Pougatcheff was seated in an arm-chair on the steps of the Commandant's
house. He was robed in an elegant Cossack cafetan embroidered on the
seams. A high cap of martin-skin, ornamented with gold tassels,
covered his brow almost to his flashing eyes. His face seemed to me
not unknown. Cossack chiefs surrounded him. Father Garasim, pale and
trembling, stood, the cross in his hand, at the foot of the steps, and
seemed to supplicate in silence for the victims brought before him.

On the square itself, a gallows was hastily erected. When we
approached, the Bashkirs opened a passage through the crowd and
presented us to Pougatcheff. The bells ceased; the deepest silence
prevailed. "Which is the Commandant?" asked the usurper. Our Corporal
came out of the crowd and pointed to Mironoff. Pougatcheff looked at
the old man with a terrible expression, and said to him: "How did you
dare to oppose me, your emperor?"

The Commandant, weakened by his wound, collected all his energy, and
said, in a firm but faint voice: "You are not my emperor; you are a
usurper and a brigand."

Pougatcheff frowned and raised his white handkerchief. Immediately the
old Captain was seized by Cossacks and dragged to the gibbet. Astride
the cross-beam of the gallows, sat the mutilated Bashkirs who we had
questioned; he held a rope in his hand, and I saw, an instant after,
poor Ivan Mironoff suspended in the air. Then Ignatius was brought up
before Pougatcheff.

"Take the oath to the emperor, Peter Fedorovitch."

"You are not our emperor," replied the Lieutenant, repeating his