The sermon he referred to was that most remarkable one preached on the evening of Saturday, the 4th of November, before one of the most memorable events of the war. In that discourse, this Russian-Greek bishop, with his coronal mitre on his head, glittering with precious gems, a crozier whilom borne by St. Sergius in his hand, his silver beard floating to his girdle over magnificent vestments, stood on the altar-steps of the great church, and assured the masses of armed men who thronged it to the portal that the blessing of God was upon their forthcoming enterprise and the defence of the city; that crowns of eternal glory awaited all those martyrs who fell in battle against the heretical French and the island curs who had dared to levy war on holy Russia and their father the Emperor. He told them that the English were monsters of cruelty, who tortured their prisoners, committing unheard-of barbarities on all who fell into their hands; that "they were bloodthirsty and abominable heretics, whose extermination was the solemn duty of all who wished to win the favour of God and of the Emperor." He farther assured them that the British camp contained enormous treasures--the spoil of India, vessels of silver and gold, sacks and casks filled with precious stones--one-third of which was to become the property of the victors; and he conjured them, by the memory of Michael and Feodor, who sealed their belief in Christ with their blood, before the savage Batu-Khan, by the black flag unfurled by Demetri Donskoi when he marched against Mamai the Tartar, "by the forty times forty churches of Moscow the holy," and the memory of the French retreat from it, to stand firm and fail not; and a hoarse and prayerful murmur of assent responded to him. My present host was too well-bred to tell all he had just heard, whether he believed it or not. After a pause, "If another sortie is made," said I, "the slaughter will be frightful." "Bah!" replied he, cynically, while tipping the white ashes from his cigar, "a few thousands are not missed among the millions of Russia; I presume we only get rid of those who are unnecessary in the general scheme of creation." "Peasants and serfs, I suppose?" "Well, perhaps so--peasants and serfs, as you islanders suppose all our people to be." "Nay, as you Russians deem them." "We shall not dispute the matter, please," said he, coldly; and now, as I sat looking at him, a memory of his face and voice came over me. "Count Volhonski!" I exclaimed, "have you quite forgotten me and the duel with the Prussian at Altona?" He started and took his cigar from his mouth. "The Hospodeen Hardinge!" said he, grasping my hand with honest warmth; "I must have been blind not to recognise you; but I never before saw you in your scarlet uniform." "It is more purple than scarlet now, Count."