Short Fiction, Xavier de Maistre [books to read in your 20s txt] 📗
- Author: Xavier de Maistre
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“At the camp,” replied Ivan, “you will do what you please, but we must first finish our business here.”
Kascambo, gathering all his strength, seized Ivan by his neck, while he was striving to force his way: “Villain, if thou darest to murder him; if thou darest to hurt a hair of his head, I swear that I will throw myself into the hands of the Tchetchengs. What would then be the result of thy cruelty?”
“Into the hands of the Tchetchengs!” repeated the soldier, in raising the bloody hatchet over his master’s head: “no, they shall never again have you alive. I would rather kill them, you, and myself, than that such a misfortune should befall us. That child would ruin us by a single cry. In the state in which I see you, women would be strong enough to put you into irons.”
“Stop, stop,” exclaimed Kascambo, endeavouring to disengage himself from his servant’s grasp. “Stop, monster! thou shalt slay me before thou shalt commit this crime.” But, embarrassed by his chains, he could not arrest the infuriated soldier, who repelled him with so much force that he fell on the floor, overcome by mental agony and the horror of the scene he had witnessed. All besmeared with the gore of the butchered victims, he rose with difficulty, and faintly said: “Ivan, Ivan, I pray thee, do not kill him; for all that is dear to thee, kill not that innocent boy.”
Feeling then, as he thought, more strength, he ran after his servant; but in gaining the door, he struck against him, in the dark, as he was coming from the room, and wildly said to him, “master, it is done. Let us lose no time, and take care not to make much noise.”—“Make no noise,” continued he, instead of replying to the reproaches of his incensed master, “make no noise; what is done cannot be recalled. It is too late to shift the ground; as long as we are not perfectly free, every human being we meet, must die, or must kill me. Man, woman, child, foe, or friend, whosoever enters, must perish at my hands.” Having lighted a piece of larch-wood, he proceeded to search Ibrahim’s cartouche box and pockets, but he could not find the key to unlock his master’s chains. He looked also in vain among the woman’s furniture, into a chest, and wherever he imagined that it could be found. While he was engaged in this search, the Major abandoned himself wholly to his present emotions, Ivan endeavouring to console him as well as he could. “You would do better,” said he to him, “to lament the loss of the key. Why do you commiserate these kidnappers, who have tormented you for more than fifteen months? They intended to put us to death. Well! our life was set upon a cast, and our fortune has turned the die for us. A curse on them!”
But the bloody deed was of no avail to the prisoners, so long as Kascambo’s chains were not loosened. Ivan had, with a corner of the axe, burst the gyve by which master’s hand was fettered, but the ring round the feet resist ed his efforts. He was unable besides to act with all his strength, for fear of injuring his master. The night was advanced, and the danger was pressing. Leave the house they must. Ivan determined to bind the chain round the Major’s waist, so that he might move with his assistance, and without clattering with his irons. He put into his knapsack a leg of mutton, which yet remained from the preceding day, and some other provisions, and armed himself with the dagger and pistols of the slain, while Kascambo flung his fourka21 over his shoulders. When all this was done, they stole away, and winding round the house they went towards the mountain, instead of taking the ordinary route to Mosdok, in which direction they foresaw they would be pursued. They journeyed during the rest of the night, by the sides of the heights situated on their right, and at daybreak they entered a wood of beech-trees, which clothed the summit of the mountains, and secured them from being seen from afar. It was now the month of February, and the ground at this height and principally in the forest was still covered with hard snow, during the night and a part of the morning; but towards noon, when the sun had acted upon it, the fugitives found it difficult to continue their journey. They reached at length with great difficulty the side of a deep glen, from the bottom of which the snow had already disappeared: a beaten road, that appeared to have been much travelled, wound along a meandering stream. They considered it therefore prudent to conceal themselves behind some insulated rocks, which rose above the snowy ground. Ivan cut with his axe some branches
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