It was the traveler of the berlin, a military-looking man, apparently about forty years of age, tall, robust in figure, broad-shouldered, with a strongly-set head, and thick mus-taches meeting red whiskers. He wore a plain uniform.
A cavalry saber hung at his side, and in his hand he held a short-handled whip.
"Horses," he demanded, with the air of a man accustomed to command.
"I have no more disposable horses," answered the postmaster, bowing.
"I must have some this moment."
"It is impossible."
"What are those horses which have just been harnessed to the tarantass I saw at the door?""They belong to this traveler," answered the postmaster, pointing to Michael Strogoff.
"Take them out!" said the traveler in a tone which admitted of no reply.
Michael then advanced.
"These horses are engaged by me," he said.
"What does that matter? I must have them. Come, be quick;I have no time to lose."
"I have no time to lose either," replied Michael, restraining himself with difficulty.
Nadia was near him, calm also, but secretly uneasy at a scene which it would have been better to avoid.
"Enough!" said the traveler. Then, going up to the postmaster, "Let the horses be put into my berlin," he exclaimed with a threatening gesture.
The postmaster, much embarrassed, did not know whom to obey, and looked at Michael, who evidently had the right to resist the unjust demands of the traveler.
Michael hesitated an instant. He did not wish to make use of his podorojna, which would have drawn attention to him, and he was most unwilling also, by giving up his horses, to delay his journey, and yet he must not engage in a struggle which might compromise his mission.
The two reporters looked at him ready to support him should he appeal to them.
"My horses will remain in my carriage," said Michael, but without raising his tone more than would be suitable for a plain Irkutsk merchant.
The traveler advanced towards Michael and laid his hand heavily on his shoulder. "Is it so?" he said roughly.
"You will not give up your horses to me?""No," answered Michael.
"Very well, they shall belong to whichever of us is able to start.
Defend yourself; I shall not spare you!"
So saying, the traveler drew his saber from its sheath, and Nadia threw herself before Michael.
Blount and Alcide Jolivet advanced towards him.
"I shall not fight," said Michael quietly, folding his arms across his chest.
"You will not fight?"
"No."
"Not even after this?" exclaimed the traveler. And before anyone could prevent him, he struck Michael's shoulder with the handle of the whip. At this insult Michael turned deadly pale.
His hands moved convulsively as if he would have knocked the brute down.
But by a tremendous effort he mastered himself. A duel! it was more than a delay; it was perhaps the failure of his mission.
It would be better to lose some hours. Yes; but to swallow this affront!
"Will you fight now, coward?" repeated the traveler, adding coarseness to brutality.
"No," answered Michael, without moving, but looking the other straight in the face.
"The horses this moment," said the man, and left the room.
The postmaster followed him, after shrugging his shoulders and bestowing on Michael a glance of anything but approbation.
The effect produced on the reporters by this incident was not to Michael's advantage. Their discomfiture was visible.
How could this strong young man allow himself to be struck like that and not demand satisfaction for such an insult?
They contented themselves with bowing to him and retired, Jolivet remarking to Harry Blount "I could not have believed that of a man who is so skillful in finishing up Ural Mountain bears. Is it the case that a man can be courageous at one time and a coward at another?
It is quite incomprehensible."
A moment afterwards the noise of wheels and whip showed that the berlin, drawn by the tarantass' horses, was driving rapidly away from the post-house.
Nadia, unmoved, and Michael, still quivering, remained alone in the room.
The courier of the Czar, his arms crossed over his chest was seated motionless as a statue. A color, which could not have been the blush of shame, had replaced the paleness on his countenance.
Nadia did not doubt that powerful reasons alone could have allowed him to suffer so great a humiliation from such a man. Going up to him as he had come to her in the police-station at Nijni-Novgorod:
"Your hand, brother," said she.
And at the same time her hand, with an almost maternal gesture, wiped away a tear which sprang to her companion's eye.
