“My son, it is neither. I have no strong arm to fight for the Czar, but I have yet a voice with which to hurl defiance against his enemies. It is the mightiest of all voices, though it makes no sound--the voice of blood. My blood shall cry to the invader from the gate of the city I have loved: ‘It is but vain the labour that you take to conquer this land for your Prince. A land where youth and manhood arm to resist you, while old age dies beneath your feet rather than submit to your sway--such a land is unconquerable.’ Therefore, my children, no more words. They are but needless pain, and time presses. I think my soldier lads should even now be rejoining their regiments. Are you all here, my brave boys whom I have given to the Czar?” The sergeant of grenadiers answered for the rest, “Yes, my father, all.” “Four sons and nine sons’ sons--thirteen in all--have I given to our lord. Soldiers of holy Russia, fight bravely; and may God prosper your arms and give you the victory! I doubt not he will, for your cause is just.” “My father, ere we go,” said the sergeant, advancing and kneeling before him, “bless thy sons.” In a voice tremulous with deep feeling the solemn patriarchal blessing was given. One after another the members of the family advanced to receive it: first the soldier sons and grandsons, keeping down their emotion with manly self-control; then Ivan Petrovitch, and a few others whose circumstances had prevented their volunteering with the rest; lastly the women and children. But Feodor did not stir from his place, until at length the old man called him by name. Then he slowly rose and stood before him. “Son Ivan,” said Petrovitch, “come hither and take this boy’s hand in thine. Children, you know that little Feodor is all God has left with me of Maria Petrovna, the daughter of my old age, the one white dove in our falcon’s nest. Be tender with him, all of you; and thou, Ivan, take care of the lad, and be to him a father in my place.--Feodor, my little Feodor, Maria’s son, God bless thee!” “Kneel, boy,” whispered Ivan Petrovitch almost angrily, as Feodor, like one in a trance, stood motionless, with his passive hand in his uncle’s. The boy obeyed mechanically. The aged eyes of Petrovitch were full of unaccustomed tears, and his voice faltered, grew almost inaudible, as he murmured the words of blessing over that beloved head. But Feodor showed no sign of feeling, except that cheek and lip were white as marble. Ivan Pojarsky, who, though he had withdrawn into the background, had not left the place, observed him with sorrowful wonder. “The boy,” he thought, “will soon forget the old man, who will die with a prayer for him upon his lips.”