With scarcely any interesting scenery, it was a wearying monotony enough throughout the day, but when night drew on and the shrieking of the engine and whirl and rattle of wheels made sleep impossible, it was absolutely unendurable. My French novel no longer interested me. I was excessively fatigued, and as I lay my aching head upon the velvet cushion of the narrow berth, watching the flickering oil-lamp, my meditations reverted, as they constantly did, to the pleasant evenings Vera and I had spent beside the Mediterranean. Thoughts of her for whose sake I had undertaken this journey, of her strange position, and of the service it was in my power to render her, acted as an incentive, and caused the inconveniences and fatigue of travel to appear much less than they would otherwise have been. In a fortnight I hoped to have fulfilled my promise and return to her, for this enforced separation I could tolerate no longer than was absolutely necessary. Already I was eagerly looking forward to the time when I should again be at her side, for was it not my duty to be near and to protect her whom I loved? What might not happen during my absence? I dreaded to think. Evidently she was in the hands of an unscrupulous villain, and my anxiety and hope was to marry her as soon as possible, and take her under my own protection. Like other men, I had had my flirtations, but this was my Grand Passion. I loved Vera heart and soul, passionately and purely, and was determined to make her my wife without delay. As I lay there I could not help reflecting how little of real happiness I had known before we met; how selfish and unsatisfactory my life had hitherto been, when my motto was _Chacun pour soi, et Dieu pour nous tous_. Now, all was changed. At last I had found the woman whom I believed was predestined to become my wife; she who had fascinated me, who held me for life or death. Through the long night I thought only of her, puzzled over the secret of the old man's influence; happy and content, nevertheless, in the knowledge that ere long I should return to her, never to part. CHAPTER NINE. IN THE IZAK PLATZ. Why need I refer further to the terribly wearisome journey across Prussia, Poland and Western Russia? Those of my readers who have accomplished it know well how dull, tedious and tiring it is, travelling hour after hour, day after day, through a flat, uninteresting country. Suffice it to say, that on the fifth day after leaving London, the train came to a standstill in the spacious station of the Russian capital. After some difficulty I discovered the whereabouts of the Hotel Michaeli, and entering a _likhac_ was driven to a small, and rather uninviting hotel under the shadow of the gilded dome of the Izak Church. The proprietor, a tall, black-bearded Russian, greeted me warmly in French, exclaiming: "M'sieur Burgoyne, _n'est ce pas_?" "That is my name," I replied. "The apartments ordered for you are in readiness."