d besides venture to travel during
the daytime, as a person on horseback with an attendant would be less
suspected than a poor wayworn traveller on foot. Thankful for the
assistance so unexpectedly afforded me, I set off with my young
companion. He was one of the most intelligent of the lads, and full of
life and spirits. Vacia was his name. He told me he was an orphan: he
lived in the house of a neighbouring proprietor, more as a servant than
as an equal, though his parents were both noble, he believed. He never
knew them. `Ah! I wish that I had some one like you to live with,' he
exclaimed; `I would go with you round the world.' I was pleased with
the lad's warmth. `I am but a poor man myself,' I answered, `very poor,
Vacia; believe me, I could not afford you protection.'--`I care not for
that; I like you much, very much; not for what you appear, but for what
you say. You speak wisdom;--you speak to my heart.' I told him where I
got that wisdom; that I spoke not of myself, but that I spoke from the
Bible, and that all who would go there would get the same. We rode on
talking thus for many versts. I at last reined up my horse and reminded
him that he must return home, that the horses were not his, and that I
had no right to tire them.

"`Oh, the Count would not object to my thus using them,' he answered.
`He is not unkind, understand. I am grateful to him for many things,
but I cannot love him. He has no soul--he cannot talk to me--he never
reads--he has no thought except as to what he will eat and what he will
drink. He esteems his cook more than his wife--more than any one. Who
can love such a man?'

"I fully entered into young Vacia's feelings. `I should much like to
have your company,' I replied; `you would make my days far more pleasant
than they now are, and I might instruct you in many things you do not
now know; but, alas! My young friend, this cannot be. My course is
full of difficulties and dangers, and I must not let any one share it
with me.' What I now said only increased the lad's ardour.
Difficulties and dangers he longed to encounter. He scarcely knew,
however, what they signified. The danger was not death, but a
protracted march to Siberia, or the knout, and imprisonment--inflictions
far more trying than wounds or death. `Come, come, my young friend, we
must part,' I exclaimed, throwing myself from my horse. `I am most
grateful to you for your regard and for your kindness, but