“Ivan would like well enough to see him if he were ill,” Yakovlef interposed. “That is the Czar’s physician--Dr. Wylie, a Scotchman, very clever, but very ready with his lancet, they say. He has been accused of cutting off a man’s head to cure him of a headache.” “The head of the man who allowed him to do it could have been little loss to its owner,” laughed Ivan. Then he repeated thoughtfully, “His lancet! I am sure I have seen him with a lancet. Of what can I be thinking?” He was interrupted by Feodor, the grandson of Petrovitch, who pushed his way through the crowd to the group of young nobles. The handsome, dark-eyed lad, in his blue caftan and crimson sash, looked to no disadvantage amongst them. They all knew him, and greeted him with kindness, if also with a little condescension. “I am so glad I have found you, Prince Ivan,” said the boy breathlessly. “My grandfather thought you would like to see the benediction of the Czar with the holy picture. His friend, Pope Yefim, is to take part in the ceremony, and he says he can secure you a good place.” Ivan gladly accepted the offer; and in the short conversation that followed, the merchant’s son was able to contribute materially to the information of his social superiors. “Pope Yefim has seen a copy of the letter which the Patriarch wrote to the Czar,” he said. “He was not able to come himself--for you know, gentlemen, he is nearly a hundred years old, much older than my grandfather--but he writes that it grieves him to the heart he cannot see the face of his sovereign--that face which is to him ‘as the face of Christ.’” Neither speaker nor hearers were startled by the expression which to us seems to border on the profane. But the profanity was unintentional, and the passionate loyalty utterly sincere. Feodor went on--“He has sent him the sacred picture of St. Sergius, from the Troitza monastery. You know, gentlemen, that is the picture which the Czar Alexis and the great Czar Peter carried into battle, and it always gave them the victory. Though, my grandfather says, it is not the holy picture that gives the victory, or even the holy saint, but God himself.” “Thy grandfather seems to be a wise man,” said Yakovlef. “But I wonder what the Czar himself thinks of the matter. People used to call him very enlightened, quite a philosopher, a disciple at heart of Voltaire and Diderot. I warrant me they are right, and he believes little enough.” The last remark was intended for the nobles, but it reached the ear of Feodor, who, to every one’s surprise, both understood and answered it. “The Czar,” he said reverently, “must believe very much in God, for he cares very much about the poor, whom God has made.” “God give him the victory over his enemies!” said Kanikoff; and the little group responded with a hearty “Amen!”--for, “beneath all the foam and sputter” of their light and careless talk, it was true that “the heart’s depths boiled in earnest.”