No Russian force could be opposed to them between Krasnoiarsk
and Lake Baikal, Michael therefore expected before long
the appearance of the Tartar scouts.
At each halt, Nadia climbed some hill and looked anxiously
to the Westward, but as yet no cloud of dust had signaled
the approach of a troop of horse.
Then the march was resumed; and when Michael felt that he was
dragging poor Nadia forward too rapidly, he went at a slower pace.
They spoke little, and only of Nicholas. The young girl recalled
all that this companion of a few days had done for them.
In answering, Michael tried to give Nadia some hope of which he did
not feel a spark himself, for he well knew that the unfortunate fellow
would not escape death.
One day Michael said to the girl, "You never speak to me
of my mother, Nadia."
His mother! Nadia had never wished to do so. Why renew his grief?
Was not the old Siberian dead? Had not her son given the last kiss
to her corpse stretched on the plain of Tomsk?
"Speak to me of her, Nadia," said Michael. "Speak--you will please me."
And then Nadia did what she had not done before. She told all
that had passed between Marfa and herself since their meeting
at Omsk, where they had seen each other for the first time.
She said how an inexplicable instinct had led her towards the old
prisoner without knowing who she was, and what encouragement she
had received in return. At that time Michael Strogoff had been
to her but Nicholas Korpanoff.
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