That valiant
soldier should have fallen on the field of battle!"
"Can we do nothing to save him?" said Blount.
"Nothing!"
The reporters recalled Michael's generous conduct towards them;
they knew now through what trials he must have passed,
ever obedient to his duty; and in the midst of these Tartars,
to whom pity is unknown, they could do nothing for him.
Having little desire to be present at the torture reserved
for the unfortunate man, they returned to the town.
An hour later, they were on the road to Irkutsk, for it was among
the Russians that they intended to follow what Alcide called,
by anticipation, "the campaign of revenge."
Meantime, Michael was standing ready, his eyes returning the Emir's
haughty glance, while his countenance assumed an expression of intense
scorn whenever he cast his looks on Ivan Ogareff.
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