第 11 页

"Speak! Who are you?" repeated Gogol, more passionately than before. "I ought to know, and yet — no, it is impossible."

"My name is Petrov," stammered Ivor. "My father was Alexis Petrov, the brother of Maximy. My mother's name was Halliday —"

The words were literally smothered on Ivor's lips as Gogol, forgetting his injured arm, threw himself upon him in a transport of joy, and hugged him with a bear-like embrace.

"You are Ivor Alexovitch, the son of my old master," he cried hoarsely. "Thank God for this meeting! I was your father's faithful servant, and your mother's too. What a noble woman she was, and how patiently she suffered injustice and wrong!"

Ivor began to comprehend the truth as he extricated himself from Gogol's embrace.

"You are not Nicholas, surely?" he asked.

"Yes, I am Nicholas — Nicholas Gogol," replied the old man, while the tears streamed down his furrowed cheeks. "You have heard your mother speak of me, then?"

"Often. She spoke of you last just before she died."

"Alas! Is Madame Petrov dead?" exclaimed Gogol, giving way to a burst of grief, "And she never knew that the truth had been found out — never knew that her husband had repented of his injustice!"

"Yes, she knew," said Ivor softly. "She received a letter from my father shortly before his death."

Gogol was silent for a moment, struggling hard to conquer his emotions. Then he sat down on the ice beside Ivor, and threw one arm about him.

"Surely no stranger thing than this ever happened," he said huskily. "For months we have lived together, sharing misery and toil; and yet each ignorant of the other's identity. The ways of Providence are indeed hard to understand. But tell me now this story of treachery. I almost know the truth already. It was your heartless uncle who sent you to Saghalien?"

"Yes, it was Maximy Petrov," replied Ivor. "He and another villain. I will tell you all."

Forgetful of the imminent perils that surrounded them they sat side by side, Gogol listening with eager attention to every word that fell from Ivor's lips, as he went back to the past and told the sad story of treachery and suffering. The wind howled, and the waves lashed the ice furiously, as though they would drown the voice of the speaker.

Gogol could hardly master his indignation sufficiently to listen to the end. Then, when he was free to speak, the pent up passion burst forth. He plunged at once into his own story, trying to speak coherently, but pouring out his words at spasmodic intervals.

"Ah! The base treachery of those lying, forging scoundrels! What would I not give for one short year of life? As sure as there is a God above both would go to the mines of Siberia for life. Listen, lad; I know all — everything. I have proofs of their guilt. I know where the genuine will is."

Ivor gave an involuntary start.

"There was one then?" he gasped.

"Yes; to be sure; But I must try to speak plainly. I feel that I am becoming confused. Let me begin at the beginning. That is the first step. You know already that I was a trusted servant in Alexis Petrov's house for seventeen years. I was a mere lad when I entered his employ. Your mother was the kindest mistress a man could have. I worshiped the ground she trod upon. As for you, many a time you were sent out in my care. What happened in those days you already know. I was sure that your mother was innocent, and I even had my suspicions as to the enemy who was trying to ruin her by lying letters. Of course I dared not whisper this to my master. It might have cost me my life. Well, your mother fled with you, unable to endure any more, and the years rolled by until the time of your father's last illness. Then, in some way, he discovered the truth, and told me of it. The bitterest enemy your mother had was the man who professed the greatest friendship for her — Maximy Petrov."

"My uncle!" exclaimed Ivor. "Why did I not suspect him before? Ah! what crimes he will have to answer for!"

"Yes, many indeed," muttered Gogol, grinding his teeth. "This was his revenge for being rejected by your mother. Well, as I have said, my master discovered his brother's perfidy, but for some reason he preferred to keep him in ignorance of it. He had a different plan in view, but of this he told me nothing. My first knowledge of it comes from that letter which you tell me your mother received. I did not know my master had written it. The day after Alexis Petrov died his brother and Feodor Gunsberg were closeted together. I happened to pass through the room when they had left it for a moment. The table was strewn with writing materials, and on the floor lay a folded paper which I picked up. I glanced at it, and saw that it was a will. My master's name was signed to it. I don't know what prompted me to act as I did, but I took the document and put it behind a loose stone of the big open fireplace in the adjoining room. On the day of my master's burial, when the funeral was over, Feodor Gunsberg read what was supposed to be the genuine will. It gave all the property to Maximy Petrov except a few legacies to the servants. I felt sure this was a forgery, for I knew Alexis Petrov would not have left his property to his brother after the discovery he had made. I concluded that the will I had hidden was the real one, but I never had a chance to examine it. I was suspected of knowing too much, for your uncle and his confederate discovered that I had been in the room where they concocted the plot. They had me arrested and sent to Saghalien by almost the same means that were adopted in your case. I was utterly powerless and never succeeded in finding any one who would listen to my story. What little uncertainty there was about the matter you have now cleared up. The letter that your mother received shows plainly that my master made a will in her favor and yours. The conspirators no doubt made use of it in forging a new one to suit their ends, and intended to destroy the original. But I foiled them by taking possession of it, and it is probably still concealed in the fireplace."

"But the loss of the will did not deter them from going on with their plans," said Ivor, "though they must have been constantly in fear of detection, even when they had put you out of the way."

"No, they are desperate men. For such a fortune which they no doubt divided — they should have stopped at nothing. They removed me from their path, and then you, and they are quite ready to commit more crimes if danger threatens them. It was a double gratification for Maximy Petrov to put you out of the way, for he hates you as he hated your mother. It is hard that those miscreants should live to enjoy their ill gotten gains, while we, the victims, must die unavenged;"

Ivor laughed — a harsh, bitter laugh. "Hard ! Yes, it is more than hard," he muttered in a passionate voice. "But such things predominate in this world. Will there be justice and mercy in the next, I wonder? However, we shall know ere long. What fools we are to talk of our wrongs while we stand on the edge of eternity! It can give us no consolation, but only adds to our torture."

The wretched man stared for an instant into the blackness that lay on all sides. Then, with a moan of agony, he threw himself amid the drifted snow that covered the rough floe, and covered his face with his arms.

Gogol looked on pityingly. He would have given much to cheer his companion, but he well knew his impotency to utter one sincere word of comfort. It was better to face the truth — and the truth was very bitter and hopeless.

The minutes passed on, and the two castaways lay mute and motionless on the ice, while the falling snow gathered in little heaps on their stiffened clothing. The wind shrieked overhead, and the floe moved forward with a succession of lunges as it slipped from abyss to abyss among the waves. The edges were crumbling and breaking off, and already its diameter was lessened by three or four feet. A collision with another cake might precipitate a calamity at any moment, and then the end would come quickly.

At times a shiver ran through Ivor's frame, and a stifled sob escaped his lips. Agony, more intense than Gogol suspected, was gnawing at his heart. Great as had been his misery a little while before, he felt that the sting and bitterness of death had now increased tenfold. Better had he never known Gogol's identity, he told himself. Better had he died without this knowledge which mocked him with a vain vision of victory over his enemies by the aid of his father's old servant. Bitter indeed were his reflections as he stared into the future which had dawned upon him with Gogol's words. Ah! if the bright dream would only come true! Working hand in hand with his companion he would extricate himself from the devilish snares of the conspirators, he would produce the genuine will and overwhelm them with a weight of punishment and retribution, he would assume his lost place in the world, wealthy and honored, and then — how the thought thrilled him! — he would go back to bleak Saghalien and claim Sonia Komaroff for his bride.

But it was only a dream, and the very hopelessness of it wrung a cry of agony from his lips as he raised his head to stare into the blackness of the wintry night, and felt the ice quiver amid the angry waves. Then he seemed to lose consciousness, and he knew nothing more until a sharp cry broke upon his stupor, and a strong arm shook him mercilessly to and fro. He was pulled upright, and as he tried to stand on his numbed limbs, swaying backward and forward, a light broke upon his clouded senses, and he became more dizzy than ever with joy. Gogol was supporting him with one hand while with the other he pointed to a lofty object all aglitter with lights, that was advancing toward them through the icy waves

"A ship! A ship!" he cried hoarsely. "Thank God! We shall be saved."

Ivor echoed the words in his heart, but his voice failed him when he tried to speak. The vessel came closer, resolving itself into the long black hull of a Russian corvette with tall funnels rising, like specters, in air. Lanterns flashed from the deck, and showed dark figures moving to and fro.

The castaways shouted as only despairing men can, and the wind swept their voices straight to the vessel. A brief confusion was observable on deck, and then an electric search light was turned in a semicircle from the bow until its white rays shone directly upon the heaving cake of ice. Loud voices of command were heard, the ringing of bells, and the rattle and clank of reversed machinery. An instant later the corvette — which had been moving slowly in the first place — lay motionless on the water, scarce thirty yards from the castaways.

"We shall soon be picked up," said Gogol. "I am afraid it is a man of war, though, for I can see soldiers on the deck. I hoped it might be one of the trading vessels that ply along the coast. However, our lives are safe for the present."

"But they will end on the gallows after all," said Ivor bitterly. "I have stopped hoping. Everything is against us."

"Don't say that, lad. We have a chance yet. This vessel may not have come from Saghalien, and in that event we have good reason to hope for the best. Perhaps they will give us a chance to tell our story, and if they do we will convince them, never fear."

By this time a yawl had been lowered, and was making good headway against the waves and wind. It soon hove alongside the ice floe and the crew — who wore the Russian naval uniform — helped the fugitives on board. The officer in command seemed to regard it as an every day occurrence, for he preserved a stolid demeanor and asked no questions.

The crew bent lustily to the oars and five minutes later Gogol and Ivor were standing on the deck of the corvette. An officer of high rank came forward to meet them, scattering the inquisitive marines who were standing about. He was a tall, bearded man of commanding aspect, and in one hand he held a paper. He glanced at this and then fixed his keen black eyes on the fugitives.

"Your names are Nicholas Gogol and Ivor Petrov, and you escaped from Karsokov twenty four hours ago," he said sternly. "At noon today I was hailed by a vessel that had come in search of you, and I received instructions to be on the lookout. Now that I have picked you up I shall be compelled to take you on to Vladivostok, We are eighty miles southwest of Saghalien, and I cannot spare the time to go back. You will doubtless be returned immediately, and you may rest assured that your foolish escape will not save you from the gallows.|

"Here, take these convicts below, and keep them in close confinement,'' he added to his men. "Give them dry clothes, and food and drink, but don't allow them to talk. See that my instructions are rigidly obeyed."

The words sounded to Ivor and Gogol like a death knell, but they were too weak from hunger and exposure to offer any resistance, or to plead for a hearing. It was just as well that it was so, for any such attempt would only have made their lot worse. They were hurriedly taken below deck, and locked up. They were examined by the ship's surgeon, and provided with dry clothes and a palatable meal. When their hunger was satisfied they found temporary oblivion from their troubles in sleep.

On the following morning they were refreshed in body if not in spirit. Gogol's broken arm continued to mend, and the wounds on Ivor's head gave him no further pain or inconvenience. They remained for five days in a state of the greatest gloom and dejection. Save the guard who brought them their meals they saw no one, nor were they allowed stir out of their place of confinement.

The corvette pursued a steady course day and night, and on the fourth evening after it had picked up the fugitives it dropped anchor in the harbor of Vladivostok. On the following morning the prisoners were visited by the commanding officer, who briefly informed them that a man of war would start for Saghalien one week later, and that they were to spend the interim in the city prison.

Ivor made a desperate attempt to pour out his story of wrongs to the officer, but it resulted in a severe rebuff and some pretty rough treatment from the guards.

An hour later the prisoners were transferred from the vessel to a steam yawl, which bore them rapidly across the harbor. With emotions such as no pen can describe, they gazed upon the roofs and spires of the town stretching along the sun lit beach, and back to the snow clad hills that line the Siberian coast. On the wharf a file of Cossacks were waiting. They immediately surrounded the prisoners, and led them briskly up a street that ran at right angles to the sea. An officer marched well in front, rudely scattering the people who were inclined to stop and watch the dreary procession.