A free man once more

“Stand aside, officers, until I investigate this case,” said the American minister, in a tone of command that the tyrannical minions of the law knew too much to disobey, for at that time the United States and Russia were on exceedingly friendly terms.

“Now, what is your story?” he asked, turning to young Barnwell.

“It is this, sir,” he answered, and thereupon he proceeded to give the representative of his native land the history of his case, so well known to the reader.

It was a startling story of cruel outrage, as we all know, and the recital of it made the minister very indignant.

Turning to the officers, he said:

“You can shadow this man if you think it your duty, but you must not arrest or interfere with him in any way while he is under the protection of the American flag. I shall take him at once before the prime minister,” and without loss of time he proceeded to do so.

He was instantly admitted to the august presence of that high functionary, where the story was again told and verified.

The minister of state was astounded, both at the audacity of the outrage and the fact of his being a victim of Prince Mastowix, the very letter he had innocently brought being the one that sealed the traitor’s fate.

The whole business was confirmed by Tobasco, the police spy, who secured the letter and gave it to the prefect of police.

Search was at once made for the passport and money belonging to Barnwell, and after a deal of red tape had been unwound the property was found and restored to him.

And not only that, but the Russian prime minister ordered him to be paid five thousand rubles for indemnity, and the American minister rendered a most abject apology for the the outrage.

This was followed at once by orders from the prefect of police to all his subordinates touching Barnwell’s case; espionage was withdrawn, his “Number” obliterated from the secret records, and in a short time he was one of the freest men in the Russian empire.

In justice to Surgeon Kanoffskie, he cleared him of all complicity in the matter, although he promptly withdrew, of course, from the menial attitude he had so long occupied towards him, and which had enabled him to escape.

Yes, he was a free man once more, and had, through the dictates of his country, been the recipient of an apology almost from the throne. Yet all this did not efface the cruel stripes left by the knout, or efface from his heart the wrong and misery he had endured.

Indeed, he felt quite as bitter towards the tyrannical government as ever, and there was awful bitterness in his heart.

A few days after regaining his rights, he remembered Zora Vola and the message he had agreed to carry to her brother, and without loss of time set about finding him, a task he soon found to be an exceedingly difficult one, on account of his being known to the police as an active and a dangerous Nihilist.

Nor was this all. After spending a whole week without finding him, he became convinced that he, as well as other Nihilists, had other names than, their own, by which they were known only to undoubted and trusted ones of the mysterious brotherhood.

This discouraged him to such a degree that he was on the point of giving up the task and resuming his own greater one that of securing the million rubles secreted so many years ago by Batavsky.

But so perfect and secret is the Nihilist organization in the larger cities of Russia, that they employ spy for spy with the government, and their enemies are watched as carefully as they are themselves, which, in a measure, accounts for their great success and the infrequency of their being detected.

In this way it became known to Vola that an American was seeking him under his real name, and a spy was at once put upon his track to learn about him.

This, of course, he did not know. Indeed, he had at one time made inquiries of this very same spy regarding the object of his search, but, although questioned closely, he would reveal nothing relating to his business.

Finally Vola, being convinced that the man seeking him was not an enemy, nor in any way employed by the authorities met him purposely one day at his hotel the very day, in fact, on which he had concluded to abandon the search.

He approached and addressed him in Russian, which by this time Barnwell understood quite well, as the reader must know, and asked him the direction to a certain street.

“I am a stranger here,” replied Barnwell, “but would gladly direct you if I could. Most likely the men at the hotel office can direct you,” he added, politely.

“Ah, thank you; but I would not like to inquire of them for the person I am in search of,” and looking around, as if to make sure that he was not likely to be observed or overheard, he lowered his voice, and added: “I am in search of a man by the name of Vola.”

Barnwell leaped to his feet.

“Peter Vola?” he asked.

“Hush! The same. Do you know him?”

“Yes, if I could but find him. It is remarkable,” mused Barnwell.

“What is remarkable?”

“Why, that I have been unsuccessfully searching for a man by that name for a week.”

“Do you know him?”

“I do not.”

“Have you business with him?”

“No; but I have a message for him.”

“Indeed; from whom, pray?”

“Pardon me, that is my business and his.”

“Pardon me also, for asking the question. But if I can find direction to the street I asked you about, I can present you to him,” said the stranger, who was a distinguished-looking man, about fifty years of age.

“You would greatly oblige me by doing so.”

“Wait a moment; perhaps that dismounted cossack can direct me,” saying which, he followed the soldier into the cafe.

There was a crowd in there, and Barnwell would have been puzzled to see whether the stranger actually spoke with the soldier; but after a minute or so he returned.

“I have learned it. Follow me,” said he, turning from the room.

Barnwell did as directed, and together they walked three or four squares, and then turned into a side street.

A short distance down it he found the number, and knocked upon the door in a curious sort of manner, and presently it was opened by an attendant.

“Show me Vola’s chamber,” said the man, in a low tone of voice, and the attendant conducted them to it.

“Remain here a moment, and I will bring him before you,” said the stranger, pointing to a chair that stood in the plainly-furnished room.

Being left alone, Barnwell could but reflect upon the strangeness of the stranger’s behavior, for, indeed, he did not seem like a stranger there at all.

At the expiration of five minutes the door opened, and, apparently, another person entered the room.

“I am told you are in search of one Peter Vola,” said he, taking a seat in front of him.

“I am, and have been for several days,” replied Barnwell.

“What do you wish with him?”

“That is his business and mine, sir.”

“Indeed? Might I ask what it relates to?”

“You might, indeed, but I should not inform you unless you were Peter Vola.”

“But do you not know that he is hunted by the police, and that it is positively dangerous on your part to be even inquiring for him?”

“I was not aware of it, sir.”

“But it is a fact, nevertheless.”

“I am sorry to know that. But I am a stranger here.”

“I observe that you are not a Russian.”

“No, I am an American just discharged from Siberia.”

“Siberia!” exclaimed the man, starting.

“Yes; I agreed to deliver a letter, of which I knew nothing, to Prince Mastowix, from Paul Zobriskie, of New York.”

“Paul Zobriskie?”

“Yes. He accosted me on the steamer as I was about to sail and asked me to deliver the letter, which I did, and fearing probably that because I was not a Nihilist that I might betray him, he had me arrested and sent to Siberia, where I suffered the tortures of the damned for more than a year, until chance took me here again, as the valet of a surgeon on leave of absence, when I managed to escape long enough to reach the American minister, who quickly secured my liberation, together with an official apology and indemnity.”

“You astonish me, sir.”

“But I am telling you too much, perhaps.”

“No, you are not, young man, for I am Peter Vola,” said the man, leaping to his feet and extending his hand, “I am the same man who accosted and conducted you hither, for I have had a spy on your track ever since you imprudently inquired for me. But I feel that I can trust you.”

“You can. I am not a Nihilist in form, but I am one at heart, and will yet make these despots feel what I have undeservedly felt,” said he, vehemently.

“Good. We need you. But you spoke of a message you had for me.”

“Yes.”

“From Siberia?”

“Yes.”

“And from –­”

“Whom do you think?” asked Barnwell, resolved to put a final test to the man’s identity.

“Perhaps from my poor sister, Zora.”

“The same.”

“Heaven be praised!”

“She had a letter written to send you, but I thought it might be unsafe to have on my person, both for you and myself.”

“You were right.”

“So I took her verbal message.”

“Oh, tell me of my poor dear sister!” the man almost cried, and thereupon Barnwell related his acquaintance with her, together with the story of his life in Siberia, as already known to the reader.

Then he repeated the message Zora had entrusted him with, while tears streamed down the brother’s face.

“Poor girl, what a fate is hers! But if she lives she shall yet be free. Oh, sir, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for all your kindness to her and to me, and if we are never able to repay you, Heaven surely will do so,” said Vola, greatly moved.

“I am amply repaid by being able to do someone a kindness. But my mission has not yet begun. I have a trust to keep of which I have not yet spoken. You, of course, know of Batavsky?”

“I have heard of him, but he worked and was exiled before my time almost at least, before I began to work.”

“Well, at his death I received from him a certain charge that may possibly enable me to benefit his compatriots in Russia; but he told me to become an active Nihilist, that I might be the better able to work successfully.”

“And so you shall, my dear brother, for I feel that I may call you so,” said Vola, at the same time embracing him. “Put yourself in my charge, and you shall be initiated into the Order of Liberty.”

“I will do so, and there is my hand,” said Barnwell, earnestly.

“Which I take in the name of humanity. But in our order one brother can initiate another. We have no lodge-meetings, no names, being simply known by numbers, and those numbers known only to a trusted few. Night shall not come upon us before you shall know how to send and receive a communication how to act, and how to avoid detection.”

“Good! Just so soon as that is done I shall go to Germany, and most likely work altogether outside of Russia for the present.”

“It shall be as you wish, for I see your heart is in the matter.”

“Aye, my very soul!”

“Good!” and leading him into an inner room, he proceeded to initiate him into the mysteries of that mysterious order, known the world over as Nihilists.