e a
story of childish imaginings.

Yes, Russia was a hell upon earth; and Petersburg was the centre and
epitome of it, I said in my soul, as I loitered on one of the bridges
that afternoon, and looked on the swift flowing river, on the splendid
buildings, gleaming white, as the gilded cupolas and spires of the
churches gleamed fire red, under the brilliant sunshine. A fair city
outwardly, a whited sepulchre raised over a charnel-house. A city of
terror, wherein every man is an Ishmael, knowing--or suspecting--that
every other man's hand is against him.

There was a shadow over the whole land, over the city, over myself, the
stranger within its gate; and in that shadow the girl I loved was
impenetrably enveloped.

I raised my eyes, and there, fronting me across the water, sternly
menacing, were the gray walls of the fortress-prison, named, as if in
grim mockery, the fortress of "Peter and Paul." Peter, who denied his
Lord, though he loved Him; Paul, who denied his Lord before he knew and
loved Him! Perhaps the name is not so inconsistent, after all. The deeds
that are done behind the walls of that fortress-prison by men who call
themselves Christians, are the most tremendous denial of Christ that
this era has witnessed.

Sick at heart, I turned away, and walked moodily back to my hotel. The
proprietor was in the lobby, and the whole staff seemed to be on the
spot. They all looked at me as if they thought I might be some recently
discovered wild animal, and I wondered why. But as no one spoke to me, I
asked the clerk at the bureau for my key.

"I have it not; others--the police--have it," he stammered.

"Oh, that's it, is it?" I said. "They're up there now? All right."

I went up the stairs--there was no elevator--and found a couple of
soldiers posted outside my door.

"Well, what are you doing here?" I asked, in good enough Russian. "This
is my room, and I'll thank you to let me pass."

The one on the right of the door flung it open with a flourish, and
motioned me to enter.

As I passed him he said, with a laugh to his fellow, "So--the rat goes
into the trap!"

CHAPTER XVII

THE DROSHKY DRIVER

Inside were two officials busily engaged in a systematic search of my
effects. Truly the secret police had lost no time!

I had already decided on the attitude I must adopt. It was improbable
that they would arrest me openly; that would have involved trouble with
the Embassies, but they could, if they c