For two or three years he might truly have been said to “abide under the shadow of the Almighty,” although not as yet did he “dwell in the secret place of the most High.” He trusted in God, he sought to obey Christ, long before he knew him as the Saviour upon whom his sins were laid. Again, to use his own words, “I did not arrive there in a moment. Believe me, the path by which I was conducted led me across many a conflict, many a doubt.” The light that shone within him was like the slow dawn of a Northern day-- “An Arctic day that will not see A sunset till its summer’s gone.” Those were indeed the beams of the sun which flooded the whole horizon, gladdening the heart of every living thing; but the sun itself was still unseen, because as yet unrisen. Its light was there; its glory was yet to come. CHAPTER XVII. IN THE CAMP. “Our souls are parched with agonizing thirst, Which must be quenched though death were in the draught: We must have vengeance.” One evening towards the end of October, and just when the first snow of the year was beginning to fall, Ivan Pojarsky and Michael Ivanovitch entered the head-quarters of the Russian army at Tarovtino. Their fleet Arabian horses were flecked with foam, for they had traversed the ten leagues which divided them from Moscow without once drawing rein. As they dashed along, they shouted to all whom they passed, “Napoleon has quitted Moscow!” and answering “houras” and cries of joy cheered them on their way. “Bring us at once to Count Rostopchine,” said Ivan to the soldiers who crowded around them. “He is here, is he not?” “He is here, gospodin; but the Marshal--” “With all due respect to the dignity of his Highness the General-in-Chief, our business is with the Count, brothers,” returned Ivan. He was accordingly conducted to the presence of Rostopchine, who, after a lengthened interview, dismissed him to seek rest and refreshment, desiring him to return early in the morning. Rostopchine’s aide-de-camp offered his hospitality, and Ivan thanked him courteously, but inquired whether Captain Adrian Wertsch, of the Moscow militia, was not then in the camp. The aide-de-camp answered in the affirmative, and agreed to bring Ivan to his tent, though very reluctantly; for he was sorry to lose the honour and pleasure of entertaining one who could give him so many interesting details about the French occupation of Moscow. Adrian was standing outside his tent when Ivan approached, and he greeted him with joyful astonishment, as one risen from the dead. “I did not think to see your face again,” he said. “Life is still left me,” returned Ivan in a broken voice; for, after so many horrors, the sight of a familiar face proved at the moment almost more than he could bear. “Come in,” said Adrian, drawing his arm affectionately within his own. “A good draught of champagne is what you want now.”