“Will you tell your orderly to take care of my friend Michael Ivanovitch? He has behaved like a hero.” “Certainly.” Adrian gave a few rapid directions, then led Ivan into his tent, and before he would listen to a word, poured for him a sparkling goblet of the beverage which he considered a panacea for all the ills, mental and bodily, of the noble, as vodka was for those of the mujik. Ivan needed the stimulant, for he was worn out with fatigue and excitement. He said, as he finished the draught, “You got my letter, Adrian?” “Yes. My poor mother!” “No one was to blame. We did all we could, but nothing would induce her to leave the old home; and when the French entered Moscow, the shock was more than she could bear. We buried her honourably, by the side of her husband, in the Church of St. Eustacius. Pope Yefim performed the funeral services.” “That was nobly done, Ivan, and I thank you most heartily.--By the way, your friend Pope Yefim has made himself famous.” “How? By remaining in the city?” “By daring to celebrate, with a solemn service, the Czar’s coronation day, under the very beard of Napoleon.[33] We have all heard of it.” “He never supposed he was doing anything extraordinary. The Prior of the Dominican Monastery, whom he consulted, agreed that he was right. I can tell you, Adrian, that good man himself was by no means in love with his countrymen. Though his religion is their own, and he kept his church open the whole time of the Occupation, scarcely a Frenchman darkened its doors, except a few officers of noble birth belonging to the old _régime_. As a rule, the soldiers of Napoleon are infidels. Sometimes, out of curiosity, they would stray into our churches. On the coronation day, a poor young fellow, a mere lad, stole into Pope Yefim’s church, and was near paying dearly for his rashness; for a party of mujiks set upon him after the service, taking him for a spy. They might have killed him; but--strangest chance of all--my friend Michael, whose thoughts by day and dreams by night are only of slaying Nyemtzi, interposed to save this one, saying he knew him, and had received a kindness at his hands. I spoke to the youth, and he told me he had been religiously brought up, and said the very sound of a church-bell, and the sight of men kneeling in prayer, seemed to do him good, though he could not understand a word of the service.” “A queer taste,” said Adrian, shrugging his shoulders. Then to his orderly, who had just entered the tent, “Bring us the best supper you can get, and more champagne.” “Adrian,” asked Ivan, “where is Leon?” Adrian’s face assumed a sorrowful expression. “Gone to our mother,” he answered. “He was wounded at Borodino, though not severely. He insisted upon going out again, and met his death in a skirmish ten days ago.”