Our drosky-driver rattles up to the foot of these
terraced approaches at 8 a.m., and draws up a steed with an abruptness
peculiar to the half-wild Jehus of the Caucasus. The same employee of the
Hotel de Londres who had mysteriously hailed us by name from the platform
as our train glided in from Baku the morning before, accompanies us to
the depot now. All English travellers in Russia are supposed to be
millionaires; all Americans, possessed of unlimited wealth. Bearing this
in mind, our Russian-Armenian henchman has from first to last been most
assiduous in his attentions, paying out of his own pocket the few odd
copecks to porters carrying our luggage up from drosky to depot, in order
to save us bother.

The station is crowded with people going away themselves or seeing
friends off. As usual, the military overshadows and predominates
everything. Between civilians and the wearers of military uniforms one
plainly observes in a Russian Caucasus crowd that no love is lost. The
strained relationship between the native population and the military
aliens from the north is generally made the more conspicuous by the
comparative sociability of the Georgians among themselves and kindred
people of the Caucasus. Circassian officers in their picturesque uniforms
and beautifully chased swords and pistols mingle sociably with the
civilians, and are evidently great favorites; but that the blue-coated,
white-capped Russians are hated with a bitter, sullen hatred requires no
penetrating eye to see. The military brutality that crushed the brave and
warlike people of Georgia, Circassia, and Mingrelia, and well-nigh
depopulated the country, has left sore wounds that will take the wine and
oil of time many a generation to heal completely up.

With an inner consciousness of duty well done and services faithfully
rendered, our friend from the hotel flicks off our seats in the car with
the tail of his long linen duster. Not that they need dusting; but as a
gentle reminder of the extraordinary care he has bestowed upon us, in
little things as well as in bigger, during our brief acquaintance with
him, he dusts them off. That last attentive flick of his coat-tail is the
finishing touch of an elaborate retrospective panorama we are expected to
conjure up of the valuable services he has rendered us, and for which he
is now justly entitled to his reward.

The customary three bells are struck, the inevitable military-looking
official blows shrilly