"You must eat and sleep," Mishka announced in his gruff way. "You ought to be still in the hospital; but we are fools, in these days, every one of us! Ho--little father--shake down some hay in the barn; we will sleep there."
I must have been utterly exhausted, for I slept heavily, dreamlessly, for many hours, and only woke under Mishka's hand, as he shook me. Through the doorway of the barn, the level rays of the westering sun showed that the short November day was drawing to a close.
"You have slept long; that is well. But now we must be up and away if we are to reach Kutno to-night."
"So far, yes. If there are no trains running yet, we go on to Alexandrovo. I shall not leave you till I have set you safely on your way. Those are my orders."
"I don't know why I'm going," I muttered dejectedly, sitting up among the hay. "I would rather have stayed."
"You go because he ordered you to; and we all obey him, whether we like it or not!" he retorted. "And he was right to send you. Why should you throw your life away for nothing? Come, there is no time to waste in words. I have brought you water; wash and dress. Remember you are no longer a disreputable revolutionist, but a respectable American citizen, and we must make you look a little more like one."
There was something queer in his manner. Gruff as ever, he yet spoke to me, treated me, almost as if I were a child who had to be heartened up, as well as taken care of. But I didn't resent it. I knew it was his way of showing affection; and it touched me keenly. We had learned to understand each other well, and no man ever had a stancher comrade than I had in Mishka Pavloff.
During that last of our many rides together he was far less taciturn then usual; I had never heard him say so much at one stretch as he did while we pressed on through the dusk.
"We have shown you something of the real Russia since you came back--how many weeks since? And now, if you get safe across the frontier, you will be wise to remain there, as any wise man--or woman either--who values life."
"I don't value my life," I interrupted bitterly.
"You think you do not. That is because you are hasty and ignorant, though the ignorance is not your fault. You think your heart is broken, _hein_? Well, one of these days, not long hence, perhaps, you will think differently; and find that life is a good thing after all,--when it has not to be lived in Russia! If we ever meet again, you will know I have spoken the truth."