"tears of bearded men" which are so rare and sad to see were flowing without restraint. One of the sons of Petrovitch—in the green uniform of a Russian grenadier, his military hat, with its long black feather tipped with white, laid beside him—was sobbing bitterly himself, while he tried to comfort a little girl whom he held in his arms. Another young soldier, almost a boy, seemed to be imploring the interference of his mother, who was sitting a little apart, her face covered with a kerchief. At one side of the old man's chair stood his eldest son, with a look of indignant appeal and remonstrance; at the other knelt Feodor—and his face no one saw.
"Welcome, Prince Ivan!" cried Ivan Petrovitch as soon as he perceived his entrance. "Come hither and speak to our father. It may be he will listen to you, as the son of his ancient lord."
"Is that Prince Ivan?" asked the old man. "Son of my dear lord, ever welcome in this house, yet give us leave, I pray you, for a little space, for this is a bitter hour to me and to all of us. I am bidding farewell to every one in whose veins my blood is flowing. By-and-by I will talk once more with thee."
Ivan would have withdrawn, from a feeling that the scene was too sacred for any not immediately belonging to the family; but the eldest son of Petrovitch appealed to him once more. "Have you not a word—you whom he loved so dearly—to persuade him against flinging his life away?"
"My son, I am not flinging my life away," the old man interposed. "That would be a sin. I am only laying it at the feet of the God who gave it. He has given me a message for these Nyemtzi, and shall I spare to deliver it?"
"But how is this, dädushka?" asked Ivan gently, as he drew nearer to the weeping group. "How is this? Do you not go, with these your beloved ones, to a place of safety?"
"I go indeed to a place of safety, but not with these. My resolve has long been made; nor is it for thee, Prince Ivan,
