And it was well for him that he listened, for he distinctly heard this question and answer made in the Tartar idiom:
“It is said that a courier has set out from Moscow for Irkutsk.”
“It is so said, Sangarre; but either this courier will arrive too late, or he will not arrive at all.”
Michael Strogoff started involuntarily at this reply, which concerned him so directly.
He tried to see if the man and woman who had just spoken were really those whom he suspected, but he could not succeed.
In a few moments Michael Strogoff had regained the stern of the vessel without having been perceived, and, taking a seat by himself, he buried his face in his hands.
It might have been supposed that he was asleep.
He was not asleep, however, and did not even think of sleeping.
He was reflecting, not without a lively apprehension:
“Who is it knows of my departure, and who can have any interest in knowing it?”
CHAPTER VIII GOING UP THE KAMA
THE next day, the 18th of July, at twenty minutes to seven in the morning, the Caucasus reached the Kasan quay, seven versts from the town.
Kasan is situated at the confluence of the Volga and Kasanka.
It is an important chief town of the government, and a Greek archbishopric, as well as the seat of a university.
The varied population preserves an Asiatic character.
Although the town was so far from the landing-place, a large crowd was collected on the quay.
They had come for news.
The governor of the province had published an order identical with that of Nijni-Novgorod.
Police officers and a few Cossacks kept order among the crowd, and cleared the way both for the passengers who were disembarking and also for those who were embarking on board the Caucasus, minutely examining both classes of travelers.
The one were the Asiatics who were being expelled; the other, mujiks stopping at Kasan.
Michael Strogoff unconcernedly watched the bustle which occurs at all quays on the arrival of a steam vessel.
The Caucasus would stay for an hour to renew her fuel.
Michael did not even think of landing.
He was unwilling to leave the young Livonian girl alone on board, as she had not yet reappeared on deck.
The two journalists had risen at dawn, as all good huntsmen should do.
They went on shore and mingled with the crowd, each keeping to his own peculiar mode of proceeding; Harry Blount, sketching different types, or noting some observation; Alcide Jolivet contenting himself with asking questions, confiding in his memory, which never failed him.
There was a report along all the frontier that the insurrection and invasion had reached considerable proportions.
Communication between Siberia and the empire was already extremely difficult.
All this Michael Strogoff heard from the new arrivals.
This information could not but cause him great uneasiness, and increase his wish of being beyond the Ural Mountains, so as to judge for himself of the truth of these rumors, and enable him to guard against any possible contingency.
He was thinking of seeking more direct intelligence from some native of Kasan, when his attention was suddenly diverted.
Among the passengers who were leaving the Caucasus, Michael recognized the troop of Tsiganes who, the day before, had appeared in the Nijni-Novgorod fair.
There, on the deck of the steamboat were the old Bohemian and the woman.
With them, and no doubt under their direction, landed about twenty dancers and singers, from fifteen to twenty years of age, wrapped in old cloaks, which covered their spangled dresses.
These dresses, just then glancing in the first rays of the sun, reminded Michael of the curious appearance which he had observed during the night.
It must have been the glitter of those spangles in the bright flames issuing from the steamboat’s funnel which had attracted his attention.
“Evidently,” said Michael to himself, “this troop of Tsiganes, after remaining below all day, crouched under the forecastle during the night.
Were these gipsies trying to show themselves as little as possible?
Such is not according to the usual custom of their race.”
Michael Strogoff no longer doubted that the expressions he had heard, had proceeded from this tawny group, and had been exchanged between the old gypsy and the woman to whom he gave the Mongolian name of Sangarre.
Michael involuntarily moved towards the gangway, as the Bohemian troop was leaving the steamboat.
The old Bohemian was there, in a humble attitude, little conformable with the effrontery natural to his race.
One would have said that he was endeavoring rather to avoid attention than to attract it.
His battered hat, browned by the suns of every clime, was pulled forward over his wrinkled face.
His arched back was bent under an old cloak, wrapped closely round him, notwithstanding the heat.
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.
These Tsiganes are generally very attractive, and more than one of the great Russian nobles, who try to vie with the English in eccentricity, has not hesitated to choose his wife from among these gypsy girls.
One of them was humming a song of strange rhythm, which might be thus rendered: