and river. They come to trample down the soil of our fatherland, to water it with blood, to waste our fields, to burn our villages with fire, to make our wives widows, our children orphans; ay, and to do yet darker deeds than these, deeds which I have no words to tell. The storm has been gathering long; and now, at last, the thunder-cloud has burst upon us! My country, O God, my country!"
"But our cause is just," said Ivan. "Surely every Russian will fight to the death."
"This, indeed, will be a death-struggle," Petrovitch resumed. "Do you not understand? It is all the world against holy Russia—all the world, except England and Spain: England, far away, safe within her God-given rampart of crested foam; Spain already bleeding beneath the talons of the vulture. Russia, Russia only, stands upright, and refuses, as Pope Yefim expresses it, to bow the knee to the Baal, or rather to the Moloch of France. Therefore, the conqueror has forced the conquered to join his standard, and it is not only the legions of France who are pouring across the Niemen, but Prussians, Austrians, Saxons, Westphalians, all the men of Germany who are Napoleon's subservient though unwilling slaves; Poles, ever eager to trample on our pride and profit by our misfortunes; ay, even Spaniards, dragged from their vines and their olives to fight for the tyrant they detest." He paused, then went on again in a sadder tone and with even deeper feeling—"If in this dark hour God had but been gracious to us, and given us a bearded Czar!"
"A bearded Czar!" Ivan repeated in perplexed surprise.
"Yes. Do you not remember the words of the great Czar Peter? 'If ever again a bearded Czar shall sit upon the throne of Russia, all Europe may tremble.' He meant a true Muscovite Czar—stern, hard, and strong, like Ivan the Terrible long ago, somewhat like Count Rostopchine now. But instead of such a hero as the Czars of old—with the world in
