And with this understanding Barnwell went to the cell of old Peter Batavsky.
He found him indeed a character, even if he was insane at times.
He was at least seventy years of age, bent and bowed by hard work and long imprisonment.
His thin hair was white, and his skin like old parchment, but his eyes were bright, and even in his age showed the fires of youth, as well as a high-born nature, all of which had not yet been crushed out of him by misfortune.
But in youth he must have been a magnificent specimen of physical manhood, standing at least six feet in height, and the surgeon had told him that he belonged to a wealthy and influential family up to the time of his apostacy.
He occupied a narrow cell, in which he secluded himself almost continually, holding no intercourse with his fellow-unfortunates.
To this cell young Barnwell made his way, armed with the surgeon's request, which he at once made known to him.
The old man looked him all over in the most scrutinizing manner, for his great hallucination was that he was beset with spies who were bound to bring him before the secret tribunal.
But there was something about the old lunatic which attracted the young American, and there seemed to be a counter attraction between them.
CHAPTER VII.STRANGE TUTOR OF RUSSIAN.
"And the surgeon wishes me to teach you the Russian language, does he?" asked old Batavsky, reclining on his miserable couch.
"Yes, sir, if you will be so good," replied Barnwell, politely.
"So good!"
"That is what he said, sir."
"You are English, eh?"
"I speak nothing but English, although I am an American."
"Oh, an American, eh? You must be the only American in Siberia."
"I certainly hope so, sir."
"And so do I; but he wants to have you learn it so as to become a more useful slave. How long have you been here?"
"I came with the last consignment."
"Are you a Nihilist?" asked the old man, after a moment's silence, during which he looked at him sharply.
"No, sir; but I think the Russian police authorities will drive me to being one."
The old man rose quickly to a sitting position.
"What were you sent here for?"
"I was sent here by the treachery of one who has since been executed."
"Who was it?"
"Prince Mastowix."
"Mastowix!" exclaimed Batavsky, and this time he tottered to his feet.
He was trembling violently, and his eyes, before half closed, were now wide open and glaring at Barnwell strangely.
"Prince Mastowix, did you say?"
"Yes, sir; the governor of the Bastile."
"Executed, did you say?"
"Yes, sir."
"Heaven be praised!" cried the old man, falling heavily upon his couch.
Barnwell watched him in surprise for two or three minutes, and then he spoke:
"Did you know him, sir?"
"Know him! Do my thirty-five years of exile, slavery, despair, know him? Yes, it was his treachery that consigned me here, and he was rewarded by Alexander with a title for his work. Oh, do I know him? And he is dead? Tell me all about it–he was executed–stay a moment. What is your name?" he asked excitedly.
"William Barnwell, sir."
"Good; now tell me all about it."
"It is a long story, sir."
"Give me every word of it, boy–every word!"
He seemed indeed like a maniac now, and under some circumstances Barnwell would have been afraid of him.
But it seemed the news he had brought had given him a favorable footing in the old man's estimation.
So he began with the story, first with his meeting Zobriskie on the steamer, and so on until he was landed in Siberia.
Batavsky listened with the utmost attention, and at points showed much excitement, trembling violently and scarcely able to restrain himself.
"And the villain Mastowix had become a Nihilist?" said he.
"It would seem so, sir."
"Then he did it to betray the society, provided he could not rise higher with it."
"Very likely, sir."
"Oh, I know him well! Oh, he was a very fiend! But he is dead?"
"Yes."
"Oh, my son, this barren waste, those deep-down mines yonder have been peopled by his victims. Aye, the very wolves have gnawed the bones of his victims until they have come to know him as a benefactor, I'll dare be sworn. But he is dead–he has been executed! Thank Heaven!" and with another wild laugh he sank upon his couch and buried his face in the straw.
Barnwell stood gazing at him with awe and wonder.
"What a terrible history must be his," he thought, as he regarded him.
It was some moments before the old man regained sufficient composure to command himself.
Barnwell could say nothing, and so he waited for the old man to resume.
Presently, with a sigh, he roused himself and sat upright on his couch.
"How is it with you, sir?"
"I–I hardly know, my son," he replied, after a pause, during which he looked earnestly at him. "I am supposed to-that is, the surgeon has been so good as to ask me to teach you the Russian language. You have been outraged."
"Yes, sir; but not to the extent that you have been," said Barnwell, taking his hand.
"My son, I like you," said he, returning the pressure of his hand. "There is something about you that fills a long vacant place in my heart. I will do all I can to teach you the Russian language, but at the same time, if I find you apt, I will teach you even more than that, for there is much more to be learned, my son."
"And I hope I may be found worthy, for I will admit that I like you much more than words can express. I was told something of the time you have slaved here, and also that you were now insane, but it does not seem so."
The old man was silent a moment.
"Well, my son, I will not say but you have been rightly informed, for there are times when I do not know myself, and it may be that I am then insane. But what would you or any man be, suffering all I have suffered?"
"It is a wonder that you are alive, my dear sir," said Barnwell.
"I wonder at it myself, but I have clung to life for the sake of revenge–for the hope I had of one day escaping from this frozen place and killing the villain whose treachery consigned me here. And now you come and tell me that other means have taken away my revenge! I–I feel a great change creeping over me. Yes, yes–but I will do all I can to teach you the Russian language."
"But, from what I have told you, you can understand that I have not long to remain here, and probably but little use for the language."
"Poor boy!" moaned the old man, shaking his bowed head sadly.
"Why do you so exclaim?"
"You hope to escape?"
"I do."
"Ah! do not lay that flattering unction to your immortal soul, my son."
"Why not? The governor assured me that he would present my case to the authorities."
"But he never will."
"What!"
"Or if he does it, will never be acted upon. Oh, how many have I known in the thirty-five years that I have toiled and suffered here, who held hopes just as bright, and whose unredeemed and unclaimed bones now whiten on Siberian snows! I do not wish to dishearten you, nor do I wish to buoy you up with false hopes."
"But my case is different, my dear sir."
"It may be, as one-half differs from another; but remember that once a name is obliterated and the owner of it is transported to Siberia, there is no power on earth to reclaim him."
"But I am an American, and no criminal,"
"True; but who is to find that out, and who bring it to the notice of those powerful enough to demand an investigation? No; when once a person is disposed of in Russia in this way, that closes his career."
"Do you really think so, sir?" asked Barnwell, feeling his heart sink within him.
"Have I not had evidence enough of it. The police are too busy at home to notice even the recommendations of the Governor of Siberia. The authorities send all here–they call none back under any circumstances."
"Is that so?"
"Yes; guilty or innocent."
"And you believe that I am destined to drag out my life here?"
"Yes, unless you escape."
"Escape?"
"Yes."
"Can it be done?"
"I don't know. It may have been done, although I could never do it. There have been several mysterious disappearances during my time here, but we could never learn whether they escaped or died, or were tortured to death."
"And would you have me abandon hope?"
"Yes, of pardon and reinstatement."
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Barnwell, bowing his head abjectly.
"I give you no false hopes. I would that I could be sure of your escape," he mused.
"Why?"
"That is, if I found you worthy."
"Of what?"
"Of the trust I would repose in some true heart," said the old man, sadly.
"You speak vaguely, sir."
"Well, I may be able to speak more plainly by and by. But in the meantime I will take particular pains to teach you the Russian language."
"I thank you, but mournfully, since you lead me to believe that my only use for it will be here in Siberia."
"I would not banish hope."
"Of what?"
"Of your ultimate escape from here."
"How?"
"That will be a future consideration."
"But do you believe there is a chance?"
"Yes. While the springs and muscles of youth are potent, there is always a chance–always a hope."
"I will dare anything; but I am a stranger here, and know not, how to move."
"Then possess your soul in peace for a while. You have not the strength of a lion, but you may have the cunning of a fox. Assume to be contented with your lot, and learn all you can of your surroundings. Learn well the road away from here. It may take years, as it has in my case, and you may never succeed, as I have not, but it behooves a brave man to be always ready to take advantage of circumstances. You have not been sent here as a dangerous criminal, and will not be so closely guarded as I have always been, the proof of which is that the governor assigns you here for hospital duty. But the proof that there is a very remote probability of your ever being recalled by the powers that consigned you here is this wish on the surgeon's part for you to learn the Russian language so as to become more useful here."
"I will not learn it," said Barnwell, with a sudden burst of indignation.
"Walt a moment. Will you take me for a guide?"
"With all my heart I will."
"Then do all in your power to learn the language, and at the same time to appear to be reconciled. More follows."
"I will obey you, sir."
"I see you are both brave and sensible. Force does not work here, save to oppress. Be cunning, be sly, and, after you have mastered the language and the situation, then there will be more hope for you. And, when you are strong enough, I will tell you the story of my life."
"Strong enough?"
"Yes; for it will take more than ordinary strength to stand it. But I feel a great change since meeting you. The ambition and rage for revenge has been toned down, and now a relapse may follow it."
"How?"
"This hope of revenge on Mastowix has buoyed me up during all these years; but now that I find that you have been the innocent cause of bringing retribution upon him, I feel that my life's object, my object for living, no longer exists, and a relapse from that high excitement is coming on, and I may die at any moment; but, thank goodness, perfectly sane."
"Oh, do not talk so, please. You are the only friend I have in all this vast expanse of human misery. Do not think of dying, I beg of you," said Barnwell, greatly excited.
"Goodness knows how long the time may be; but do not leave me, my son, do not leave me. I have a premonition of death, and that must not be until I have transferred a great secret into some worthy hands."
"And you still trust me?"
"I will. I feel that I can. Come and see me again to-morrow to–mind you–to take still further lessons in the Russian language."
"I will come."
CHAPTER VIII.THE RUSSIAN LANGUAGE AND A STORY.
The next day, and for several days, William Barnwell visited the cell of old Peter Batavsky for the purpose of receiving lessons in the Russian language.
The poor old exile was undoubtedly right when he said that the surgeon of the hospital wanted him to learn it so that he would become a more valuable slave.
But at the same time he had convinced him that it was best for him to learn it, and so he applied himself with all diligence, greatly to the delight of the hospital surgeon, who, having taken a fancy to the American youth, without stopping to think or to care about the cruel tyranny that had taken him there, wanted him to become even more useful, as he undoubtedly could be by learning to speak Russian.
And old Batavsky had learned to love him during the time. But as his excitement over the death of Prince Mastowix subsided he became more and more rational.
His whole intent now seemed to be to teach Barnwell the language, and then to confide to him not only the story of his eventful life, but the pith of it, which covered a great secret.
And the young exile had also learned to have a most profound respect for Batavsky, whom he found to be a highly educated man of more than ordinary ability, and how he could be thus consigned to such a dreadful place for life was more than he could understand, knowing but little of the dark deeds and ways of Russian tyrants.
But in spite of what the old man had told him regarding the improbability of his ever being released, he still hoped that the governor would make good his word, and that his case would in time reach the American Minister at St. Petersburg, and that his government would interfere and demand his release.
And so he struggled on and hoped, learning rapidly all the while, and making himself more and more valuable to the chief surgeon. And, too, he was becoming hardened somewhat, and used to the suffering which he saw in the hospital, and which was so revolting to his nature at first.
Week after week, month after month, went by without bringing him any word of hope, and he was not permitted to see the governor for the purpose of asking him if he had sent his case back to St. Petersburg as he agreed.
He could do nothing but labor, wait and hope. Every month or so there would come a batch of prisoners from St. Petersburg or Moscow, and official dispatches, but nothing came for him; no word, no suggestion that he was even remembered in any way.
Hope began to die in his heart, where he had nursed it so long.
Was he, then, really doomed for life?
And what of the beautiful girl of whom he was so fond, and whom he promised to meet at Berlin?
Would she not forget and condemn him for failing to keep his word, not knowing why did did not keep it?
One day when he went to the cell occupied by old Batavsky, he found him unexpectedly low and evidently very ill; in fact, he was nearly unconscious.
Barnwell at once sprang to his side.
"Are you ill, sir? Speak to me."
The old man opened his eyes slowly when he caught him by the hand, but he did not speak, and Barnwell went at once and reported the case to the chief surgeon, and asked for some brandy for him.
"No; let him die! he cannot live much longer anyway," was the brutal reply.
"But I am getting along so nicely in learning the language of him—"
"Oh, well, take him some brandy, then."
Without losing a moment he hastened back to the old man with a cup of brandy.
"Here, sir, take some of this, and it will make you feel better," said he, raising his head tenderly, so as to enable him to do so.
Batavsky allowed him to place the cup to his lips, and he drank several swallows of the strong liquor, after which he lay down again.
"Thank you, my son."
"Do you feel better, sir?"
"Yes; it warms my old blood a trifle. It was very kind of you to get it for me, but I shall not tax your kindness much longer," he said, with a sigh.
"It is no tax to do a helpless person a kindness," replied young man.
"True, but I am so unused to kindness. Yet I am glad you came to me to-day, for knowing I have but a short time to live, I wish to confide a secret to you."
"Are you strong enough to talk? Take another sip of the brandy."
"Thank you, my son; keep it, for it may enable me to tell my story through, but I could not do so without it. The secret I am about to transmit to your keeping has been my secret for nearly forty years. I have hoped and hoped for thirty-five of those years that I should escape in some way, but the hope is finally dead in me, and I transfer it to you, who are full of life, youth, strength, and hope.
"After I am dead, be it the ambition of your life to get away from this accursed place."
"Doubt not it shall be, sir."
"And should it be your misfortune not to be able to do so, promise me that before you die you will transmit the secret to some intelligent Nihilist, in the hope that he may succeed."
"I promise you, sir, and I will exact a like promise from him if you wish it."
"It shall be yours to judge, my son. As I have stated to you at different times, I was betrayed by Mastowix, with whom I was engaged with others in a plot against Nicholas, Czar of Russia. I was worth a million of rubles, and the whole of it I pledged to the cause of human liberty in Russia. Mastowix knew this, and he also knew that other members of the society had large sums thus pledged. After a while I half suspected him, and so secreted my gold in a place known only to myself."
"A million of rubles!" mused Barnwell.
"Yes, my son, gold rubles. Well, Mastowix, when he thought the time ripe for his villainy, betrayed us all, with the understanding that he was to have one-half of all the government could find belonging to us, together with an office in which he could rise to ennoblement. Nicholas accepted his proposition, and we were banished to Siberia. All of my companions are dead, and all these years Mastowix has reveled in their money and the smiles of the autocrats. But he failed to find my rubles, as I intended he should do, for no eye saw the spot where I secreted it. And all these long weary years I have waited and hoped to escape, so I might secure that money and put it to the use I originally dedicated it to. Now, my son, will you see that this money is recovered and turned against tyranny?"
"Yes, if I ever escape. Every ruble of it shall help crush a tyrant," said he resolutely. "Spoken like the brave youth I know you are."
"But if I never succeed in escaping, then the money will molder and still be as useless as it has been during your long imprisonment," he replied sadly.
"True, but you must escape. You have youth on your side, and can afford to bide your time. Again, you have an advantage that I never had. You will probably never be sent into the mines where I have slaved my life away, never, but once a year, seeing the light of day, and this will give you opportunities for escape which I have never had. Play your cards so as to win the confidence of your superiors, and when the right time comes manage somehow to escape. How, I will not undertake to tell you. That you must work out yourself. But shape your course for the German frontier, and once across the border you will be safe."
"So far away?"
"Yes, for there is liberty and safety nowhere short of there. If you succeed, the money is yours, to do with as you like, only assure me that a portion of it shall eke your revenge, and mine."
"I promise you, sir."
"Good. If you live to reach Germany, make inquiries for the village of Mertz. Once there, become familiar with the place and its mountainous surroundings, after which this diagram will assist you in finding the cave where the gold is hidden," and he took from his breast, next to his poor old wrinkled flesh, a strip of folded parchment, which, when unfolded, was about eight inches square.
Barnwell took it with hands that trembled fully as much as the old man's did.
"On it is a map which you can easily study out and decipher, and which will surely lead you to the hidden treasure. It is a wild and uninhabited part of the town, only about five miles from the frontier border. That red dot there marks the spot where it is secreted, and you notice that all lines on the diagram lead to it. Mark the line leading up from the old post-road, and on it are marked the—"
At that instant a servant entered the cell and announced that the surgeon wanted "No. 1000," which was Barnwell; and remembering how long he had been absent, he hastily thrust the parchment under his shirt.
"I come," said he in Russian, and the slave went away. "I will see you again at the first opportunity. Drink the remainder of the brandy," and he almost pressed it to his thin lips.
"Be on your guard, my son; for from this hour your watchfulness must begin. Farewell."
"Farewell; and I shall hope to find you better when I come again," said Barnwell.
"But do not be surprised to find me dead."
"Cheer up, your time is not yet come, I hope; and, besides, I want further instructions."
He did not wait for a reply, but hurried to the surgeon's office.
CHAPTER IX.THE DEAD EXILE.
On reaching the chief surgeon's quarters he found that irritable petty tyrant possessed of much temper on account of his long absence.
"If you don't pay more attention to your duties, I will have you sent into the mines."
"Pardon me, sir, but I found the old man very low, and, tried to comfort him," said Barnwell, respectfully.
"Curse him, let him die. He only lingers from pure obstinacy to make trouble here. The wolves are waiting for his carcass. Go and bring my dinner!"
Barnwell hurried from the presence of the brute; but he could have choked the life out of him for what he had said.
But, brute that he was, he fell upon the food that was soon placed before him, and after gorging himself and washing it down with fiery Russian brandy, he showed more of his brute instincts by becoming more peaceable, and finally going to sleep in his chair.
Barnwell removed the wreck of the feast as noiselessly as possible, and left him alone, not daring, however, to go far away, for fear of again exciting his ire, knowing that he had the power to consign him to the underground mines, or even to kill him like a dog. And so he sat and waited his pleasure.
But his anxiety was hardly to be mastered, for he wanted a few more words with Batavsky regarding the solution of the diagram he had given him, not knowing whether he would be alive when he might see him next.
What new thoughts crowded themselves into his mind now!
And although his desire to escape was no greater than ever, yet the possibilities that would now attend it were overwhelming, almost.
But how was he to give force to all this–how could he escape from that closely-guarded colony, with armed sentinels at every turn, and trained bloodhounds ready to follow any scents even if he escaped from the guards. He would be sure to be missed, and the guards knowing nothing of his whereabouts, let it be supposed, those savage brutes would be started out in every direction until they found his scent, and then run him down to death from their fangs or for an easy capture.
He had seen too much of it during the terrible year he had lived in Siberia. Many a wretch, ambitious to be free, he had known to set his life upon the hazard of a chance, and attempt to escape into the Ural mountains, only to be run to bay by those terrible hounds, and either killed by them or dragged back into the captivity sure to be made worse than before.
And he had seen men have their flesh stripped from their naked backs with the cruel knout, in the hands of unfeeling wretches.
And had he not been buoyed up by hope of one day escaping, he would surely have taken his own life as he had actually seen others do when hope failed them.
The situation was a dreadful one, even to a criminal; but what was it to an innocent man like William Barnwell? But, after all, it gave nerve to his heart.
While cogitating thus, Kanoffskie, the chief surgeon, awoke with a snort.
He glared wildly around the room in a startled way.
Barnwell looked at him inquiringly.
"Did you see anything?" he finally asked.
"Nothing unusual, sir."
"Did you hear anything?"
"Nothing, sir."
"Did I cry out in my sleep?"
"No, sir, not that I heard."
"It must have been a nightmare, but it was dreadful," mused Kanoffskie.
"They are sometimes very horrid, sir."
"Very strange. How is old Batavsky?"
"I have not seen him since, sir."
"I thought in my dream that he had me by the throat, and was strangling me with his bony fingers. And I thought he hissed in my ear that he was going to take me with him. I was powerless in his dreadful grasp, and I thought he dragged me down, down, through some huge volcano's crater, sulphurous and suffocating, growing hotter and hotter all the while as we plunged downward, until finally I saw the blue and yellow flames dart up as though to meet and welcome us, and heard the agonized cries of anguished beings far below! Anon I could see them writhing in their fiery torment, and I recognized many faces there that I had seen on earth. As I drew nearer they seemed to forget their agonies, and joined in a glad, wild chorus of imprecating welcome to me. Fiends came at me with blazing swords and fiery prongs, and in my extreme terror I awoke. Oh, it was dreadful!" he added, hiding his face in his hands.
"It surely must have been, sir, and I have read of such sleeping agonies. But, after all, it was but a dream," said Barnwell.
"Oh, but such a dream! Barnwell, I would not go through the agony of such a dream again for Alexander's crown. You are an educated, well-read man. Tell me, do you believe there is such an awful place?" he asked, and he seemed to have forgotten all his old hauteur.
"Our common religion teaches us that there is."
"Oh, Heaven, forgive and keep me from it," said he, bowing his head abjectly. "My dear sir, you lay too much stress on an ugly dream. Remember that you went to sleep after eating a hearty dinner and they often cause ugly dreams," said Barnwell, for thought it would best serve his purpose to attribute it to it might be, rather than to what it probably was–a warning of the future.
"Oh, if I could only think so I would abandon the sin of gluttony at once. But that terrible face, those bony fingers, which seemed to penetrate my neck like eagle's claws!" and involuntarily he placed his hand upon his neck, as if he really expected to find lacerations there, showing that he was greatly frightened.
"Barnwell, go and see how Batavsky does," he added.
"I will, sir."
"And hurry to let me know."
Barnwell withdrew, and Kanoffskie bowed his head upon the table before him, repeating a simple prayer of the Greek Church which he had not quite forgotten.
The young man made haste to Batavsky's cell, but there the old exile, dead, with his eyes staring wide and glassy.
He had died alone, without a friendly hand to close his eyes with a prayer.
In truth, his death at any moment was not unexpected by Barnwell, but coming as it did at the very moment of Kanoffskie's dream, made it seem more strange and horrible.
Indeed, there seemed to be something horribly supernatural about it.
He stood for a moment gazing upon the rigid features of the poor old man, hardly daring to return and tell Kanoffskie of his death.
"But it serves him right," he thought; and covering the dead man's face with a blanket, he returned to the surgeon's office.
"Well?" he asked, with quick anxiety.
"The old man is dead, sir."
"Dead–dead, say you?" shrieked Kanoffskie, springing to his feet, trembling and pale.
"Yes, sir, he is dead."
"How–how long since, do you think?" he asked, in a choked voice.
"Probably fifteen or twenty minutes; he is scarcely cold yet."
"Heavens!" he exclaimed, and sank back in his chair.
"It might have been expected, sir."
"Yes, but in connection with my dream! Barnwell, my dream! It must have come simultaneously with it!" and the wretched man seemed scarcely able to sit in his chair, so greatly did he tremble, while great beads of perspiration stood out upon his forehead.
Barnwell hastened to set a glass of wine before him, which he tremblingly bore to his mouth and swallowed at a gulp.
"More!" he gasped, and Barnwell poured him out another.
"That will revive you, sir, I hope."
But the surgeon made no reply. He sat there glaring at vacancy for fully five minutes, and neither of them spoke a word.
Finally he pointed to the empty glass, and again Barnwell filled it with brandy, which he drank.
He was evidently trying to nerve himself up.
"What a strange coincidence, Barnwell."
"Very strange, indeed, sir; but do not let it weigh too heavily on your mind, I beg of you. Regard it as simply a strange coincidence, nothing more."
"Oh, Barnwell, it must be something more! I have ill-treated that man, and even his death may be laid to my door and I have abused others even to death–those whose faces I saw in that deep-down, horrid hole–they who welcomed me with such fiendish and exultant shouts," said he, with his head bowed low.
There could be no doubt but that he spoke the truth, and this made it seem all the more strange. He had always been a tyrant in his office, and many a poor wretch had he sent to his long home after he became useless to the government.
He had never been credited with possessing either fear or a heart, but now he showed that he was a moral as well as a physical coward, and was racked by most agonizing fears.
"Barnwell," he finally said, "see that the old man is decently buried, and a prayer said over his grave. Yes, be sure and bury him decently in a coffin, and a grave so deep that the worms may not reach it, and then come to me again. But see that you bury him tenderly, and say nothing of this to any person living."
"You shall be obeyed, sir," said Barnwell, hurrying from the room, glad to carry out such an order in the dead old exile's behalf.
CHAPTER X.BURIED DECENTLY.
It was a mournful pleasure to William Barnwell to be able to place the body of poor old Batavsky in a respectable coffin and see it given a Christian burial, instead of being thrown, like hundreds of others, into a ravine, for the wolves to devour and fight over.
And it caused no little comment and speculation among those employed about the hospital, for they had become so used to seeing the dead barbarously disposed of, that it was an event to see one given Christian burial.
Some said Batavsky was an exiled nobleman, and that he had been thus buried by order of the governor, but no one suspected for a moment that it was at the orders of the surgeon-in-chief, whose dream had frightened him into the semblance of a human being.
When all had been done, and the grave marked with Batavsky's prison number, Barnwell returned, as ordered, to Kanoffskie.
"Is he buried?" was his first question.
"He is, sir."
"And decently?"
"As a Christian should be buried, sir."
"And a prayer was said?"
"Yes, sir."
Kanoffskie vented a sigh of relief, but he was a frightened and an altered man.
He was pale and trembling, and he glared wildly about, as though expecting to see the ghosts of his victims, or the real return of Batavsky to drag him down, as he had done in that awful dream.
"Have you any further orders, sir?"
"No; but stay–come to me again just before dark–I may want you," said Kanoffskie, hesitatingly.
"Very well," replied Barnwell, bowing himself from the room.
He understood very well that the iron had entered the tyrant's heart, and he resolved to work upon it.
That terrible dream was not all for nothing, even though he did not believe in dreams, and the young American made up his mind to humor the man, and see what would come of it in the future.
Barnwell mingled with his fellow-servants in the hospital, and answered their questions regarding Batavsky.
Concluding that it was best to humor the prevailing idea, he half-way admitted that the old man belonged to a noble family, and that he had been given a Christian burial at the instigation of the Czar himself.
This, of course, produced food for comment and controversy for a long time, during which Barnwell, now able to speak the Russian language, was able to converse and to learn much.
The short days of Siberia give one but a moment's warning between daylight and total darkness, and although this is not known or felt away down in the gold-mines, where they work from four o'clock in the morning until ten o'clock at night–where night and day are all the same to the poor victims–those on the surface of the earth understand that when the sun goes down darkness follows, save when the Aurora Borealis comes with its weird light to illuminate the frozen world of Siberia.
Kanoffskie waited with impatience.
Somehow or other this young American had wormed himself into his cold and beastly nature, and even exercised more influence over him than he knew of.
Darkness came on, and Barnwell went to his master, as ordered.
He found him pacing his office in a highly nervous state.
"I am here, surgeon," said Barnwell.
"Stay here. Do not leave me," said the surgeon, with a sigh.
"I will do so, sir," replied Barnwell. "You seem nervous."
"No, well–you saw him decently buried?" he asked, stopping before Barnwell.
"Yes, sir."
"And there was a prayer said over him?"
"Yes, by the chaplain from the government house," said Barnwell.
"And you buried him deep?"
"Fully five feet underground."
"That is well. And a prayer was said?"
"Yes, sir."
Kanoffskie seemed entirely at sea.
"Will you retire, sir?"
"No, I shall remain here all night, and you will remain with me," replied Kanoffskie, timidly.
"But you will not sleep in your chair?"
"Yes, and so must you. But he had Christian burial?" he asked, anxiously.
"Yes, everything was all right."
"Thank goodness! But that dream troubles me, Barnwell," said he.
"Let it not, my dear sir–it was only a dream."
"But the coincidence!"
"True, it is a strange one; but only think, my dear sir, how many dreams you might have–many dreams you have had, or may have hereafter, in which there has been, and will be, no coincidence. It is merely a happen-so, my dear sir."
"No–no, Barnwell. I cannot believe it. But I feel better now that he has had a Christian burial, and you assure me that a holy prayer was said over his dead body."
"Rest assured on that point, sir."
"But it was such a dreadful dream."
"So I grant you, sir."
"And happening just at the moment of old Batavsky's death!"
"As I said before, simply a coincidence."
"Oh, if I could only think so! Light the lamps."
"Yes, sir," and he at once proceeded to light a chandelier of oil-lamps.
The gloom of coming night had weighed upon him, but now that there was light in the room, he felt better, and more composed, but still ill at ease.
Finally he fell asleep, but it was long past midnight, and after he had gone through with all sorts of mental misery, and then Barnwell ventured to sleep himself.
But it was a wild sleep that came to him, for all that he had passed through during the day had so wrought up his feelings that it was next to impossible for him to sleep.
But both of them got gradually quieted down, and slept, one an honest man, and the other a rascal, and for an hour or more they kept it up, until Kanoffskie again fell into a nightmare.
Barnwell was awakened.
"Help! help! Take him away!" cried Kanoffskie, in his sleep. "No, no! do not let him drag me down to that pit! I know it, I know it, but do not let him drag me down! I repent!"
And much more he said that Barnwell was perforce obliged to listen to, and of course he could not sleep.
But the night went on, and finally the doctor awoke.
He glared wildly around.
"Have you slept all night?" was the first question he asked, looking at Barnwell.
"No, doctor; you kept me awake."
"In what way?"
"You were talking in your sleep, sir."
"Indeed; what did I say?"
"Your mind seemed to be on old Batavsky."
"Did I mention his name?"
"No, sir, not directly; but you recalled portions of your horrible dream."
"Did I?" and he fell to musing.
Nothing further happened at this time, but the next day Kanoffskie visited the governor, who was startled by his altered appearance, and at once inquired the meaning of it.
"Your Excellency, I am not well. I am overworked, and have come to ask you to grant me a year's leave of absence," replied Kanoffskie.
"You certainly do look ill, doctor, but who can fill your place in the interim?"
"Waskoff is fully competent, sir."
"Very well, then; I will appoint him to fill your place for a year," replied the governor, writing the order.
"Thanks, your Excellency. And may I take a servant along with me, for I am not able to travel so far alone."
"Yes; but on arriving at St. Petersburg, report the fact and the servant's number to the Prefect of Police."
"I shall obey you, sir."
"When do you propose to set out?"
"By the next convoy."
"Very well, but let me see you again before you start, for I have several private commissions which I wish you to undertake for me."
"With the greatest pleasure, Excellency."
"And I trust you will return in better health, and well rested."
"I hope so, sir," replied Kanoffsky, bowing himself from the room.
He was indeed a changed man, and the governor did not fail to notice it, as did others who noticed him.
Some of the old hospital inmates whom he had abused at various times, as he had the dead Batavsky, said among themselves that the spirits of his dead victims were haunting him, which was pretty nearly the truth.
And to get away from them was, now that he had received leave of absence, what now urged him in the preparations.
He dared not encounter those horrible dreams again.
CHAPTER XI.KANOFFSKIE AND HIS SERVANT.
"Barnwell, come here," said the miserable surgeon. "I have obtained leave of absence, and shall set out for St. Petersburg at once, taking with me a servant. Now make haste with my packing."
"Going to take a servant with you?" asked the young American, anxiously.
"Yes."
"Oh, will you take me?"
"Yes, I shall take you. But why do you manifest so much anxiety?"
"Well, sir, I think it only natural that I should do so. I abhor this place, as you must know, and even a temporary change would be agreeable, and make me more reconciled to my fate when I return with you."
"But I may not return at all."
"And, Providence keeping me, I will not," thought Barnwell.
"If I can get the ear of the Czar, and his favor, I shall never return to this accursed place," said Kanoffskie, shuddering.
"I do not blame you for not wishing to."
"But on arriving at St. Petersburg I must report to the Prefect of Police, and procure a permit from him to retain a convict as my servant."
"Yes."
"Your number and personal description will have to agree with your sentence and commitment, and ever after that, while you remain, you will be under police surveillance."
"True, I dare say."
"So you must not become elated with the idea of liberty."
"No; but it will be such a change, my dear sir, and I am so thankful to you for taking me. I will be a true and faithful servant to you."
"Did I not think so I certainly should not take you, and any attempt on your part to escape would not only consign you to the mines for life, but very likely get me into serious trouble also."
"I shall not forget it, sir."
"Very well. Now, set at work without delay and get my effects boxed up," said Kanoffskie, going from the room.
Collecting Kanoffskie's effects took Barnwell to various places, and among others to the governor's palace.
Here he encountered Zora Vola, the girl whose knouting he had witnessed and resented.
It appeared that the governor had inquired into her case after the occurrence, and had taken her to the palace laundry.
The recognition was mutual and instant.
Just then she chanced to be alone, and she sprang joyfully towards him.
"Oh, sir, I am so glad of an opportunity to speak with you, and to thank you, as I have so often done in my prayers, for shielding me from those cruel thongs," said she earnestly.
"I would that I could do even more than that for you," said he, taking her hands.
"You are not a Russian?"
"No. I have learned the language because it may assist me, not becausse I love it," said he bitterly.
"Then you are not a Nihilist?"
"No, only in heart."
"How long were you sent here for?"
"Goodness only knows."
"And for what, pray?"
"For nothing wrong. I am an American, but was foolish enough, supposing I was doing no harm, to bring a letter from New York to St. Petersburg to Prince Mastowix."
"The wretch! I know him well," said she bitterly.
"But he was somehow caught in his own trap and afterwards executed, though not until he had sent me here, fearing, probably, that I knew the contents of the fatal letter."
"Good!"
"And what brings you here?" he asked.
"I am a Nihilist, and was betrayed with others by that same Mastowix, who claimed to be one of us, and here I am for life," she added.
"What a shame. The conduct of Russian tyrants produces the very enemies they try to exterminate."
"Yes, and we shall never get away from this frozen world until the Nihilists have their heels upon the tyrants' necks.
"It would seem so. But I am going to St. Petersburg to-morrow."
"To St. Petersburg?" she asked, eagerly.
"Yes. Dr. Kanoffskie is going on a leave of absence, and I am going with him as his valet."
"To dear old St. Petersburg! Oh, how I wish I could see it once more! Stay, will you take a letter to my brother there?"
"With pleasure."
"I have it here. It was written nearly a year ago, and I have carried it in my bosom, hoping to find some way of sending it to him. Tell him how it is with me here, and he will bless you for the message."
"But, come to think of it, would it not be better for both your brother and myself if I simply took a verbal message from you to him? I shall be under the police eye all the time, and the letter might be found and get us both into trouble."
"Yes, you are right," she said, after a moment's reflection, and then she told him the message she would have him deliver.
Then, receiving his address, he charged his mind with it, and started to go.
"One moment more; tell me your name, that I may remember and pray for you always," she said, appealingly.
"William Barnwell; and yours?"
"Zora Vola."
"I shall not forget it."
"As I shall never forget yours."
"I have hopes, Zora, and if I ever live to realize them, you shall benefit thereby."
"God bless and keep you, sir!"
"And may He give you heart and hope in your misery," replied he, again shaking her hands and returning to the hospital.
The next day Kanoffskie and his valet started with the government train that makes that terrible journey from St. Petersburg to Siberia twice every year, and at the end of three months they reached the capitol.
And, oh, what a relief it was to Barnwell, who had all but given up the hope of ever seeing a semblance of civilization again. How his heart thrilled as he nursed his hopes!
Kanoffsky seemed greatly altered, although for the past two months he had lost much of the nervousness produced by old Batavsky's death, as though from leaving the scene of it further and further behind.
His confidence in Barnwell seemed to grow stronger every day; but, on arriving at St. Petersburg, he obeyed the governor's instructions relative to reporting to the prefect of police, without an hour's loss of time.
This he did as a measure of personal safety as much as for his promptness in obeying orders, for he was determined to keep himself entirely above police suspicion.
Should he fail to do so, and it should come to the ears of the authorities, it might not only annul his leave of absence, but get him into other difficulty.
He had made up his mind never to return to his post of duty, and if he could not bring influence enough to bear upon the minister of war to get him another assignment, he resolved to take advantage of his year's leave of absence and escape the empire.
He took lodgings in a respectable quarter; and Barnwell enacted the part of a valet there with even greater perfection than he had while journeying from Siberia.
But he was watching his opportunities, knowing that he was a marked man with the police, and known to every member of it.
The first thing to do was to insure confidence in Kanoffskie and the police, and this he exerted himself to do, feeling certain that the time would come before the year was up for him to carry out his plans.
With Kanoffskie it was an easy matter, and as he was a government officer against whom there was no suspicion, Barnwell was allowed greater latitude on that account.
So, one day, after they had been in St. Petersburg about a month, he managed while carrying a message for Kanoffskie, to get near the official residence of the American minister, over which the Stars and Stripes of the great republic floated proudly. It thrilled him to the heart as he once more beheld that ensign of liberty, and, suddenly changing his direction, he rushed into the building and demanded to see the representative of the United States.
An attendant directed him to that officer's chamber, just as two officers of the police, who had observed his movements, entered the outer room.
"You, sir, are the American minister?" said Barnwell, rushing hurriedly into his presence.
"I am. What do you wish?"
"I claim the protection due to an outraged citizen of the United States."
"Who are you?"
"William Barnwell. My name is on your books, and you personally saw my passport."
At that moment the Russian officers entered.
"Ah! I defy you now! The Stars and Stripes once more wave above me!" shouted Barnwell, as the officers approached him.
CHAPTER XII.A FREE MAN ONCE MORE.
"Stand aside, officers, until I investigate this case," said the American minister, in a tone of command that the tyrannical minions of the law knew too much to disobey, for at that time the United States and Russia were on exceedingly friendly terms.
"Now, what is your story?" he asked, turning to young Barnwell.
"It is this, sir," he answered, and thereupon he proceeded to give the representative of his native land the history of his case, so well known to the reader.
It was a startling story of cruel outrage, as we all know, and the recital of it made the minister very indignant.
Turning to the officers, he said:
"You can shadow this man if you think it your duty, but you must not arrest or interfere with him in any way while he is under the protection of the American flag. I shall take him at once before the prime minister," and without loss of time he proceeded to do so.
He was instantly admitted to the august presence of that high functionary, where the story was again told and verified.
The minister of state was astounded, both at the audacity of the outrage and the fact of his being a victim of Prince Mastowix, the very letter he had innocently brought being the one that sealed the traitor's fate.
The whole business was confirmed by Tobasco, the police spy, who secured the letter and gave it to the prefect of police.
Search was at once made for the passport and money belonging to Barnwell, and after a deal of red tape had been unwound the property was found and restored to him.
And not only that, but the Russian prime minister ordered him to be paid five thousand rubles for indemnity, and the American minister rendered a most abject apology for the the outrage.
This was followed at once by orders from the prefect of police to all his subordinates touching Barnwell's case; espionage was withdrawn, his "Number" obliterated from the secret records, and in a short time he was one of the freest men in the Russian empire.
In justice to Surgeon Kanoffskie, he cleared him of all complicity in the matter, although he promptly withdrew, of course, from the menial attitude he had so long occupied towards him, and which had enabled him to escape.
Yes, he was a free man once more, and had, through the dictates of his country, been the recipient of an apology almost from the throne. Yet all this did not efface the cruel stripes left by the knout, or efface from his heart the wrong and misery he had endured.
Indeed, he felt quite as bitter towards the tyrannical government as ever, and there was awful bitterness in his heart.
A few days after regaining his rights, he remembered Zora Vola and the message he had agreed to carry to her brother, and without loss of time set about finding him, a task he soon found to be an exceedingly difficult one, on account of his being known to the police as an active and a dangerous Nihilist.
Nor was this all. After spending a whole week without finding him, he became convinced that he, as well as other Nihilists, had other names than, their own, by which they were known only to undoubted and trusted ones of the mysterious brotherhood.
This discouraged him to such a degree that he was on the point of giving up the task and resuming his own greater one–that of securing the million rubles secreted so many years ago by Batavsky.
But so perfect and secret is the Nihilist organization in the larger cities of Russia, that they employ spy for spy with the government, and their enemies are watched as carefully as they are themselves, which, in a measure, accounts for their great success and the infrequency of their being detected.
In this way it became known to Vola that an American was seeking him under his real name, and a spy was at once put upon his track to learn about him.
This, of course, he did not know. Indeed, he had at one time made inquiries of this very same spy regarding the object of his search, but, although questioned closely, he would reveal nothing relating to his business.
Finally Vola, being convinced that the man seeking him was not an enemy, nor in any way employed by the authorities met him purposely one day at his hotel–the very day, in fact, on which he had concluded to abandon the search.
He approached and addressed him in Russian, which by this time Barnwell understood quite well, as the reader must know, and asked him the direction to a certain street.
"I am a stranger here," replied Barnwell, "but would gladly direct you if I could. Most likely the men at the hotel office can direct you," he added, politely.
"Ah, thank you; but I would not like to inquire of them for the person I am in search of," and looking around, as if to make sure that he was not likely to be observed or overheard, he lowered his voice, and added: "I am in search of a man by the name of Vola."
Barnwell leaped to his feet.
"Peter Vola?" he asked.
"Hush! The same. Do you know him?"
"Yes, if I could but find him. It is remarkable," mused Barnwell.
"What is remarkable?"
"Why, that I have been unsuccessfully searching for a man by that name for a week."
"Do you know him?"
"I do not."
"Have you business with him?"
"No; but I have a message for him."
"Indeed; from whom, pray?"
"Pardon me, that is my business and his."
"Pardon me also, for asking the question. But if I can find direction to the street I asked you about, I can present you to him," said the stranger, who was a distinguished-looking man, about fifty years of age.
"You would greatly oblige me by doing so."
"Wait a moment; perhaps that dismounted cossack can direct me," saying which, he followed the soldier into the cafe.
There was a crowd in there, and Barnwell would have been puzzled to see whether the stranger actually spoke with the soldier; but after a minute or so he returned.
"I have learned it. Follow me," said he, turning from the room. Barnwell did as directed, and together they walked three or four squares, and then turned into a side street.
A short distance down it he found the number, and knocked upon the door in a curious sort of manner, and presently it was opened by an attendant.
"Show me Vola's chamber," said the man, in a low tone of voice, and the attendant conducted them to it.
"Remain here a moment, and I will bring him before you," said the stranger, pointing to a chair that stood in the plainly-furnished room.
Being left alone, Barnwell could but reflect upon the strangeness of the stranger's behavior, for, indeed, he did not seem like a stranger there at all.
At the expiration of five minutes the door opened, and, apparently, another person entered the room.
"I am told you are in search of one Peter Vola," said he, taking a seat in front of him.
"I am, and have been for several days," replied Barnwell.
"What do you wish with him?"
"That is his business and mine, sir."
"Indeed? Might I ask what it relates to?"
"You might, indeed, but I should not inform you unless you were Peter Vola."
"But do you not know that he is hunted by the police, and that it is positively dangerous on your part to be even inquiring for him?"
"I was not aware of it, sir."
"But it is a fact, nevertheless."
"I am sorry to know that. But I am a stranger here."
"I observe that you are not a Russian."
"No, I am an American just discharged from Siberia."
"Siberia!" exclaimed the man, starting.
"Yes; I agreed to deliver a letter, of which I knew nothing, to Prince Mastowix, from Paul Zobriskie, of New York."
"Paul Zobriskie?"
"Yes. He accosted me on the steamer as I was about to sail and asked me to deliver the letter, which I did, and fearing probably that because I was not a Nihilist that I might betray him, he had me arrested and sent to Siberia, where I suffered the tortures of the damned for more than a year, until chance took me here again, as the valet of a surgeon on leave of absence, when I managed to escape long enough to reach the American minister, who quickly secured my liberation, together with an official apology and indemnity."
"You astonish me, sir."
"But I am telling you too much, perhaps."
"No, you are not, young man, for I am Peter Vola," said the man, leaping to his feet and extending his hand, "I am the same man who accosted and conducted you hither, for I have had a spy on your track ever since you imprudently inquired for me. But I feel that I can trust you."
"You can. I am not a Nihilist in form, but I am one at heart, and will yet make these despots feel what I have undeservedly felt," said he, vehemently.
"Good. We need you. But you spoke of a message you had for me."
"Yes."
"From Siberia?"
"Yes."
"And from—"
"Whom do you think?" asked Barnwell, resolved to put a final test to the man's identity.
"Perhaps from my poor sister, Zora."
"The same."
"Heaven be praised!"
"She had a letter written to send you, but I thought it might be unsafe to have on my person, both for you and myself."
"You were right."
"So I took her verbal message."
"Oh, tell me of my poor dear sister!" the man almost cried, and thereupon Barnwell related his acquaintance with her, together with the story of his life in Siberia, as already known to the reader.
Then he repeated the message Zora had entrusted him with, while tears streamed down the brother's face.
"Poor girl, what a fate is hers! But if she lives she shall yet be free. Oh, sir, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for all your kindness to her and to me, and if we are never able to repay you, Heaven surely will do so," said Vola, greatly moved.
"I am amply repaid by being able to do someone a kindness. But my mission has not yet begun. I have a trust to keep of which I have not yet spoken. You, of course, know of Batavsky?"
"I have heard of him, but he worked and was exiled before my time almost–at least, before I began to work."
"Well, at his death I received from him a certain charge that may possibly enable me to benefit his compatriots in Russia; but he told me to become an active Nihilist, that I might be the better able to work successfully."
"And so you shall, my dear brother, for I feel that I may call you so," said Vola, at the same time embracing him. "Put yourself in my charge, and you shall be initiated into the Order of Liberty."
"I will do so, and there is my hand," said Barnwell, earnestly.
"Which I take in the name of humanity. But in our order one brother can initiate another. We have no lodge-meetings, no names, being simply known by numbers, and those numbers known only to a trusted few. Night shall not come upon us before you shall know how to send and receive a communication–how to act, and how to avoid detection."
"Good! Just so soon as that is done I shall go to Germany, and most likely work altogether outside of Russia for the present."
"It shall be as you wish, for I see your heart is in the matter."
"Aye, my very soul!"
"Good!" and leading him into an inner room, he proceeded to initiate him into the mysteries of that mysterious order, known the world over as Nihilists.
CHAPTER XIII.TUE YOUNG NIHILIST.
A week from that time, and after William Barnwell had made himself thoroughly familiar with the secrets and the workings of this great and mysterious order, the order that has shaken thrones and hurled tyrants to their final account, he started for Germany.
The reader knows something of the cruel sufferings of our hero. Being a free-born American, a natural hater of tyranny in all its forms, and enduring it as he did, it is no wonder that he sought revenge, and that his heart should naturally go out in behalf of oppressed humanity, when he had tasted of that barbarian oppression himself.
With his identity thoroughly established, his passports all correct, and his heart full with the new doctrine that his initiation had developed in him, together with the mission which poor old Batavsky had intrusted him with, he bade good-by to Russia.
From St. Petersburg he went to Warsaw, and from there to Posen, Germany, where he felt for the first time since leaving his native land that he was in the domain of freedom.
Before leaving Russia he had sent home for his entire fortune, and at Berlin had it converted into German money, and it was so considerable that he soon became known as the rich cosmopolitan.
Gradually he made his way towards the little hamlet of Merz, near the border, and when the warm season began he went there with his servant, horses and carriage (one built to order for a special object), and took up his residence in a small town patronized almost entirely by the few travelers who find their way to this part of Germany.
He was now near the alleged hiding-place of Batavsky's rubles, and while seemingly only rambling over the wild country, he was studying the diagram that the old man had given him and trying to locate the hiding-place by the aid of it.