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Updated: May 23, 2025
She does washing here, for the monks." "But how am I to go alone, Grischka?" "All right! Let's go," replied the lad, in a tone of vigorous assent. They went out into the dark-blue, fragrant night. "What a delightful scent!" she exclaimed, immediately uttering a startled cry, for in the darkness she had stumbled against some one. "It is I," said Sanine, laughing. Sina held out her trembling hand.
"It's so dark that one can't see," she said, by way of excuse. "Where are you going?" "Back to the town. They've sent for me." "What, alone?" "No, the little boy's going with me. He's my cavalier." "Cavalier! Ha! Ha!" repeated Grischka merrily, stamping his bare feet. "And what are you doing here?" she asked. "Oh! we're just having a drink together." "You said 'we'?"
Is there no chance of success for the bold? In former times did not Grischka Otrépieff reign? Think of me as you please, but do not leave me. What does it matter to you whether it be one or the other? He who is pope is father. Serve me faithfully, and I will make you a field-marshal and a prince. What do you say to this?" "No," I replied, firmly. "I am a gentleman.
"I will accompany you as far as the town," said Sanine. "But what will your friends say?" "Oh! that doesn't matter. They'll stop there till dawn. Besides, they've bored me enough as it is." "Well, it is very kind of you, I am sure. Grischka you can go." "Good-night, Miss," said the boy, as he noiselessly disappeared. Sina and Sanine were left there alone.
"If you like, I will row you across to the other side. Why should you go all that way round?" "Oh! no, please don't trouble," said Sina, feeling strangely shy. "Yes, let him row you across," said little Grischka persuasively, "for there's such a lot of mud on the bank." "Very well, then. You can go back to your mother." "Aren't you afraid to cross the fields alone?" asked the boy.
His first thought was to begin with a scene at Sambor in Galicia, wherein the escaped monk Grischka, tarrying at the house of Mnischek in complete ignorance of his high birth, but given none the less to ambitious dreaming, should be made known as Ivan's son, Demetrius, supposed to have been murdered sixteen years before at the instigation of Boris.
"Well," I said to Pugatchéf, "would it not be better to forsake them yourself, ere it be too late, and throw yourself on the mercy of the Tzarina?" Pugatchéf smiled bitterly. "No," said he, "the day of repentance is past and gone; they will not give me grace. I must go on as I have begun. Who knows? It may be. Grischka Otrépieff certainly became Tzar at Moscow." "But do you know his end?
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