“Papa…dear papa…” she said in tears, and her voice died away. Kirila Petrovich hastened to bless her, she was picked up and all but carried to the carriage. Her proxy mother and one of the maids sat with her. They drove to the church. There the groom was already waiting for them. He came out to meet her and was struck by her pallor and strange look. Together they entered the cold, empty church; the door was locked behind them. The priest came out from the altar and began at once. Marya Kirilovna saw nothing, heard nothing, she thought of only one thing: since morning she had waited for Dubrovsky, hope had not abandoned her for a moment, but when the priest turned to her with the usual questions, she shuddered and her heart sank, but she still tarried, still waited. The priest, getting no answer from her, pronounced the irrevocable words.
The ceremony was over. She felt the cold kiss of her unloved husband, she heard the cheerful congratulations of those present, and still could not believe that her life was forever bound, that Dubrovsky had not come flying to set her free. The prince addressed some tender words to her, she did not understand them, they left the church, the porch was crowded with peasants from Pokrovskoe. Her gaze ran quickly over them and again showed the former insensibility. The newlyweds got into the carriage together and drove to Arbatovo; Kirila Petrovich had already gone on ahead so as to meet the newlyweds there. Alone with his young wife, the prince was not put out in the least by her cold look. He did not bother her with sugary talk and ridiculous raptures; his words were simple and called for no response. In this way they drove some seven miles, the horses sped over the bumps of the country road, and the carriage barely rocked on its English springs. Suddenly shouts of pursuit rang out, the carriage stopped, a crowd of armed men surrounded it, and a man in a half mask, opening the doors on the young princess’s side, said to her:
“You’re free, come out.”
“What is the meaning of this?” cried the prince. “Who are you?…”
“It’s Dubrovsky,” said the princess.
The prince, not losing his presence of mind, drew a traveling pistol from his side pocket and fired at the masked robber. The princess cried out and covered her face with both hands in horror. Dubrovsky was wounded in the shoulder; blood appeared. The prince, not wasting a moment, drew a second pistol, but he was given no time to fire. The doors of the carriage were opened and several strong hands pulled him out and tore the pistol from him. Knives flashed over him.
“Don’t touch him!” cried Dubrovsky, and his grim accomplices drew back.
“You are free,” Dubrovsky went on, turning to the pale princess.
“No,” she replied. “It’s too late, I’m married, I’m Prince Vereisky’s wife.”
“What are you saying?” Dubrovsky cried in despair. “No, you’re not his wife, you were forced, you could never have consented…”
“I did consent, I took the vow,” she objected firmly. “The prince is my husband, order him freed and leave me with him. I did not deceive you. I waited for you till the last moment…But now, I tell you, now it’s too late. Let us go.”
But Dubrovsky no longer heard her. The pain of the wound and the strong agitation of his soul took his strength away. He collapsed by the wheel, the robbers surrounded him. He managed to say a few words to them, they put him on a horse, two of them supported him, a third took the horse by the bridle, and they all went off, leaving the carriage in the middle of the road, with the servants bound, the horses unhitched, but stealing nothing and shedding not a single drop of blood in revenge for the blood of their leader.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
On a narrow clearing in the middle of a dense forest rose a small earthen fortress, consisting of a rampart and a ditch, behind which were several huts and dugouts.
In the yard a large number of men, in varied dress but all of them armed, which showed them at once to be robbers, were having dinner, sitting hatless around a fraternal cauldron. On the rampart, next to a small cannon, sat a sentry, his legs tucked under; he was putting a patch on a certain part of his clothing, working the needle with a skill that betrayed an experienced tailor, and kept glancing in all directions.
Though a dipper had been passed around several times, a strange silence reigned in the company. The robbers finished their dinner, got up one after another, and said a prayer. Some dispersed to the huts, others went off to the forest or lay down for a nap as Russians usually do.
The sentry finished his work, shook out his rag, admired the patch, stuck the needle in his sleeve, sat down astride the cannon, and began to sing at the top of his voice a melancholy old song:
Rustle not, leafy mother, forest green,
Keep me not, a fine lad, from thinking my thoughts.
Just then the door to one of the huts opened and an old woman in a white bonnet, neatly and primly dressed, appeared on the threshold.
