The pastor suggested that this probably applied only to the place where his body would be laid. This hint sufficed to excite the boy to pour out upon the Emperor a torrent of perplexing questions about what he thought would become of the spirit. The readiest answer was,--(what was true enough,)--that Christian was completely exhausted, and must not talk any more at present. Peter would come in at the end of his day's work, and tell him about the fleet he intended to build, to ride in the harbour of his new city. Meanwhile, he desired Christian not to think he was going to die so very soon. It was not at all likely. He would send for his best physician from Russia, and tell him to restore Christian, so that the boy should visit him in his new capital, some time or other, when the cough should be gone, and the mysterious pain cured, and life a very different thing to Christian from what he had ever felt it yet. The upright pastor could not silently let pass any observations of this nature. He reminded the Keiser that, though placed by the hand of God in a position of absolute dominion over multitudes of men,--over their lives and worldly lot,--he was no more the Lord of Life, in a higher sense, than the meanest of his serfs. It was not for him to say that the bowl should not be broken, or the silver cord loosed, when neither was given into his hand. The mischief,--or what the pastor considered mischief,--was however done. After Peter had left the apartment, Christian employed himself in speaking when he could, and musing when he could not speak, on what he should see, and hear, and learn, and do, if he recovered enough to visit the new capital of all the Russias. He gave notice, from time to time, that he did not at all expect that this would ever happen; it was unlikely that his pain should ever go away entirely, and that Peter should remember him when he should be the great Keiser again. Yet, as his strength ebbed away, minute by minute, his convictions that he was not going to die just yet grew more vigorous. Observing him unable to finish something he wished to say, his mother feared that his pain was coming. "No, I do not think it will come. No! no pain--" Yet his face expressed terror of an approaching paroxysm. "I wish the Keiser had not come, or had not spoken presumptuously, as the potentates of this world do ever," said Gertrude, more moved to displeasure than was common to her gentle nature. "The Keiser wishes it too," said Peter, who had entered the room softly, and saw at a glance that Christian's short day of life was likely to close nearly as soon as his own day's work, at the end of which he had promised to entertain the boy with stories that could have no charm for a dying ear. "My poor boy, I deceived you. I have tainted your dying hours. Can you forgive me?"