There was little danger that my presence would be observed, and I walked slowly across the courtyard, and slipping through the half open gate, stood in the street. It was dark, but yet it seemed to me that as I appeared a figure dashed away from the postern and crept along by the wall. Remembering that I had noticed a similar appearance at the front of the house, I half unsheathed my sword and advanced in the direction in which the figure had gone, my taste for adventure still keen, and moreover determined to know if any spy lurked about the Ramodanofsky house. The darkness and the shadow of the wall were both unfavorable to my purpose; but nothing daunted, I proceeded, my eyes fixed keenly on the darkest portion under the overhanging cornice. Seeing nothing, I was not a little startled by a sudden blow which, just missing my temple, fell roundly on my shoulder. I sprang aside, and drawing my sword, was on the defensive; but my unknown adversary leaped upon me with the agility and ferocity of a wild animal, and I found my sword arm pinioned as we closed in a fierce grapple. I had no desire to rouse the house by any outcry, and, for some reason, my assailant was equally silent. I had as much as I could do to keep his hands from my throat. “_Ma foi!_” I exclaimed bitterly, “this is Russian fighting!” My words had a magical effect; my strange adversary released me and stumbled back. But my blood was up, and it was my turn to attack him; however, he dodged me with wonderful dexterity. “Leave me alone, your excellency,” he said in poor French; “I struck by mistake. I beg your pardon.” His voice was familiar, and putting two and two together, in a flash of intuition, I hit upon the truth. “You are Michael Gregorievitch!” I exclaimed, “Peter Lykof’s attendant; and you took me for your friend the steward.” “Even so, my lord,” he admitted with evident reluctance in his tone. “My master would be very angry if he knew of my mistake.” “Unless my memory plays me false, your master forbade you to meddle with this same steward,” I remarked dryly. “His displeasure does not seem to affect you deeply.” “He would not submit as tamely as I do in a like case,” returned Michael, sullenly. “I must admit,” I said lightly, “that I can understand your repugnance to the sleek steward; his countenance is sufficiently unlovely to tempt an honest man to beat him; but the ardor of your resentment seems a little ill-timed and treacherous.” “Treacherous!” The man was choking with his intense anger. “No treachery could be great enough for Boris Polotsky!” My interest was roused, and moreover I saw the possibility of obtaining a warm adherent in this fellow. “You have a grievance, Michael,” I said pleasantly, “and I sympathize warmly with your detestation of this man; what is your especial wrong?” The fellow hesitated for a moment, and I seemed to feel his keen eyes trying to see my face in the darkness.