, a word
from him might have been the signal for some bloody execution. But
he intrenched himself in that isolation which constitutes in part the
majesty of Eastern kings. He who does not show himself is admired, and,
above all, feared.

As to the prisoners, they were to be penned up in some enclosure, where,
ill-treated, poorly fed, and exposed to all the inclemencies of the
weather, they would await Feofar's pleasure.

The most docile and patient of them all was undoubtedly Michael
Strogoff. He allowed himself to be led, for they were leading him where
he wished to go, and under conditions of safety which free he could not
have found on the road from Kolyvan to Tomsk. To escape before reaching
that town was to risk again falling into the hands of the scouts, who
were scouring the steppe. The most eastern line occupied by the Tartar
columns was not situated beyond the eighty-fifth meridian, which passes
through Tomsk. This meridian once passed, Michael considered that he
should be beyond the hostile zones, that he could traverse Genisci
without danger, and gain Krasnoiarsk before Feofar-Khan had invaded the
province.

"Once at Tomsk," he repeated to himself, to repress some feelings of
impatience which he could not entirely master, "in a few minutes I
should be beyond the outposts; and twelve hours gained on Feofar, twelve
hours on Ogareff, that surely would be enough to give me a start of them
to Irkutsk."

The thing that Michael dreaded more than everything else was the
presence of Ivan Ogareff in the Tartar camp. Besides the danger of being
recognized, he felt, by a sort of instinct, that this was the traitor
whom it was especially necessary to precede. He understood, too, that
the union of Ogareff's troops with those of Feofar would complete the
invading army, and that the junction once effected, the army would march
en masse on the capital of Eastern Siberia. All his apprehensions came
from this quarter, and he dreaded every instant to hear some flourish of
trumpets, announcing the arrival of the lieutenant of the Emir.

To this was added the thought of his mother, of Nadia,--the one a
prisoner at Omsk; the other dragged on board the Irtych boats, and no
doubt a captive, as Marfa Strogoff was. He could do nothing for them.
Should he ever see them again? At this question, to which he dared not
reply, his heart sank very low.

At the same time with Michael Strogoff and so many other prisoners Harry
Blount an