Michael Strogoff, compelled to wait till nightfall, in order to pass the fortifications, but not desiring to show himself, remained in the posting-house, and there partook of food.
There was a great crowd in the public room.

They were talking of the expected arrival of a corps of Muscovite troops, not at Omsk, but at Tomsk--a corps intended to recapture that town from the Tartars of Feofar-Khan.
Michael Strogoff lent an attentive ear, but took no part in the conversation.

Suddenly a cry made him tremble, a cry which penetrated to the depths of his soul, and these two words rushed into his ear: "My son!" His mother, the old woman Marfa, was before him! Trembling, she smiled upon him.

She stretched forth her arms to him.

Michael Strogoff arose.
He was about to throw himself-- The thought of duty, the serious danger for his mother and himself in this unfortunate meeting, suddenly stopped him, and such was his command over himself that not a muscle of his face moved.