,
scratching his head.

Natasha flared up.

"You say you love me?" she cried energetically, with a glance of
anger. "Well, then, do it. Unless you are telling lies, you can learn
to do banknotes."

The young man strode up and down his den, perplexed.

"How soon do you want it?" he asked, after a minute's thought. "In a
couple of days?"

"Yes, in about two days, not longer, or the whole thing is done for!"
the girl replied decisively. "In two days I'll come for the writing,
and be sure my passport is ready!"

"Very well. I'll do it," consented Bodlevski. And Natasha began to
dictate to him the wording of the letter.

As soon as she was gone the engraver got to work. All the evening and
a great part of the night he bent over the papers she had brought,
examining the handwriting, studying the letters, and practicing every
stroke with the utmost care, copying and repeating it a hundred times,
until at last he had reached the required clearness. At last he
mastered the writing. It only remained to give it the needed lightness
and naturalness. His head rang from the concentration of blood in his
temples, but he still worked on.

Finally, when it was almost morning, the note was written, and the
name of Princess Anna was signed to it. The work was a masterpiece,
and even exceeded Bodlevski's expectations. Its lightness and
clearness were remarkable. The engraver, examining the writing of
Princess Anna, compared it with his own work, and was astonished, so
perfect was the resemblance.

And long he admired his handiwork, with the parental pride known to
every creator, and as he looked at this note he for the first time
fully realized that he was an artist.

III

THE CAVE

"Half the work is done!" he cried, jumping from the tumble-down sofa.
"But the passport? There's where the shoe pinches," continued the
engraver, remembering the second half of Natasha's commission. "The
passport--yes--that's where the shoe pinches!" he muttered to himself
in perplexity, resting his head on his hands and his elbows on his
knees. Thinking over all kinds of possible and impossible plans, he
suddenly remembered a fellow countryman of his, a shoemaker named
Yuzitch, who had once confessed in a moment of intoxication that "he
would rather hook a watch than patch a shoe." Bodlevski remembered
that three months before he had met Yuzitch in the street, and they
had gone together to a wine shop, where, over a bottle generously
ord