“I do not think you _can_ know what I feel,” he began humbly; “I am so utterly ashamed of myself. You have so often warned me to be moderate in play, and as often have I made the best of resolutions, and I meant to keep them faithfully, but--” He came to a sudden stop, astonished, even terrified by the change that swept over the sightless but expressive face of Petrovitch. Disappointment, sorrow, anger chased each other rapidly, like clouds before a stormy wind; then all these passed away and were succeeded by something too sadly like contempt. Ivan stood in silent embarrassment, unable to proceed with his story. But he had said enough. After a pause, Petrovitch spoke in a cold, constrained voice, “So _that_ is your trouble, Prince Ivan? You have lost money at play. How much?” “Eight thousand seven hundred and fifty roubles,” said Ivan in the low tones of penitence and shame. “Silver or paper?” “Paper,” said Ivan, rather more cheerfully. There was an enormous difference in value between the two, although in neither case would the sum have been a large one in the eyes of extravagant Russian nobles. “Do me the favour to call Feodor; you will find him in the next room.” Ivan obeyed; and Petrovitch, taking a key which hung round his neck, gave it with a few directions to his grandson. Something in the old merchant’s manner made Ivan stand before him in silence, without venturing a word of explanation or of defence, until Feodor’s return. The boy gave his grandfather a roll of bank-notes, clean and crisp, and immediately left the room. In perfect silence the old man handed the notes to Ivan, who tried to express his thanks; but Petrovitch stopped him. “The money,” he said coldly, “is a matter of indifference to me. You are more than welcome to it, Prince Ivan.” Never until to-day had he addressed him in such a tone. Ivan drew near, knelt down before his chair, and took his hand affectionately. “Dear old friend,” he said, “I see that I have wounded you. Forgive me, for my grandfather’s sake,--and for my own, for I love you truly.” The aged face quivered with suppressed emotion, yet Petrovitch drew his hand away. “You cannot love me, Prince Ivan Pojarsky,” he said, “if you love not the land of your fathers.” “The land of my fathers!” repeated Ivan in surprise. “What can you mean?” “Stand up, Prince Ivan,” continued the old man, still speaking with sternness; “the posture of a suppliant does not become you. Do you think it is anything to me that you have lost a few thousand roubles at play? Do you think that if you needed my whole fortune I would heave a sigh or shed a tear as I gave it into your hands? But it _is_ a grief to me, beyond sighs and tears, that trifles such as these should occupy the heir of Pojarsky when the foot of the enemy is on the soil of holy Russia.” “_What?_” cried Ivan, springing to his feet in amazement.