Politics in Russia, however, are even worse and more complicated than in New York under Tammany. By the time Ivan reached the seat of Russia government, his friend had lost imperial favor. The plots against the life of the Czar had rendered a restoration to wealth and power of great difficulty, and almost an impossibility. Then began a struggle which slowly but surely sapped the vital energy of the returned exile. Each day brought forth fresh complications. Three times during a period of ten years the poor devil was compelled to fly to save himself from the enforcement of the old sentence, that like the sword of Damocles, hung over him. But with a perseverance worthy of all admiration, he persisted, and something he could not define, would not let him die. To add to his misery, Paul had apparently been swallowed up, and never again while life remained, did the doubly unfortunate man ever hear of the boy he had abandoned to the cold charity of the New York lodging house keeper. At length the great day came! Ivan Strogoff was ushered into the presence of the Czar, kissed the imperial hand, and once again trod his ancestral halls. But the struggle was too hard. All vitality had been sapped up in the battle, and the exile died before he had had time to enjoy his return to prosperity. Upon his bed of death he gathered to himself that trusty friend who had been faithful, and conjured him to search out Paul and in some way compensate him for the terrible injustice inflicted upon the abandoned boy. “Seek him out in poverty or shame, and win from his lips my forgiveness, or I shall not rest in Heaven or in Hell.” Consoled by the sacred promise of his friend so died he, and nature was gracious to vex his tired soul no more, for truly had the man endured an undue share of the mortal grief. But so is the world, and no man can measure the amount of agony he can live through. He who fears death is a criminal and a coward. A man should so live his life that death is the most welcome gift of nature. CHAPTER III. PAUL BECOMES A THIEF. The next morning after Paul’s father had gone, the lad arose, dressed himself and waited for breakfast, of course in vain. “Come, boy,” said the lodging house keeper, “eat with me.” “Where is my father?” said Paul. “Gone.” “Gone where?” “Far away, boy; even over the ocean. He will send for you.” Paul said nothing. He did not even shed a tear, as many a lad would have done. There was the blood of the Cossack in his rugged nature. Even at his small age he did not and would not wear his heart upon his ragged coat sleeve. But he was full of bitter thought. He became a miniature stoic. He munched his humble breakfast in silence.