"We were taken on board the U.S. search-vessel _Concord_, commissioned
to seek for the records of the lost American Polar expedition. There we
were treated as princes, or as American citizens, which apparently means
the same thing. That is all my yarn. The Czar's arm is long, but it
does not reach either London or New York."

"And Leof and Big Peter?" I asked, as Constantine ceased speaking. As
though with an effort, he recalled himself.

"Big Peter," he said, "is at St. Louis. He is in the pork trade, is
married, and has a large family."

"And Leof?"

"Ah, Leof! he went back to Russia at the time of the former Czar's
death, and has not been heard of since."

"And you, Constantine, you will never put your nose in the lion's den
again--_you_ will never go back to Russia?"

Almost for the first time throughout the long story, Constantine looked
me fixedly in the eyes. The strange light of another world, of the
fatalist East, looked plainly out of his eyes. Every Russian carries a
terrible possibility about with him like a torch of tragic flame, ready
to be lighted at any moment.

"That is as may be," he said very slowly; "it is possible that I may go
back--at the time of other deaths, _and--also--not--return--any--more_."

BOOK FOURTH

IDYLLS

I

ACROSS THE MARCH DYKE

I

_Far in the deep of Arden wood it lies;
About it pleasant leaves for ever wave.
Through charmed afternoons we wander on,
And at the sundown reach the seas that lave
The golden isles of blessed Avalon.
When the sweet daylight dies,
Out of the gloom the ferryman doth glide
To take us both into a younger day;
And as the twilight land recedes away,
My lady draweth closer to my side_.

II

_Thus to a granary for our winter need
We bring these gleanings from the harvest field;
Not the full crop we bring, but only sheaves
At random ta'en from autumn's golden yield--
One handful from a forest's fallen leaves;
Yet shall this grain be seed
Wherewith to sow the furrows year by year--
These wither'd leaves of other springs the pledge,
When thou shalt hear, over our hawthorn hedge
The mavis to his own mate calling clear_.

"_Memory Harvest_."

There was the brool of war in the valley of Howpaslet. It was a warlike
parish. Its strifes were ecclesiastical mainly, barring those of the ice
and the channel-stones. The de