him before, does not speak again."

"But why should they kill Kensky?" asked Malcolm.

It was not the first time that Israel Kensky had been the subject of
hostile demonstrations. The young engineer had heard these stories of
horrible rites practised at the expense of Christian children, and had
heard them so often that he was hardened to the repetition.

The grin had left the man's face and there was a fanatical light in the
solemn eyes when he replied:

"_Gospodar_, it is known that this man has a book which is called 'The
Book of All-Power!'"

Malcolm nodded.

"So the foolish say," he said.

"It has been seen," said the other; "his own daughter, Sophia Kensky,
who has been baptised in the faith of Our Blessed Lord, has told the
Archbishop of this book. She, herself, has seen it."

"But why should you kill a man because he has a book?" demanded Malcolm,
knowing well what the answer would be.

"Why should we kill him! A thousand reasons, _gospodar_," cried the man
passionately; "he who has this book understands the black magic of
Kensky and the Jews! By the mysteries in this book he is able to torment
his enemies and bring sorrow to the Christians who oppose him. Did not
the man Ivan Nickolovitch throw a stone at him, and did not Ivan drop
dead the next day on his way to mass, aye and turn black before they
carried him to the hospital? And did not Mishka Yakov, who spat at him,
suffer almost immediately from a great swelling of the throat so that
she is not able to speak or swallow to this very day without pain?"

Malcolm jumped down from the wall and laughed, and it was a helpless
little laugh, the laugh of one who, for four long years, had fought
against the superstitions of the Russian peasantry. He had seen the work
of his hands brought to naught, and a boring abandoned just short of the
oil because a cross-eyed man, attracted by curiosity, had come and
looked at the work. He had seen his wells go up in smoke for some
imaginary act of witchcraft on the part of his foreman, and, though he
laughed, he was in no sense amused.

"Go with God, little brother," he said; "some day you will have more
sense and know that men do not practise witchcraft."

"Perhaps I am wiser than you," said Gleb, getting up and whistling for
his donkey, who had strayed up the side lane.

Before Malcolm could reply there was a clatter of hoofs and two riders
came galloping round the bend of the road making for the town. The firs