breakfast to my own private room. Meanwhile, as I say,
the girl must be flogged."

Alban shrugged his shoulders.

"I did not believe that you could possibly be so foolish," he said.

It puzzled Zaniloff altogether. Searching that open face with eyes
accustomed to read many human stories, he could discern neither emotion
nor anger, but just an honest man's faith in his own cause and a sure
belief that it must triumph. Whatever Alban might really feel, the
sickening apprehension of which he was the victim, the almost
overmastering desire to take this ruffian by the throat and strangle him
as he sat, not a trace of it could be discerned either in his speech or
his attitude. "He stood before me like a dog which has barked and is
waiting to bite," Zaniloff said afterwards. "I might as well have
threatened to flog the statue of Sobiesky in the Castle gardens." This
impression, however, he was careful to conceal from the prisoner.
Official dignity never argues--especially when it is getting the worst
of the deal.

"My wisdom is not for us to discuss," he snapped; "please to remember
that I am in authority here and allow no one to question what I do. You
will remain in my room until I return, sir. Afterwards it must be as the
Governor decides."

He took up his papers and whispering a few words to the stolid secretary
he left the room and went clanking down the corridor. The officer who
remained seemed principally concerned in driving the flies from his bald
head and from the documents he compiled so laboriously. Stopping from
time to time to shape a quill pen to his liking, he would write a few
lines carefully, kill a number of flies, take a peep at Alban from
beneath his shaggy brows and then resume the cycle of his labors. Alban
pitied him cynically. This labor of docketing scarred backs seemed
wretchedly monotonous. He was really glad when the fellow spoke to him,
in as amazing a combination of tongues as man had ever heard:

"Mein Herr--pardon--what shall you say--comment a dire--for the
English--Moskowa?"

"We say Moscow, sir."

"Ah--Mosk--Mosk-nitchevo--je ne m'en souviens jamais."

He continued to write as though laboring under an incurable
disappointment. That Alban knew what Moskowa meant was not surprising,
for he had heard the word so often in Union Street. Here in this very
courtyard, far below his windows, were the sons and the brothers of
those who had preached revolution in England. How miserable they