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RUSSIAN ROMANCE.

Shvabrine searched his pockets and said he had forgotten the key. Pougatcheff kicked the door, the lock gave way, the door flew open, and we entered.

On looking about me, I felt ready to faint. On the floor sat Maria Ivanovna, clad in a peasant's dress, pale, haggard, and dishevelled. A jug of water, covered with a lump of bread, was by her side. On seeing me she started and screamed. I cannot express what my feelings were.

Pougatcheff looked at Shvabrine, and said with a bitter sneer:

"Thy hospital is not bad!" He then approached Maria Ivanovna. "Tell me, my little dove, why does thy husband punish thee? How hast thou wronged him?"

"Husband!" she repeated. "He is not my husband. I shall never be his wife! I prefer to die, and I shall die, if I am not rescued."

Pougatcheff looked at Shvabrine menacingly.

"And thou hast dared to deceive me!" said he. "Dost thou know, thou good for nothing, what thou deservest?"

Shvabrine dropped on his knees. . . . At such a sight, contempt overcame every feeling of hatred and wrath within me. I looked with loathing upon the nobleman who was writhing at the feet of a Cossack deserter. Pougatcheff relented.

"I pardon thee this time," said he to Shvabrine; "but know that the first time thou offendest, this also will be reckoned against thee." He then turned to Maria Ivanovna, and said to her kindly: "Come away, my pretty girl; I grant thee thy freedom. I am the Tzar."