“It is true he wrought much evil,” he admitted, in answer to their questions; “but still his heart was good. It was his head that went astray. Oh, my children, there are sorrows in the world darker than you have ever dreamed of! Seems it sad to you to sit as I do now, and see the beautiful light of God’s world fading from me day by day? What is that to the desolation, the anguish, when God lays his hand upon the immortal light within and turns it into darkness? The Czar Paul was not himself when he sent half his nobles to Siberia, shut up his own son in prison and threatened his life--ay, even the life of the Empress. His true self fought long against the demon that possessed him. Many a time did he listen to his son, though he never loved him, when he dared bravely to plead for and shelter the victims of his wrath. More than once he said regretfully, after some unusual outburst of violence, ‘I wish I had consulted the Grand Duke Alexander.’ But such a state of things could not go on. The end came.” “What was the end, dädushka?” queried Ivan. (Dädushka, “little grandfather,” the term of endearment constantly used by Feodor, was often adopted by Ivan.) “Do not ask me of the end,” said the old man very sorrowfully. “It was said in official proclamations, it is still written in printed books, that ‘the Czar Paul Petrovitch died of apoplexy.’ But all the world knows that is false. Some there are, too, who will have cause to know it when they come to stand before the judgment-seat of God.” “He was murdered,” said Feodor with decision. “That is what _I_ have always heard.” “Were the people sorry for him, or glad of his death?” asked Ivan. “Glad exceedingly. They were delivered from a reign of terror. Yet there were men who loved the Czar Paul truly--who love him still, and will take that love with them to the grave. One such I know--my good friend and patron, from whom I have received many favours, Count Rostopchine. He kept proudly aloof from the court of the new Czar, would hold no communication with him, and take no favour from his hands--hands which, he dared to hint, were not pure from the stain of a father’s blood. When the great battle of Austerlitz was lost, Count Rostopchine said, ‘God would not prosper the arms of a bad son.’” “How angry the Czar must have been!” said Ivan. “He ought to have sent him to Siberia, to repent of his insolence.”