the surgeon
of the hospital wanted him to learn it so that he would become a more
valuable slave.

But at the same time he had convinced him that it was best for him to
learn it, and so he applied himself with all diligence, greatly to the
delight of the hospital surgeon, who, having taken a fancy to the
American youth, without stopping to think or to care about the cruel
tyranny that had taken him there, wanted him to become even more useful,
as he undoubtedly could be by learning to speak Russian.

And old Batavsky had learned to love him during the time. But as his
excitement over the death of Prince Mastowix subsided he became more and
more rational.

His whole intent now seemed to be to teach Barnwell the language, and
then to confide to him not only the story of his eventful life, but the
pith of it, which covered a great secret.

And the young exile had also learned to have a most profound respect for
Batavsky, whom he found to be a highly educated man of more than
ordinary ability, and how he could be thus consigned to such a dreadful
place for life was more than he could understand, knowing but little of
the dark deeds and ways of Russian tyrants.

But in spite of what the old man had told him regarding the
improbability of his ever being released, he still hoped that the
governor would make good his word, and that his case would in time reach
the American Minister at St. Petersburg, and that his government would
interfere and demand his release.

And so he struggled on and hoped, learning rapidly all the while, and
making himself more and more valuable to the chief surgeon. And, too, he
was becoming hardened somewhat, and used to the suffering which he saw
in the hospital, and which was so revolting to his nature at first.

Week after week, month after month, went by without bringing him any
word of hope, and he was not permitted to see the governor for the
purpose of asking him if he had sent his case back to St. Petersburg as
he agreed.

He could do nothing but labor, wait and hope. Every month or so there
would come a batch of prisoners from St. Petersburg or Moscow, and
official dispatches, but nothing came for him; no word, no suggestion
that he was even remembered in any way.

Hope began to die in his heart, where he had nursed it so long.

Was he, then, really doomed for life?

And what of the beautiful girl of whom he was so fond, and whom he
promised to meet at Berlin?

Would she not