On the 24th of May I reached St. Petersburg and almost immediately left for London. I brought away with me a store of happy memories, especially the cherished remembrance of Lord and Lady Napier. Of Russia I felt as if I must take my leave, full of gratitude for boundless hospitality and kindness, in her own pretty formula “Forgive!” Many years after the betrayal of Denmark, when I was Secretary of the Office of Works, I was once more, to my great delight, associated officially with my old chief. Mr. Nelson, the famous Edinburgh publisher, had very generously offered to pay the cost of certain improvements and restorations at Edinburgh Castle. Lord Napier and I were appointed members of a committee to consider the plans and proposals. One fine afternoon, after the meeting of the committee, we were walking down the hill together, when we began talking of the old St. Petersburg days. He was full of fun and merriment, laughing over the old memories. At last I said: “Do you remember that dismal night in February, 1864, when you sent for me to decipher the telegram that decided the fate of Denmark?” “Yes, indeed,” was the answer. “And do you remember your journey to Tsarskoe Selo the next morning and what Prince Gortchakoff said to you.” “No,” said Lord Napier, “I don’t remember _that_,” with a strong emphasis on the _that_—but there came into his eyes the old merry twinkle that I loved to see. He would not give away Lord Russell, whom he loved, even to me who knew the whole story, but the laughter in his tell-tale eyes spoke volumes. Nobody suffered more than Lord Napier occasionally did from the diplomatic vagaries of his old chief. But I think that he looked upon him as a sort of superlunary political saint, not to be measured by the standards applicable to the ordinary commonplace Secretary of State. On my way home I stopped at Berlin, which was in a fever of excitement and self-glorification. Two of the most formidable military Powers of Europe, having joined forces, had succeeded in crushing little Denmark. Prussia was triumphant, the Mark beside itself with martial elation. Trophies of war were stacked in public places, poor little old-fashioned smooth-bore cannons, not much better than toys, which had been all that the brave Danes had had for the defence of their Dannewerke. The officers, “unscarred braggarts,” who had fought (save the word!) in this noble warfare each wore a white silk band round the sleeve of his tunic, rattling his sabre with all the conscious pride of heroism, while the fair-haired maidens fell down in worship before the majesty of the War God. Surely since the world began there never was so much cry over such a paltry ploc of wool. But your Prussian Junker can outboast creation! Two more days, and then back to the Foreign Office. CHAPTER XIV 1864 THE FIRST CALL OF THE EAST