RESCUED
THE forest was dark with a blackness that blotted out every object. But
here they were absolutely safe till morning. There was not a man in
Knishi who would dare to enter it. Michael lighted Yarina's lantern,
and guided Velia to the hut. His dreamy joy was changing into a clear,
rejoicing triumph over the success of his perilous undertaking. He had
rescued his sister, and the rapture of a saviour was his. True, there
were perils ahead, but none like those through which they had already
passed.
He made Velia lie down on his bed of dried leaves, but he slept little
himself, his brain was too busy with exciting thoughts. All the past
events crossed his memory—the happy life for a few years in Knishi,
whilst the spirit of persecution slumbered a little; the goodness of
Father Cyril, and the opposition he made to further persecution; the
secret meetings for worship held in this haunted hut; the long fatal
journey to Siberia; and the condition of the exiles, when he left them,
just before the close of winter. All that was in the past, but it is a
past which will never die out of his memory, and which will come back
to him in every hour of quiet thought.
Before the first gleam of day, he roused Velia, for they were to meet
Yarina at a corner of the forest past which the road to Kovylsk ran. In
the glimpses they caught of the sky when they reached any opening of
the trees, they saw the stars growing pale. Velia pressed closely to
Michael's side as they drew near to the fearfully-haunted place. It was
a grave in a deep ravine, and a tall, thin column of mist rose from it,
wavering as if half alive. Trembling among the thick trees, which were
still black with night, it had a mysterious and sinister appearance.
Michael threw his arm round Velia, and bade her shut her eyes until
they were well past the accursed spot.
At last they reached the outskirts of the forest. The sun was not
above the distant horizon yet, but a sweet, soft light was everywhere
diffused, a light without shadows. There was a murmur all about them
of the awakening day. Michael turned towards the east, where dwelt his
father and all his comrades, and watched the growing dawn. The same
sun was already shining upon them, and the same Father in heaven was
watching over them all.
It was not long before, in the stillness, they heard the shrill,
complaining sound of creaking wheels; and Yarina came up driving alone
in her dilijans. There was no time lost in climbing up beside her, for
they were all anxious to put as great a distance as possible between
themselves and Knishi. Yarina had heard nothing of any search after
Velia.
Now, in the long, slow progress over the rough road, there was time
enough for telling all the story of their lives since Michael and Velia
were separated. Yarina listened, and often the tears filled her eyes.
Why, these were children who were talking, young creatures who had
never sinned against the laws of man, and not much against the laws of
God. Yet they had suffered more than the worst of criminals ought to
suffer.
It was true, then, what Father Cyril had once said
incautiously—persecution was the weapon of the devil. Yarina left her
dilijans at an inn, and accompanied Michael and Velia to Markovin's
door, there bidding them good-bye, before ringing his bell. She kissed
Velia again and again, and pressed her lips on Michael's forehead,
sobbing and weeping.
"Tell them out there, in Siberia," she said, "that I'll not let my
adopted children forget their own fathers and mothers. They shall hear
all about it when they are old enough. I'm almost a Stundist myself,
but I haven't got the spirit of a martyr, God forgive me!"
Neither had Markovin the spirit of a martyr. Nevertheless, he received
his unwelcome visitors very kindly; taking care, however, to send a
message to the presbyter of the church in Kovylsk that they were with
him, and must be forwarded on their way immediately.
Michael noticed that the curtain which had formerly hung before the
icon had been taken away, and a twinkling lamp burned in front of it.
It was a significant sign that the spirit of persecution was abroad in
Kovylsk, and that Markovin quailed before it.
Two days later Michael and Velia reached the railway station from which
the exile party had started on their cruel journey. But they were going
south now, instead of north. The train was almost due, and Michael ran
with his passport in his hand to get their tickets.
The clerk glanced doubtfully at the passport, and pushed it back. "Not
in legal form," he said curtly.
Michael's heart sank within him. How it was not legal he did not know,
but any delay was dangerous.
At that moment Velia uttered a cry of joy, and he saw her rush away and
fling her arms round a priest in a shabby cassock.
"Father Cyril!" she exclaimed. "Father Cyril!"
In a moment the priest took in the situation. Here was Velia, disguised
as a boy; and yonder was Michael, turning away from the ticket clerk,
distressed and perplexed. He took the passport from him.
"It is not visé'd properly," he said. "These two young people," he
added, pleasantly, to the clerk, "have been parishioners of mine till
a few months ago. I can vouch for them. Where are you going to?" he
inquired of Michael.
"Odessa—to our cousin," gasped Michael.
"So am I," said Father Cyril. "Three tickets for Odessa, if you please."
The clerk knew Father Cyril by sight, and had heard him spoken of
highly. Besides, it was impolitic to get into collision with a priest.
He gave the tickets with an obsequious smile.
As the train went on to Odessa, Father Cyril, like Yarina, had ample
time to hear the whole of the long and dreary story each had to tell.
Velia sat on one side, with his arm about her, and her head resting
on his shoulder, where she slept during the night. Michael was on
the other hand, but the boy was too anxious to sleep. They talked in
quiet and subdued voices; and as Father Cyril listened to them, his
convictions grew deeper that persecution was as much a blunder as a
crime. It had driven Nicolas back to the Orthodox Church, and made a
coward and a hypocrite of him, but those who had gone into exile would
never be won back.
Father Cyril did not lose sight of Michael and Velia until he had seen
them safe on board a vessel bound for Glasgow. Michael's exultation at
their escape was blended with grief at quitting his own country.
"I shall come back again when I am a man," he said earnestly, again and
again; "not to your parish, Father Cyril, but to places where they are
never taught anything true about God. I can't let my own people live
and die in darkness, can I? So I must come back."
"Let it be as God wills," answered Father Cyril; "surely the Church
will awake to her duties."
He watched whilst the vessel steamed slowly away amid the crowded
shipping, and then turned back into Odessa, sad at heart. These young
heretics were very dear to him.