"Yes; but so poorly, so miserable," Courbertin demurred. "It is a long time. I forget." "Go ahead. We won't criticise." "No, but--" "Go ahead!" the chairman commanded. Del thrust the book into his hands, opened at the yellow title-page. "I've been itching to get my paws on some buck like you for months and months," he assured him, gleefully. "And now I've got you, you can't shake me, Charley. So fire away." Courbertin began hesitatingly: "'_The Journal of Father Yakontsk, Comprising an Account in Brief of his Life in the Benedictine Monastery at Obidorsky, and in Full of his Marvellous Adventures in East Siberia among the Deer Men_.'" The baron looked up for instructions. "Tell us when it was printed," Del ordered him. "In Warsaw, 1807." The pocket-miner turned triumphantly to the room. "Did you hear that? Just keep track of it. 1807, remember!" The baron took up the opening paragraph. "'_It was because of Tamerlane_,'" he commenced, unconsciously putting his translation into a construction with which he was already familiar. At his first words Frona turned white, and she remained white throughout the reading. Once she stole a glance at her father, and was glad that he was looking straight before him, for she did not feel able to meet his gaze just them. On the other hand, though she knew St. Vincent was eying her narrowly, she took no notice of him, and all he could see was a white face devoid of expression. "'_When Tamerlane swept with fire and sword over Eastern Asia_,'" Courbertin read slowly, "'_states were disrupted, cities overthrown, and tribes scattered like--like star-dust. A vast people was hurled broadcast over the land. Fleeing before the conquerors_,'--no, no,--'_before the mad lust of the conquerors, these refugees swung far into Siberia, circling, circling to the north and east and fringing the rim of the polar basin with a spray of Mongol tribes_.'" "Skip a few pages," Bill Brown advised, "and read here and there. We haven't got all night."