“Of the face of Majesty,” said Ivan to himself; though to Adrian he only answered, with a rather nervous laugh, “First interviews are trying.” Yet he knew that this was not, for him, a first interview with his sovereign. He felt beneath his doublet for the precious piece of gold, the cherished souvenir of his boyhood, as if to assure himself that the great Emperor, into whose presence he was going, was really the kind young boyar who had promised that he should serve him one day. “Dear Barrinka,” pleaded Michael, “do not forget to tell our lord the Czar that a mujik who has lost one hand desires his leave to fight for him, and that he will serve him _so_ faithfully. At the camp,” he added, “they laughed at me, and told me I would never make a soldier. But the Czar will listen to _you_.” Ivan smiled doubtfully. In his heart he wished that the poor mujik’s child-like idea of his sovereign had been his own also. Then he saw Michael take out his beloved picture, and, fastening it before him on the telega, address to it his prayers for the success of his young lord’s mission. “The saint and the Czar are equally real to him,” thought Ivan, “and he would address either with equal reverence and equal confidence.” His reverie was interrupted by the voice of the isvostchik. “This is the square of the Admiralty, and there is the great Czar Peter,” said he, as he pointed out the celebrated equestrian statue where the father of modern Russia perpetually climbs the rock and treads the serpent beneath his horse’s hoofs. They drove to an inn, where Ivan merely delayed to make those changes in his dress which etiquette imperatively demanded, and then, leaving his companions to await his return, took his despatches to the Winter Palace. There he was fortunate enough to find the Emperor, who had just returned from Kamenoi-Ostrov. In less than two hours Ivan came back to the inn. Michael had gone out with the isvostchik, but Adrian was waiting for him, and met him with an air of some anxiety. “Is it well?” he asked briefly. “Well?--oh yes, _very_ well,” Ivan answered. He spoke in an abstracted voice, but there was a new light in his eyes, and his face was flushed and excited. “I cannot make you out,” said Adrian, looking at him with surprise and curiosity. “If it were possible, I should say that you look at once ten years older and ten years younger than you did two hours ago.” “Two hours! It ought to be ten years, if all--O Adrian!” he broke out suddenly, and with uncontrollable emotion, “the half was not told me! He is grand--beautiful! There is only one thing more I want now--_to die for him_.”