Part 21 (2/2)

Farewell, and think sometimes of your poor Ivan.”

A quarter of an hour afterward was seen a troop of fifty Cossacks, on their swift-footed little horses, racing down Frederick Street.

Each man had a powder-sack with him, and seeing them ride by, people whispered to each other, ”They are riding to the powder-mills. They have shot away all their own powder, and now, in true Cossack style, they are going to take our Prussian powder.” At that time Frederick Street did not reach beyond the river Spree. On the other bank began the faubourgs and the gardens. Even Monbijou was then only a royal country seat, situated in the Oranienburg suburb. The powder-mills, which lay beyond the gardens, with a large sandy plain intervening, were sufficiently remote from the town to prevent all danger from their possible explosion.

Ivan, the serf of Count von Tottleben, rode by the side of the officer of the Cossacks. He pranced his pony about, and was cheerful and jolly like his comrades, the merry sons of the steppe. As they reached the gate they halted their horses, and gazed with evident pleasure on the desert, wild, sandy plain, which stretched out before them.

”How beautiful that is!” exclaimed Petrowitsch, the hetman of the Cossacks. ”Just look--what a handsome steppe!”

”Just such a fine sand steppe as at home in our own country!” sighed one of the Cossacks, beginning to hum a song of his home.

”This is the finest scenery I have seen in Germany,” cried another.

”What a pleasure it would be to race over this steppe!”

”Come on, then, let us get up a race over this splendid steppe,” said a fourth, ”and let us sing one of the songs we are used to at home.”

”Yes, agreed! let us!” cried all, ranging quickly their horses in line.

”Wait a moment,” cried Ivan; ”I can't sing, you all know, and I've only one sweetheart, and that's my pipe. Let me then light my pipe so that I can smoke.” He struck fire with his steel, and lighting the tinder, placed it in the bowl of his pipe. No one saw the sad, shuddering look which he cast at the glowing tinder and his spark-scattering pipe. ”Now forward, boys, and sing us a lively song from home,” said Ivan.

”Hurrah! hurrah!”

They charge over the beautiful plain, and sing in a pealing chorus, the favorite song of the Cossack, at once so soft and sad:

”Lovely Minka! must I leave thee?”

Big tears ran down poor Ivan's cheek. No one saw them, no one observed him. He charged with the others over the Berlin steppe, and blew the smoke out of his pipe. No one heard the sad sighs which he uttered as he drew nearer and nearer to the powder-mills. No one heard the sad words of parting which he muttered to himself as his comrades sang:

”Lovely Minka! must I leave thee, Leave my happy, heather plains?

Ah! this parting does not grieve thee, Though still true my heart remains.

Far from thee I roam, Sadly see the sunbeams s.h.i.+ning, Lonely all the night I'm pining Far from thee alone.”

They reach the powder-mills; the Cossacks halt their horses and spring from their saddles.

Slowly and hesitatingly does Ivan proceed; he pa.s.ses about his pipe; he puffs at the tobacco to make it burn, and smoke more freely.

And now all's right. The pipe is alight. Like brilliant eyes of fire the burning tobacco s.h.i.+nes out of the bowl. Ivan puts it back in his mouth and blows great clouds of smoke, as he and the Cossacks approach the gates of the powder-mills.

The Russian sentinels let them pa.s.s, and, joking and laughing merrily, the Cossacks carry their bags into the building to fill them with powder for the blowing up of the a.r.s.enal. How joyous and careless they are, these sons of the steppe! How calmly does Ivan continue to smoke his pipe, although they are now in the large hall, where casks of powder are ranged in endless rows!

And now a cask is opened, and merrily and jestingly the Cossacks begin to load the powder into their sacks.

What art thou staring at so wildly, Ivan Petrowitsch? Why do the big drops of sweat run down thy forehead? Why do thy limbs tremble, and why dost thou look so sadly and mournfully at thy comrades?

They sing so merrily, they chatter so gayly, all the while pouring the powder into their sacks nimbly and actively!

Ivan keeps on blowing furious clouds of smoke out of his pipe.

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