This Dukhobor had been talking to brother Poles and Ruthenians, but he was quite out of perspective. I asked how the Dukhobors had faced under the Conscription Act. Apparently they did not suffer much; Canada did not trouble the Dukhobors. They had an easier time than their brothers the Mennonites in the United States. They told me there had been a considerable influx of Mennonites by way of the unguarded line: they also are pacifists and utterly oppose to personal service in war. So struck are they by what happened to them in America through the war that there is much talk of their deserting both Canada and the States and seeking a refuge in Mexico. The Dukhobors, however, have a strong hold in Canada, and as long as Peter Verigin, their unofficial patriarch and leader, lives, they will most probably hold on to their settlements in British Columbia and Saskatchewan. Perhaps in a new era, a new Russia may again take the Dukhobors to herself. Canada does not assimilate them. They do not assimilate Canada. And they are, and they feel, as Dostoievsky said, like “a slice cut out of a loaf.” [Illustration] _Fancy meeting the Dukhobors Up in the Rockies: A bit of old Russia Planted up there to meet me! Sure next time when I go to the Caucasus I’ll look to find a batch of English there, Trying to live their unmolested lives Under the free institutions Of old Russia._ _Tolstoy, in his story of the old pilgrim, Taught you could find Jerusalem in your native village, And did not need to pilgrimage afar. But he did not say you could find freedom In your own village--in your own heart. O no, that’s political, You must go a long way to find that._ [Illustration: WHEREVER THEY LOCATE THEY BUILD TEMPLES] XXXVII. A VISIT TO THE MORMONS WE tramped from ranch to ranch by the rutty roads that skirt the sections, walked away from the mountain-walls, and ever as we went the terrain extended. The sky had become wider; no rocky walls closed us in. The backs of our necks became swollen from the unusual heat of the sun on them. We kicked up dust as we walked, dust again! Our eyes traversed the scene to light, not on cascades or possible camping-grounds, but on far-away farmhouses. We met the oats and wheat and barley fields striving over the moors, and walked till all moor disappeared, till there was nothing in front of us but gold. Made dream-like by the forest fires, the long range of the Rockies seemed unreal--the mountains which we had climbed became remote and shadowy--and not part of our destiny. Our only reality was golden Alberta, which seemed to extend to infinitude, the plateau only gradually losing its altitude, unfolding and undulating downward--one vast resplendent area of golden harvest fields.