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To the wonderful cunning natural to her race she added a wild energy, which knew neither forgiveness nor pity. She was a savage worthy to share the wigwam of an Apache or the hut of an Andaman. Since her arrival at Omsk, where she had rejoined him with her Tsiganes, Sangarre had not again left Ogareff. The circumstance that Michael and Marfa Strogoff had met was known to her.
Besides, now they have landed, before they can pass the frontier I shall be far beyond it. They may take the route from Kasan to Ishim, but that affords no resources to travelers. Besides a tarantass, drawn by good Siberian horses, will always go faster than a gypsy cart! Come, friend Korpanoff, be easy." By this time the man and Sangarre had disappeared.
He was plainly dressed; but, from a sort of impudent bravado, he still wore the uniform of a Russian officer. As he was about to enter the camp, Sangarre, passing among the officers approached and remained motionless before him. "Nothing?" asked Ogareff. "Nothing." "Have patience." "Is the time approaching when you will force the old woman to speak?" "It is approaching, Sangarre."
It would have been difficult, in this miserable dress, to judge of either his size or face. Near him was the Tsigane, Sangarre, a woman about thirty years old. She was tall and well made, with olive complexion, magnificent eyes, and golden hair. Many of the young dancers were remarkably pretty, all possessing the clear-cut features of their race.
Led by Sangarre, Tsiganes and Persians reappeared before the Emir's throne, and showed off, by the contrast, their dances of styles so different. The instruments of the Tartar orchestra sounded forth in harmony still more savage, accompanied by the guttural cries of the singers.
An inexplicable instinct, more powerful still than that of gratitude, had urged her to make herself the slave of the traitor to whom she had been attached since the very beginning of his exile in Siberia. Confidante and accomplice, Sangarre, without country, without family, had been delighted to put her vagabond life to the service of the invaders thrown by Ogareff on Siberia.
"Yes, Sangarre," replied the Bohemian; "to-morrow, and the Father himself sends us where we are going!" Thereupon the man and woman entered the cottage, and carefully closed the door. "Good!" said Michael Strogoff, to himself; "if these gipsies do not wish to be understood when they speak before me, they had better use some other language."
Silence then ensued, and, on a sign from Ivan Ogareff, Sangarre advanced towards the group, in the midst of which stood Marfa. The old Siberian saw her, and knew what was going to happen. A scornful smile passed over her face. Then leaning towards Nadia, she said in a low tone, "You know me no longer, my daughter. Whatever may happen, and however hard this trial may be, not a word, not a sign.
"You will know nothing, Ivan," replied Tsigane; "for you do not even know him by sight." "But you know him; you have seen him, Sangarre?" "I have not seen him; but his mother betrayed herself by a gesture, which told me everything." "Are you not mistaken?" "I am not mistaken." "You know the importance which I attach to the apprehension of this courier," said Ivan Ogareff.
But scarcely had he opened the door, when a woman rushed into the room, her clothes drenched, her hair in disorder. "Sangarre!" exclaimed Ogareff, in the first moment of surprise, and not supposing that it could be any other woman than the gypsy. It was not Sangarre; it was Nadia!
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