CHAPTER XII

A FRIENDLY JAILER

MICHAEL, feeling greatly disgusted by Markovin's cowardice, threw open the door boldly. The visitor, who was carefully wrapped up in a huge sheepskin coat, was no other than the friendly warder from the jail—Pafnutitch.

"Why—why—why!" he stammered. "Who thought of seeing you here?"

"Then you know me?" said Michael, in equal astonishment.

"Of course I do," answered the warder; "it's part of our business to know folks again. You're the young cock-of-the-walk that crowed so loud and ready to thrust your head into Kovylsk Jail last spring, to have a look at my jail-birds. Your father's one of them now. A good man; oh, as good almost as Loukyan the saint! What do you say to trying a rig like that?"

"Hush!" whispered Michael, pointing to the door of Markovin's bedroom. "Hush! It would kill him with fright. To see my father! Oh, I'm ready! When will it be?"

"Now! To-night," answered Pafnutitch. "Oh, what luck I came here to-night! Our head men are all going to the governor's ball, and we intend to have a jolly night of it. But you shall see your little father first; only you must have a bag o' tools, or something—"

"I have this," said Michael, throwing his well-filled sack over his shoulder.

"That will do," agreed the warder; "and don't you speak if anybody speaks to you. They'll think you are Mitiushka, my sister's son by her first husband, but he was flogged once for talking to a Stundist, and now he won't answer anybody he doesn't know very well. His mother, Matriona, had two husbands—but there, I can't tell you all about it now. I must be at my post in an hour. Tell Markovin Petrovitch you are going out a little while on business, but don't mention me. Now, then, Nephew Mitiushka."

Michael followed Pafnutitch through the streets, his heart beating high with courage. The wind was piercing, but he did not feel it. The stars glittered in the narrow strip of sky between the roofs of the houses; and he fancied they looked down on him like kindly eyes in heaven. Once again he had the strange sensation of feeling his mother near to him, walking unseen at his side, and telling him, without words, not to be afraid.

When they reached the jail the gatekeeper, who was playing at cards with a comrade, admitted them, with scarcely a glance at Michael. The light from the lamp was dull, and the man held a good hand of cards, which he was eager to play. The small door constructed in the heavy gates, through which they passed, clanged behind them, and the strong bolts were shot back into their places. Michael felt already the depressing and stifling atmosphere of a prison.

They went through long dark passages, and up two flights of stairs. On the topmost floor was a corridor, dimly lighted by one oil lamp at the head of the stairs. On each side were a number of little cells. Another warder met them half-way down this corridor, and gazed suspiciously at Michael.

"Go on, Mitiushka," said Pafnutitch. Drawing the other warder aside, "He's bringing some victual for the heretics," he whispered, "they've got powerful rich friends in town—friends that pay well; and I said my nephew, Mitiushka, should bring them some comforts. There's a bottle of the best vodka ever went down a man's throat—for me, you know; the poor heretics don't drink vodka. I'm just mad to taste it, and you and me 'll go and have some. I'll just turn Mitiushka in here," he added, stopping at the door of Alexis Ivanoff's cell; "you know he's a poor softy and won't, talk to anybody. I'll lock the door on him; and we'll see what the vodka is like."

He pushed Michael into the cell, and turned the key loudly in the lock. There was not a gleam of light, except that just under the ceiling a little square of sky, with two or three stars in it, was visible. Michael heard his father's voice in the darkness.

"Who is there?" he asked.

"It's me, father," he cried; "Michael!"

Groping till they felt one another in the narrow cell, the father and son stood for a few minutes clasped in one another's arms. Never had Michael felt a rapture so pure and overwhelming. For the moment he forgot they were in a prison. They were together again—he and his father. But very soon both of them remembered how precious time was. They sat down side by side on the wooden plank, which served for seat and bed, and Michael told briefly how it happened he was there. There was so much to say, and so short a time to say it in. Alexis gave Michael some news of the prisoners to take home, and messages to carry to sundry friends in Kovylsk, who were stretching to the utmost their influence on behalf of the imprisoned Stundists.

"For me," he said calmly, "it must be either Siberia or the Caucasus sooner or later. If it is sooner, before you are fifteen, you may get permission to go with me as my child. Tatiania and Sergius and Marfa will go with Khariton Kondraty. But we must leave Velia and little Clava behind us. They will never give back to us the little ones they have robbed us of."

"Father Cyril cares for them as if they were his own," said Michael.

"Ah! That is my only comfort," Alexis went on. "But oh, my boy, they will be brought up in the practices we denounce, and for which we are suffering even unto death! But we must leave them in God's hands, He loves them more than we can. If they keep us in prison for years, as some of our brethren have been, you and Sergius will be too old to go with us—"

"We will follow you wherever you go," interrupted Michael, "if we have to walk every step of the way. Paraska is saving up every kopek she can get to join her husband in Irkutsk. If a woman can do it, we can. If it was all round the world, we would follow you."

He threw his arms round his father's neck, and laid his head on his shoulder. Oh, if he could but remain with him now, and share his prison cell! By this time his eyes had grown used to the darkness, and he could see the dim outline of his father's face. He told him how he had fancied his mother was walking at his side as he came to the jail.

"Why not?" said Alexis. "Surely she loves us better than she did while she was here."

"But will not this make her miserable?" asked Michael.

"Not more miserable than our Lord," he answered; "what He can bear to see, she can bear. They know the end. Your mother has joined the cloud of witnesses which compasses us about; and though they see our afflictions, they also see the far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory laid up for us if we fight a good fight. It is even here a glory and a joy to suffer for Christ's sake."

Alexis spoke in a tone of sober gladness. But before he could say more, they heard the voice of Pafnutitch speaking loudly in the corridor.

"I'd clean forgotten the lad," he said; "he'll be scared out of his poor wits at being shut up in the dark with a cursed heretic. Come out, my poor boy, come out! Good sakes! This key wants oiling, I can scarcely turn it."

He fumbled at the lock for some seconds, giving Michael and his father time for a last embrace and farewell. Michael was breathing hard with stifled sobs as he stumbled out of the cell.

"Poor lad! Poor lad!" exclaimed Pafnutitch, catching him by the arm, and hurrying down the corridor, "Scared almost to death! Ay, scared to death! And he was always something of a softy. I'll put him out into the street, and be back in a jiffy."

His fellow-warder winked slowly behind his back, and wondered what heavy bribe Pafnutitch had received. If possible, he would make him share it. The vodka had been very good, but that was not what had made Pafnutitch run such a risk as this. Should he report the little incident to the governor? No. They were good friends; besides, Pafnutitch knew too much of what he had done himself. It was best to keep a still tongue in his head.