“So, M. le Docteur,” I said, “you knew the Boyar Feodor on that night when we rescued him from Polotsky’s midnight assault.” Von Gaden smiled. “I recognized him at once,” he replied; “his face has changed, but I should have known him anywhere; those eyes and that mouth cannot be forgotten; moreover, I knew the scar.” “From the blow dealt by his brother, I suppose,” I said quietly. “Yes; it is an ugly cut, and it has disfigured a face once handsome, even in its rugged strength. I knew him, but he warned me by a glance to be silent, and since then he has been maturing his own schemes, and has not, it seems to me, been deeply concerned about Zénaïde until this last emergency.” “Perhaps he has not a deep paternal feeling,” I remarked; “his years of absence and of suffering might easily make a difference.” “Undoubtedly they have,” Von Gaden replied. “Zénaïde is a stranger to him, and, at his best, Ramodanofsky was a man of iron mold; there is not much room for tenderness in a soul like his. But he is roused now, and resents fiercely his brother’s effort to thwart him by marrying his daughter to one of his bitter foes.” “Vladimir is aware of his presence here,” I said, recollecting the boyar’s face at the czar’s funeral, when he saw his brother in the crowd. “Ay, he prompted Polotsky’s attempt to murder Feodor; his is the master hand; all these crimes are his, the other men are but his tools.” “I could never understand Lykof, as he called himself,” I said thoughtfully; “but tell me why he has identified himself with the Streltsi, who hate the boyars?” “Feodor Sergheievitch has suffered much at the hands of his own class,” Von Gaden replied quietly. “He has a faithful follower in one of the regiments of the Streltsi, and he has assumed that disguise for safety, and also, I think, to gain a thorough knowledge of the schemes on foot. He hopes much from the Miloslavskys,--more than I do. Prince Galitsyn is his friend; but in these days, no man can feel his future a certainty.” “Right and justice are on his side,” I remarked, musingly. Von Gaden smiled. “Right is on the side of the blind czarevitch, and yet what would Russia do with such a ruler? She would be doomed to an indefinite regency, to intrigues, strife, division. It is not always right, M. le Vicomte, but might which conquers.” “You are a Naryshkin partisan,” I said lightly; “Russia might do worse than leave her destiny in the hands of a wise regent--” “You mean the Czarevna Sophia,” interposed Von Gaden. He stopped short and confronted me. We were in one of the narrow, tortuous streets; it was mid-day, but all was quiet; the life and business of the city was not in this quarter. The Jew’s thoughtful face was marked with unusual emotion.