“Because, Sire,” replied Wilfrid, bringing his hand up to the salute, “I revere the memory of the great Peter, who was wont to employ his stick upon the bodies of those who knelt to him!” This was hitting Paul full in the teeth, for if there was one thing upon which he prided himself it was the imitating of his great-grandfather. “We follow,” frowned the Czar, “a custom more ancient than the reign of Peter.” And then, confident that Wilfrid’s boldness could spring from but one nationality, he added, “You are an Englishman?” “A man cannot choose his own parents, Sire.” “Your name?” cried Paul, growing more angry. “Wilfrid, Lord Courtenay.” The Czar closed his eyes in thought. He seemed as if trying to recollect something. Wilfrid wondered whether the Emperor was connecting his name with that of the Princess. Suddenly opening his eyes again sharply, Paul said—“We have heard of you from Baranoff. You are the artist who tried by a picture to create an outbreak against established order?” “I painted a picture portraying the murder of that royal lady, whose daughter till lately was under your protection, Sire.” Paul winced, recalling first with what state he had welcomed the daughter of Marie Antoinette, and then, how he had sent her packing at a moment’s notice, merely to please his new ally Napoleon. “We have heard of you,” he repeated. “A spy of Pitt’s, with whose gold you bribed Frederick William to hold aloof from the Russian alliance.” The charge of being a spy came with a good grace, Wilfrid thought, from the very head and front of the spy system. “No Courtenay was ever a spy. Question your own officers, Sire, and they will tell you that I have shed my blood in the service of Russia.” “The more effectually to disguise your calling. A spy of Pitt’s. Silence! Do you brave the Czar to his face? On your knees, rascal, or——” And up went the stick that had been often applied to the bodies of his subjects. Wilfrid, his face somewhat pale, stepped back and half unsheathed his sword, and thus the two stood looking at each other. There was in Wilfrid’s eye a gleam which seemed to say that, if struck, he would strike back, and strike hard. As if realising this the miserable little man slowly lowered his stick, and just as slowly Wilfrid’s blade went down into its scabbard again, finishing its descent with a little clang. During this episode no man moved, whether among soldiers or civilians—not a hand was put forth to defend the Czar. The significance of this fact, which did not escape Paul’s notice, served only to increase his fury. “You would see your Czar murdered?” he cried, turning upon his regiment. “Lieutenant Voronetz, arrest this man.” A young officer, motioning four men to follow him, approached Wilfrid. “You are my prisoner,” he said, with a look that entreated the captive to give as little trouble as possible.