“_Love him?_--with all their hearts. The men of Russia are not wood or stone. They love him well enough to be true to him to the death, if only he dares to be true to himself and to them. But that is too much to hope. All things must do after their kind. Does the antelope of the desert confront the tiger in his den, and tear from him his blood-stained spoil? Do men take the fine gold out of the furnace to forge it into their weapons of war? or the silk of China to spin into the cable that holds the ship of war to her moorings? But, Prince Ivan, I am talking wildly, perhaps idly and sinfully. Forget what I have said. After all, Alexander Paulovitch is the Lord’s anointed.” “And you know that, since last April, he has been in the field with his army--where he ought to be.” “Where he ought _not_ to be!” thundered Petrovitch angrily. “What we ask from our Czar is not the cheap courage of the recruit, whose one virtue is to stand and be shot at, but the far higher courage to think, to decide, to act for fifty millions of men. ‘Thou shalt not go forth with us to battle,’ said the men of old to their king, ‘that thou quench not the light of Israel.’ God put the heart of man in the very midst of his body, to send the life-giving blood to the strong hands, which in their turn are meant to defend it from scath and harm.” “True;--and it occurs to me,” said Ivan quietly, “that my place is with the hands.” The face of Petrovitch actually lighted up. “Thank God for that word!” he said. “But I expected no less from Prince Ivan Ivanovitch Pojarsky.” Ivan had entered the house of Petrovitch that day a reckless, frivolous youth, capable indeed of nobler things, but absorbed in the pursuit of pleasure and in the petty, selfish troubles it entailed upon him. He left the presence of his aged friend with the heart, the purpose, the thoughts of a man. He felt the ennobling glow of patriotic fervour. His country was in jeopardy, and he was ready to give his life for it. He thought, as he turned his steps homewards,-- “This is enough to make my brave ancestor, the great Prince Pojarsky, arise from his grave to fight for holy Russia. From his grave? There are living graves, far off in drear Siberia: will the dead arise out of _these_, I wonder? Dear, unknown father--unknown, yet not forgotten--if still you see the sun and breathe the air of this world, how would you rejoice to come back and cover your stained name with glory! But I scarcely dare to hope your life has lingered on through all these weary years. If not, then mine are the only veins in which the blood of Pojarsky is flowing. Oh that I could win our ancient honour back again!” CHAPTER VIII. A NATION’S TRANSPORT. “Take thy banner, and beneath The battle-cloud’s encircling wreath, Guard it till our homes are free-- Guard it, God will prosper thee! In the dark and stormy hour, In the breaking forth of power, In the rush of steeds and men, His right hand will guard thee then.”