ave was covered with flowers,
crosses, and all sorts of things by the peasants, who came many versts
from all directions, as to the grave of a martyr. Masses for the dead
were ordered there, in uninterrupted succession, by these poor peasants.
The feeling was so great and appeared to be spreading to such an extent
that the authorities were forced not only to prohibit access to the
grave, but even to level it off so that it could not be found. But an
Englishman! If he were told to cut the throat of his own father and eat
him, he would do it."

"Still, in spite of your very striking illustration, and your doubts as
to my having read the papers correctly," I remarked, "I am sure that the
Russian peasant does, occasionally, murder with premeditation. He is a
fine-tempered, much-enduring, admirable fellow, I admit, but he is
human. He cannot be so different in this respect from all other races of
men. Moreover, I have the testimony of a celebrated Russian author on my
side."

"What author? What testimony?"

"Have you ever read The 'Power of Darkness'? The amount of deliberation,
of premeditation, in any murder is often a matter of opinion; but the
murder of the child in the last act of that comedy is surely deliberate
enough to admit of no difference of judgment. Don't you think that the
author supports me?"

He gasped at my audacity in quoting his own writings against him, and
retreated into the silence which was his resource when he could not or
would not answer. Put him in a corner and he would refuse to come out.

Beggars used to come while we were eating out-of-doors; some called
themselves "pilgrims." The count would give them a little money, and
they would tramp off again. One day, when the birthday of an absent
member of the family was being celebrated, and we were drinking healths
in _voditchka_ (a sort of effervescent water flavored with fruit
juices), we had a distinguished visitor, "Prince Romanoff." This was the
crazy Balakhin mentioned in "What to Do?" as having had his brain turned
by the sight of the luxury in the lives of others. His rags and patches,
or rather his conglomeration of patches, surpassed anything we had seen
in that line. One of the lads jumped up and gave him a glass of
raspberry _voditchka_, telling him that it was rare old wine. The man
sipped it, looked through it, and pretended (I am sure that it was mere
pretense) to believe that it was wine. He promised us all large estates
when th