ILYA ANDREITCH, having left Rimsky in a state of gorgeous befuddlement at the gypsy’s restaurant, hurried up the street to the house of Michael Kirsakoff and his daughter. It would be great news, the coming of an American who wished to find Kirsakoff. It might be a government matter, for as everybody with an ounce of brains in his head knew, the Americans were going to take full control of Russia—some wise folk even said that the Americans would annex Russia as a province of America. Others said the Czar had gone to America and had conquered it, including Venice. Those were matters which Ilya considered in spare moments; just now he felt that this news of the American needed full attention. Ilya could see the glowing coals of a sentinels’ bonfire up near the church. Also, there were sounds of music and singing in the direction of a barrack, and the rattle of a droshky coming across the little bridge over the Ingoda. So he did not feel too lonely. There was no moon up yet, but the stars were out and hanging low. The thin, sweet air drenched his lungs, and cleared his brain somewhat. Now he heard a man walking near by. Ilya stopped to listen, cocking his head to one side. But when Ilya stopped, the man stopped also—and then Ilya realized that it was his own footsteps which he had heard, crunching the hard snow musically. He laughed discreetly, taking care that the sentries should not hear him, and started on again toward the outer rim of the city. But he was a little afraid that he might not get past some of the sentry groups without being stopped and questioned, or perhaps arrested. He got off the hard walk and into the center of the sandy street, so that his boots would not make a noise. He got out his bottle—the bottle which he had taken from the restaurant table—and had a swig from it to give himself courage. It would be no simple matter to go talking to Kirsakoff, who, though an Excellence, was a cruel old bones of a man. But Ilya reflected that times had changed. He was as good as anybody now, and knew as much as anybody. The revolution had done that for him, and a revolution was good fun. Was not even Rimsky, who had once held himself to be better than a _moujik_, now buying vodka for _moujiks_? Hurrah for the revolution! And as for that, hadn’t he fooled Rimsky and drawn from him the news that the American had come to see Kirsakoff? That was proof enough as to who had the better wit. Ilya gave himself credit for the manner in which he had handled the whole matter. Kirsakoff should give at least five rubles for the news, not a kopeck less. Ilya settled that to his own satisfaction, took another swig, and went on. A wolf howled in the hills above the city, and Ilya crossed himself against the wiles of the devil.