For a time the two men peered at each other, one knowing that an enemy was before him, and one thinking that he was in the presence of a friend. But Peter saw nothing in the old man which brought to mind anything of Michael Kirsakoff. Katerin, as Vashka, the samovar girl, had so arranged the shaded lamp, and the chairs, that her father’s face should not stand out clearly in light against a dark background. Also the bandage hid the jaws and cheeks of Michael in such a way that the old man’s facial contour was blurred. Age had done much to hide Michael, and Peter’s memory was clinging to his own picture of Kirsakoff of twenty years before. And Peter had adjusted his mind to the finding of Kirsakoff as a result of this interview, and somewhere beyond it, so it would have been hard to convince him that Kirsakoff was now before him. “You come as an American officer, yet my daughter tells me that you are one of us—a Russian who has come back to help Russia,” said Michael. “Yes, and it is twenty years since I saw my native land,” said Peter, as he sat down. “Ah, it is a sad home-coming for one of the motherland’s children,” sighed Michael. “They say now that the people will rule at last.” Katerin stepped to the table to draw hot water from the samovar, which was so placed that she stood almost between Peter and her father, though without preventing them from seeing each other. She did not trust to her precautions against Peter’s recognizing her father, knowing that there were elements in the situation which might bring on some mischance on the side of tragedy. And Wassili acted according to his instructions. As Peter sat down, the _moujik_ left Michael’s chair, and offered the guest a cigarette from a tin box, lighted a match—and remained behind Peter’s chair. Thus it appeared to Peter that he was being tendered the usual courtesies. “It is true that times have changed, sir,” said Peter. “Ay, they have, truly,” said Michael. “And some say for the better. Perhaps. But I’ll not live to see it all finished. I shall get no good from it. But we must remember those who have died dreaming dreams for the future.” “True,” said Peter. “And this ground is full of such—we must remember them, and it is our duty to see that they did not sacrifice themselves for nothing.” “My daughter tells me that you know our story—that I was a political here.” “In the time of Kirsakoff, the Governor,” said Peter. “Kirsakoff!” said Michael. “Ah, yes, I had good reason to know Kirsakoff. There are many waiting their chance to settle with him, and he has but a short time for this world. But one of the lessons we learned here, my friend, was to bide our time—and I am waiting.” “And Kirsakoff is in with Zorogoff?”