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sky, each bearing a parti-colored lantern, and under a fresher breeze their
harps vibrated with intenser sound in the midst of the aerial illumination.
Then a squadron of Tartars, in their brilliant uniforms, mingled in the
dances, whose wild fury was increasing rapidly, and then began a performance
which produced a very strange effect. Soldiers came on the ground, armed with
bare sabers and long pistols, and, as they executed dances, they made the air
re-echo with the sudden detonations of their firearms, which immediately set
going the rumbling of the tambourines, and grumblings of the daires, and the
gnashing of doutares.
Their arms, covered with a colored powder of some metallic ingredient,
after the Chinese fashion, threw long jets--red, green, and blue- so that the
groups of dancers seemed to be in the midst of fireworks. In some respects,
this performance recalled the military dance of the ancients, in the midst of
naked swords; but this Tartar dance was rendered yet more fantastic by the
colored fire, which wound, serpent-like, above the dancers, whose dresses
seemed to be embroidered with fiery hems. It was like a kaleidoscope of
sparks, whose infinite combinations varied at each movement of the dancers.
Though it may be thought that a Parisian reporter would be perfectly
hardened to any scenic effect, which our modern ideas have carried so far, yet
Alcide Jolivet could not restrain a slight movement of the head, which at
home, between the Boulevard Montmartre and La Madeleine would have said--"Very
fair, very fair."
Then, suddenly, at a signal, all the lights of the fantasia were
extinguished, the dances ceased, and the performers disappeared. The ceremony
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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. He was prepared to die, yet not a
single sign of weakness escaped him.
The spectators, waiting around the square, as well as Feofar-Khan's
body-guard, to whom this execution was only one of the attractions, were
eagerly expecting it. Then, their curiosity satisfied, they would rush off to
enjoy the pleasures of intoxication.
The Emir made a sign. Michael was thrust forward by his guards to the
foot of the terrace, and Feofar said to him, "You came to see our goings out
and comings in, Russian spy. You have seen for the last time. In an instant
your eyes will be forever shut to the day."
Michael's fate was to be not death, but blindness; loss of sight, more
terrible perhaps than loss of life. The unhappy man was condemned to be
blinded.
However, on hearing the Emir's sentence Michael's heart did not grow
faint. He remained unmoved, his eyes wide open, as though he wished to
concentrate his whole life into one last look. To entreat pity from these
savage men would be useless, besides, it would be unworthy of him. He did not
even think of it. His thoughts were condensed on his mission, which had
apparently so completely failed; on his mother, on Nadia, whom he should never
more see! But he let no sign appear of the emotion he felt. Then, a feeling of
vengeance to be accomplished came over him. "Ivan," said he, in a stern voice,
"Ivan the Traitor, the last menace of my eyes shall be for you!"
Ivan Ogareff shrugged his shoulders.
But Michael was not to be looking at Ivan when his eyes were put out.
Marfa Strogoff stood before him.
"My mother!" cried he. "Yes! yes! my last glance shall be for you, and
not for this wretch! Stay there, before me! Now I see once more your
well-beloved face! Now shall my eyes close as they rest upon it . . . !"
The old woman, without uttering a word, advanced.
"Take that woman away!" said Ivan.
Two soldiers were about to seize her, but she stepped back and remained
standing a few paces from Michael.
The executioner appeared. This time, he held his saber bare in his hand,
and this saber he had just drawn from the chafing-dish, where he had brought
it to a white heat. Michael was going to be blinded in the Tartar fashion,
with a hot blade passed before his eyes!
Michael did not attempt to resist. Nothing existed before his eyes but
his mother, whom his eyes seemed to devour. All his life was in that last
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