This boasting of the robber rather amused me.
"What do you think yourself?" I said to him. "Could you beat Frederick?"
"Fedor Fedorovitch,[66] eh! why not? I can beat your Generals, and your
Generals have beaten him. Until now my arms have been victorious. Wait a
bit--only wait a bit--you'll see something when I shall march on
Moscow?"
"And you are thinking of marching on Moscow?"
The usurper appeared to reflect. Then he said, half-aloud-"God knows my way is straight. I have little freedom of action. My
fellows don't obey me--they are marauders. I have to keep a sharp look
out--at the first reverse they would save their necks with my head."
"Well," I said to Pugatchef, "would it not be better to forsake them
yourself, ere it be too late, and throw yourself on the mercy of the
Tzarina?"
Pugatchef 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 Otrepieff certainly became Tzar at Moscow."
"But do you know his end? He was cast out of a window, he was massacred,
burnt, and his ashes blown abroad at the cannon's mouth, to the four
winds of heaven."
The Tartar began to hum a plaintive song; Saveliitch, fast asleep,
oscillated from one side to the other. Our "kibitka" was passing
quickly over the wintry road. All at once I saw a little village I knew
well, with a palisade and a belfry, on the rugged bank of the Yaik. A
quarter of an hour afterwards we were entering Fort Belogorsk.