“Where are these Americans you talk about?” demanded Wassili, as he saw that it would be wiser to let Ilya have his say. Ilya snorted, but showed his teeth in a grin of triumph. “I shall go and tell the American officer that Kirsakoff and his daughter have gone, eh? That is what you say. Very good. That will be all right, I suppose—till it happens that way, and then Excellence will kick you till you squeal. Then you will wish that you had listened to Ilya Andreitch and had not tried to make yourself into an Excellence with big manners.” “Come, come,” protested Wassili amiably. “Let us not argue. Tell me what you know and——” “I shall tell Excellence myself,” broke in Ilya. “I am a free man. What good is a revolution if one man cannot speak to another? Go and tell Excellence that Ilya Andreitch, who cut wood for him in the year of the pestilence, has come with news.” Wassili laughed, and taking advantage of a fit of sneezing suffered by Ilya from having breathed particles of dry cake, helped himself to another draft from the bottle of vodka. “Perhaps I had better tell Excellence that a Grand Duke has come to see him, eh?” and Wassili reached across the table and poked Ilya in the ribs. “Am I not as good as a Grand Duke?” demanded Ilya. “I am alive to enjoy my vodka and many a Grand Duke would like to be able to say that, you old fish-gut! Go and tell the Excellence that I have come.” Wassili got up. “See that you don’t finish the bottle while I’m gone,” he warned Ilya, and disappeared through a door into a hall, and Ilya heard him climbing a creaky stairs. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ X “AN AMERICAN HAS COME!” MICHAEL KIRSAKOFF was seated at a table writing a letter by the light of a candle when Wassili knocked at the door of his room. The old general’s eyes lifted to the door and made a pair of gleaming points against the gloom behind him. The broad gold straps on the shoulders of his uniform jacket set off his white old head so that it appeared to be resting on a golden tray which threw out a quivering sheen of yellow light with the trembling of his shoulders. His thin white hand dropped the pen. He motioned to Katerin to move behind him so that she stood in the shadow of his body, and recognizing Wassili’s cautious knock, he ordered the _moujik_ to enter. “Master, Ilya Andreitch has come with news of the government.” “Who is Ilya Andreitch?” demanded the old general. “Ilya, he who once cut wood for the Excellence. I know the man well. He has often bought food for us in the bazaar since we came here. He helped me to bring many things to this house from the other, but he is drunk to-night. Yet he vows he has news of the government.” The old general was puzzled. Katerin stepped into the light and looked at Wassili eagerly.