The guests drew closer together. I took a place at the end of the
table. My neighbor, a young Cossack of slender form and handsome face,
poured out a bumper of brandy for me. I did not taste it. I was busy
considering the assembly. Pougatcheff was seated in the place of
honor, elbow on table, his heavy, black beard resting upon his muscular
hand. His features, regular and handsome, had no ferocious expression.
He often spoke to a man of some fifty years, calling him now Count,
again Uncle. All treated each other as comrades, showing no very
marked deference for their chief. They talked of the assault that
morning; of the revolt, its success, and of their next operations.
Each one boasted of his prowess, gave his opinions, and freely
contradicted Pougatcheff. In this strange council of war, they
resolved to march upon Orenbourg, a bold move, but justified by
previous successes. The departure was fixed for the next day. Each
one drank another bumper, and rising, took leave of Pougatcheff. I
wished to follow them, but the brigand said: "Wait, I want to speak
to you."

Pougatcheff looked at me fixedly in silence for a few seconds, winking
his left eye with the most cunning, mocking expression. At last he
burst into a long peal of laughter, so hearty, that I, just from seeing
him, began to laugh, without knowing why.

"Well, my lord," said he, "confess that you were frightened, when my
boys put the rope around your neck? The sky must have seemed to you
then as big as a sheep-skin. And if not for your servant, you would
have been swinging up there from the cross-beam; but at that very
instant I recognized the old owl. Would you have thought that the man
who led you to a shelter on the steppe was the great Czar himself?"
Saying these words, he assumed a grave and mysterious air. "You have