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The grumbling began again, a menacing rumble far more frightening than the shouting had been. Restless, irate, seething with discontent at a thousand injustices, the peasants were obviously ready to fight for their comrade and, curiously, were not at all intimidated by the fierce cossacks and guardsmen who, though fewer in number, were far superior in strength. Pitchforks and scythes would be no match for the pistols and sabres Orlov's men had been trained to use with deadly efficiency. I had the feeling Pulaski was responsible for this suicidal attitude, that he had been stirring them up to fever pitch for many days, perhaps weeks.

"Silence!" the shaman ordered. "This man is not of our village," he continued in his normal voice, addressing Orlov. "I have not the authority to agree to his death."

"I do not need your authority," Orlov retorted.

The shaman looked around at the men crowding the clearing, the peasants willing to fight to the death, eager to do so, the heavily armed cossacks restless, spoiling for a rousing fight. He hesitated a moment before continuing, and I could almost see his wily mind working as he shaped the words.

"My people are most unhappy, as you see. This man comes to our village, and he makes many friends. He causes trouble, this I admit. He preaches new ideas, sows discontentment. This I do not like, but if I permit you to kill him my people will fight. There will be needless bloodshed.

Some of my people will die."

Orlov's belligerent manner left little doubt that there would indeed be bloodshed. He and the shaman both knew that the peasants would be slaughtered, the cossacks suffering few if any injuries. Orlov was growing more impatient by the moment, temper steadily rising, and his men grinned in anticipation of a lusty fray after months ofinactivity.

"We've got to stop it," I whispered. "I'm going to-"

Vanya seized my arm just above the elbow, his fingers curling around it in a steely grip that caused me to wince.

"You will do nothing," he said. "Vanya hurts you badly if necessary. "

"You must let me-"

"Be still!" he commanded.

I obeyed, gnawing my lower lip, trembling at the thought of what was going to happen any moment now.

One ofthe peasants shoved a cossack standing beside him, raised his scythe, yelled. Calmly, without even flinching, the cossack put a bullet between the man's eyes. The peasant fell to the ground, blood and brains splattering. Several of the peasants turned pale. The cossack blew on the barrel of his pistol and calmly reloaded as another frightening silence fell over the crowd. Neither Orlov nor the shaman seemed particularly disturbed by the incident, seemed scarcely to notice, locked as they were in a battle of wills.

A woman began to wail inside one of the huts. The body of the peasant lay crumpled on the ground where it had fallen, those around it deliberately averting their eyes from the grisly sight.

"How many more of your people must die?" Orlov inquired.

"No one else need die," the shaman replied. His voice was not quite as authoritative as it had been. "We are intelligent men, and neither of us wants bloodshed. This is true?"

Orlov stared at him in stony silence.

"We make a compromise," the shaman continued. "I do not permit you to execute this man who comes to my village, but I give you permission to punish him. I allow you to use the knout. My people watch you administer this punishment. It shows them the danger of these new ideas he preaches, makes them adhere to the old ways we both value."

Orlov was still silent, considering. Pulaski was struggling violently in Vladimir's grip, eyes glazed with terror.

The knout, I suspected, could be worse than death.

Orlov finally nodded. "I agree," he said. "I use the knout on him myself. Fifty lashes."

The shaman smiled a deprecatory smile, as though they were bartering over a piece of merchandise and Orlov was trying to pull a ruse.

"No man can survive fifty lashes of the knout," he said.

"This we both know. Thirty will kill most men. You will administer fifteen lashes."

"Twenty," Orlov retorted;

The wily old priest gave a shrug and spread his palms out to signify defeat at the hands of a superior trader.

"Twenty it is," he agreed.

"Each one will count," Orlov promised.

The peasants were not at all pleased by this compromise, but the death of their comrade had cooled their ardor considerably.

Some had already begun to leave the clearing, resuming the blank-eyed, downtrodden mien that was customary.

The shaman roared orders to the rest of them, speaking so quickly, so harshly I couldn't understand what he was saying. The cossacks made no effort to hide their disappointment, scowling darkly as they watched the men disperse.

Lucie let the sheepskin fall back across the doorway.

Vanya released my arm. I rubbed it vigorously, certain there would be an ugly bruise.

"I am sorry for this," Vanya said quietly. "I do it for your own good. For you to interfere would have been most dangerous. All is well now. This man is punished and we leave the village as planned."

"Are you feeling better, Marietta?" Lucie asked.

"I'm fine," I lied.'

The girl seemed completely unaffected by the horror of the scene we had just witnessed, but she was Russian, I told myself, and shattering violence was apparently commonplace

in this country, its people immune to it. I had seen a fair amount of violence, too, in my time, but it always left me with this dreadful sick feeling. I moved back over to the chair, shaken, holding on to the back of it to keep from falling.

"It is best if you go back to your quarters now," Vanya told Lucie. "One of the men in front will accompany you and stand guard outside of your door until it is time to leave."

"I should stay with Marietta. She needs-"

"I'll be all right, Lucie," I said in what I hoped was a fairly normal voice. "I -I just want to rest."

The girl left reluctantly, one of the cossacks standing outside the door escorting her across the clearing. Vanya poured another glass of brandy and forced me to drink. It was silent outside. The woman had stopped wailing. There were no voices, no footsteps, no rattle of tools. After a long while I heard the crunch of boots on ice and, a moment later, a heavy pounding noise. They were driving a stake into the ground. Josef Pulaski would be tied to it with his arms over his head. His coat would be ripped off and his naked back exposed and Gregory Orlov himself would wield
the
treacherous knout, a long-handled whip with a small piece of metal tied into the knot at the tip of the lash.

Vanya seemed to read my thoughts. "Is best not to think of it, Marietta," he said gently. "This man is evil. He stirs the people to rebellion. He and his kind burn the'

posthouses, cause much trouble."

"He-he mentioned a man named Pugachev."

Vanya nodded. "This man is their leader. He attempts to raise an army to destroy all aristocrats, to take Catherine's throne. Russia is full of such madmen. Pugachev will soon be captured, soon be put down. The Imperial Army is very strong. They soon find his secret camp. You sit now.

You rest. Vanya watches over you."

The next hour was almost unbearable as I sat there in the hut, listening to all the horrible sounds coming from the clearing. The pounding noise ceased. There was the crunch of more footsteps, the sound of a struggle, a cry as Pulaski was tied to the stake. The shaman's voice rang out then, commanding his people to come and watch. I wished I were anywhere else, wished I had never stepped foot in this brooding, brutal country of ice and snow and bloodthirsty violence accepted with a shrug. There was a ripping noise as Pulaski's coat was torn away, then silence, silence that seemed to last forever.

"I can't stand it, Vanya. I must-"

He placed his hands on my shoulders, gently holding me down.

"Will soon be over," he told me.

There was a loud snap, a whistling noise as the long leather lash flew through the air, a deadly crack as the knout found its target, followed by a terrible, agonized scream. A collective gasp came from the crowd assembled, forced to watch, and I knew the first lash had brought the longed-for blood. The second lash followed several moments later-Orlov was in no hurry-and the sounds were repeated, the scream even more shattering. My hands gripped the arms of the chair, my knuckles bone white. I was responsible for this torture, this terror. Josef Pulaski had planned to abduct me, do me grievous harm, but no man should have to endure such torture, no matter what his crime. I winced as the lash snapped and whistled and cracked a third time. The scream torn from Pulaski's throat bore no resemblance to human sound.

A long silence followed. Tense, I waited for the snap, the whistle, the crack. Each second that passed seemed an eternity.

"Bring a bucket of water!" Orlov ordered. His voice was harsh, ugly. I hardly recognized it. "Throw it in his face! I want him conscious."

Scurrying noises as his order was obeyed, a loud splash, a groan, another lash, another inhuman scream. On and on it went, one lash following another, the torture cleverly, cruelly prolonged. Three more times Pulaski passed out.

Three more times he was revived. When at last the final lash had been administered, he made a low, gurgling sound, half moan, half sob, and that, too, ended abruptly. I heard them sawing the rope that held him to the stake, heard a thud as his body fell to the ground, and then there was a shuffiing, crunching noise as the peasants left the clearing.

Time passed. A servant brought a lavish lunch to my hut. I told Vanya to send the man away. I couldn't possibly eat. Later on more servants came to clear out the hut, to remove the carpet, the furs, all the luxurious items that had been provided for my comfort. Vanya led me slowly to the troika Lucie and I shared, and as we crossed the clearing I saw the tall stake that had been driven into the ground, the pieces of rope dangling. The snow around the stake was splattered with brilliant crimson flecks.

Lucie was waiting beside the troika. She told me she was going to ride her horse for the first lap of today's journey, and I was relieved. I didn't relish anyone's company just now. She studied my face for a moment, gave my hand a reassuring

squeeze and left. Vanya told me to climbinside. I shook my head. I said I would stand out here for a few minutes, that I wanted to breathe some fresh air. He frowned, looking as though he were afraid I might do myself some harm. I insisted he get on about his business, and he left reluctantly, looking back over his shoulder at me several times before disappearing behind one of the supply troikas.

The sky was a much darker gray now, deep pewter, heavily laden with ponderous clouds that promised more snow. The sunlight was a dull silver, growing duller, and ice and snow no longer glittered but gleamed instead with a silver-gray sheen touched with violet. It was colder. I pulled the red fox fur hood closer to my face, the soft fur caressing

my icy cheeks. All around was a bustle of activity as the last items were packed away, the last horse saddled, the last campfire extinguished. Our driver climbed onto his perch, his huge black fur coat with matching cap pulled down over his ears. In a few minutes we would be leaving the village and I would never see it again, but what had happened here would live in my memory forever. I would never be able to forget those horrible sounds or those vivid red specks on the snow.

I saw Gregory Orlov moving down the line of troikas toward me. I didn't want to speak to him. I didn't even know if I could face him. I started to climb into the troika, hesitated, turned back around. I couldn't avoid him. I might as well confront him now and get it over with. His bulky brown fur coat was open in front, revealing the tan velvet tunic beneath, and his head was still uncovered, the tawny golden brown locks damp, dull. His face was slightly moist, too, the cheeks flushed pink, and as he stopped in front of me I could smell sweat and that potent male musk that seemed stronger than ever. His eyes were not angry, not accusing as they looked into mine. They were tender, full of concern.

"You are not hurt?" he asked.

"I'm not hurt."

"Your voice, it is cold."

"I'm sorry."

"Your manner is' cold, too. It is because of what happened?"

"I don't care to discuss it, Count Orlov."

"This morning you call me 'Gregory.' "

"I'd as soon forget this morning."

"I see. You are the genteel English lady. You recoil from me because I whip this man, give him much pain. You think Orlov is a savage brute. Is this not so?"

"You-you kept reviving him. You wanted him to suffer as much as possible. You-"

"This is so," he said, his voice sharp now. "It is necessary this man be punished, necessary I give him this pain, set an example for all the others he has influenced, who might decide to follow him. You do not understand these things, Marietta."

"I don't suppose I do."

"I do this for you. I do it for every well-bred woman in Russia who is threatened by Josef Pulaski and his kind. I am sorry if you do not see this. I am sad if you hate me because I must wield the knout myself."

"I don't hate you, Count Orlov."

"Your voice, your manner tell me otherwise."

"I'm sorry. I-I'm terribly upset. I've had a dreadful shock, and I don't-I don't feel like discussing it."

His eyes were tender once more, heavy lids drooping over them. He wanted to comfort and console me. I could see that. He wanted to take my hand and pat it, draw me against his broad chest and stroke the back of my head as he might stroke a disturbed child, but he didn't. I couldn't hate this man. I understood all that he said and under: stood that, to his way ofthinking, he had done what he had to do, but that didn't make the savage cruelty any easier to accept.

"You will feel better later," he said.

"Yes."

"I do not bother you any longer."

"I appreciate your consideration."

He looked pained. He started to turn away. I stopped him.

"Is-" I hesitated, dreading to ask the question. "Is Pulaski going to live?"