The girl sighed and left the room.
Michael Strogoff did not lie down.

He could not have slept even for an hour.

The place on which he had been struck by the brutal traveler felt like a burn.
"For my country and the Father," he muttered as he ended his evening prayer.
He especially felt a great wish to know who was the man who had struck him, whence he came, and where he was going.

As to his face, the features of it were so deeply engraven on his memory that he had no fear of ever forgetting them.
Michael Strogoff at last asked for the postmaster.

The latter, a Siberian of the old type, came directly, and looking rather contemptuously at the young man, waited to be questioned.
"You belong to the country ?" asked Michael.
"Yes." "Do you know that man who took my horses ?" "No." "Had you never seen him before ?" "Never." "Who do you think he was ?" "A man who knows how to make himself obeyed." Michael fixed his piercing gaze upon the Siberian, but the other did not quail before it.
"Do you dare to judge me ?" exclaimed Michael.
"Yes," answered the Siberian, "there are some things even a plain merchant cannot receive without returning." "Blows ?" "Blows, young man.