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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.
CHAPTER XIII DUTY BEFORE EVERYTHING
NADIA, with the clear perception of a right-minded woman,
guessed that some secret motive directed all Michael Strogoff's actions;
that he, for a reason unknown to her, did not belong to himself;
and that in this instance especially he had heroically sacrificed
to duty even his resentment at the gross injury he had received.
Nadia, therefore, asked no explanation from Michael. Had not the hand
which she had extended to him already replied to all that he might have
been able to tell her?
Michael remained silent all the evening. The postmaster
not being able to supply them with fresh horses until
the next morning, a whole night must be passed at the house.
Nadia could profit by it to take some rest, and a room was
therefore prepared for her.
The young girl would no doubt have preferred not to leave her companion,
but she felt that he would rather be alone, and she made ready to go
to her room.
Just as she was about to retire she could not refrain from going up
to Michael to say good-night.
"Brother," she whispered. But he checked her with a gesture.
The girl sighed and left the room.
Michael Strogoff did not lie down. He could not have slept even
for an hour. The place on which he had been struck by the brutal
traveler felt like a burn.
"For my country and the Father," he muttered as he ended
his evening prayer.
He especially felt a great wish to know who was the man
who had struck him, whence he came, and where he was going.
As to his face, the features of it were so deeply engraven
on his memory that he had no fear of ever forgetting them.
Michael Strogoff at last asked for the postmaster. The latter,
a Siberian of the old type, came directly, and looking rather
contemptuously at the young man, waited to be questioned.
"You belong to the country?" asked Michael.
"Yes."
"Do you know that man who took my horses?"
"No."
"Had you never seen him before?"
"Never."
"Who do you think he was?"
"A man who knows how to make himself obeyed."
Michael fixed his piercing gaze upon the Siberian, but the other did
not quail before it.
"Do you dare to judge me?" exclaimed Michael.
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