l it to
you instead of leaving Paul to do so because I know his complete
fearlessness, and his blind faith in a people who are unworthy of it. He
does not realize the gravity of the situation. They are his own people.
A sailor never believes that his own ship is unseaworthy."

"Go on!" said Etta, for he had paused.

"This country," he continued, "is unsettled. The people of the estate
are on the brink of a revolt. You know what the Russian peasant is. It
will be no Parisian emeute, half noise, half laughter. We cannot hope to
hold this old place against them. We cannot get away from it. We cannot
send for help because we have no one to send. Princess, this is no time
for half-confidences. I know--for I know these people better even than
Paul knows them--I am convinced that this is not the outcome of their
own brains. They are being urged on by some one. There is some one at
their backs. This is no revolt of the peasants, organized by the
peasants. Princess, you must tell me all you know!"

"I--I," she stammered, "I know nothing!"

And then suddenly she burst into tears, and buried her face in a tiny,
useless handkerchief. It was so unlike her and so sudden that Steinmetz
was startled.

He laid his great hand soothingly on her shoulder.

"I know," he said quietly, "I know more than you think. I am no saint,
princess, myself. I too have had my difficulties. I have had my
temptations, and I have not always resisted. God knows it is difficult
for men to do always the right thing. It is a thousand times more
difficult for women. When we spoke together in Petersburg, and I offered
you my poor friendship, I was not acting in the dark. I knew as much
then as I do now. Princess, I knew about the Charity League papers. I
knew more than any except Stepan Lanovitch, and it was he who told me."

He was stroking her shoulder with the soothing movements that one uses
toward a child in distress. His great hand, broad and thick, had a
certain sense of quiet comfort and strength in it. Etta ceased sobbing,
and sat with bowed head, looking through her tears into the gay wood
fire. It is probable that she failed to realize the great charity of the
man who was speaking to her. For the capacity for evil merges at some
point or other into incapability for comprehending good.

"Is that all he knows?" she was wondering.

The suggestion that Sydney Bamborough was not dead had risen up to
eclipse all other fear in her mind. In some part