task of consummating the sacrifice by setting fire to what had been the happy home of three generations.
With a feeling akin to awe Ivan returned to the side of the now solitary old man. He was almost ashamed to bring his personal difficulties and perplexities before him. A reverent, tender compassion for the silver hairs so soon to be steeped in blood filled his heart, though even this was dominated and subdued by the over-mastering enthusiasm that possessed him, rising higher and higher every moment. Before that tide of passionate loyalty and patriotism all else gave way. It seemed easy and natural—and oh, how beautiful! to die for the Czar and holy Russia.
Petrovitch, of his own accord, asked him about his plans and purposes. He knew already what a commission Rostopchine had intrusted to the young man; and Ivan, though thoroughly master in outline of the rôle he had to play, was glad to consult his aged friend upon certain questions of detail. After discussing the directions he had to give to the criminals who were to be released from the various prisons to aid in the terrible work, he spoke of the unaccountable obstinacy of the Countess Wertsch, and of the difficulty in which it placed him.
But instead of expressing indignation at the old woman's folly, Petrovitch answered gently, "My boy, be patient with her. Remember all her days have been spent here. To her, as to others, the ruin of holy Moscow is like the fall of the sun from the noonday sky. Should the need to remove her actually arise, God will show you what to do. But wait. Where we stand now, hours do the work of years."
"Dädushka, there is another thought in my mind of which I want to tell you. I talked it over last night with my old friend Michael.—Ah, where is Michael?" said Ivan, who in the excitement and confusion of the last two hours had totally forgotten his companion. "No matter," he continued, "I shall
