Malcolm Hay drew rein half a verst from the Church of St. Andrea.  Though his shaggy little horse showed no signs of distress, Malcolm kicked his feet free from the stirrups and descended, for his journey had been a long one, the day was poisonously hot and the steppe across which he had ridden, for all its golden beauty, its wealth of blue cornflour and yellow genista, had been wearisome.  Overhead the sky was an unbroken bowl of blue and at its zenith rode a brazen merciless sun.

He took a leather cigar-case from his pocket, extracted a long black cheroot and lit it; then, leaving his horse to its own devices, he mounted the bank by the side of the road, from whence he could look across the valley of the Dneiper.  That majestic river lay beneath him and to the right.

Before him, at the foot of the long, steep and winding road, lay the quarter which is called Podol.

For the rest his horizon was filled with a jumble of buildings, magnificent or squalid; the half-revealed roofs on the wooded slopes of the four hills, and the ragged fringe of belfry and glittering cupola which made up the picture of Kieff.

The month was June and the year of grace 1914, and Malcolm Hay, chief engineer of the Ukraine-American Oil Corporation, had no other thought in his mind, as he looked upon the undoubted beauty of Kieff, than that it would be a very pleasant place to leave.  He climbed the broken stone wall and stood, his hands thrust deeply into his breeches pockets, watching the scene.  It was one of those innumerable holy days which the Russian peasant celebrated with such zest.  Rather it was the second of three consecutive feast days and, as Malcolm knew, there was small chance of any work being done on the field until his labourers had taken their fill of holiness, and had slept off the colossal drunk which inevitably followed this pious exercise.

A young peasant, wearing a sheepskin coat despite the stifling heat of the day, walked quickly up the hill leading a laden donkey.  The man stopped when he was abreast of Malcolm, took a cigarette from the inside of his coat and lit it.

“God save you, dudushka,” he said cheerfully.

Malcolm was so used to being addressed as “little grandfather,” and that for all his obvious youth, that he saw nothing funny in the address.

“God save you, my little man,” he replied.

The new-comer was a broad-faced, pleasant-looking fellow with a ready grin, and black eyebrows that met above his nose.  Malcolm Hay knew the type, but to-day being for idleness, he did not dread the man’s loquacity as he would had it been a working day.

“My name is Gleb,” introduced the man:  “I come from the village of Potchkoi where my father has seven cows and a bull.”

“God give him prosperity and many calves,” said Malcolm mechanically.

“Tell me, gospodar, do you ride into our holy city to-day?”

“Surely,” said Malcolm.

“Then you will do well to avoid the Street of Black Mud,” said Gleb.

Malcolm waited.

“I speak wisely because of my name,” said the man with calm assurance; “possibly your excellence has wondered why I should bear the same name as the great saint who lies yonder,” he pointed to one of the towering belfries shimmering with gold that rose above the shoulder of a distant hill.  “I am Gleb, the son of Gleb, and it is said that we go back a thousand years to the Holy Ones.  Also, it was prophesied by a wise woman,” said the peasant, puffing out a cloud of smoke and crossing himself at the same time, “that I should go the way of holiness and that after my death my body should be incorruptible.”

“All this is very interesting, little brother,” said Malcolm with a smile, “but first you must tell me why I should not go into the Street of Black Mud.”

The man laughed softly.

“Because of Israel Kensky,” he said significantly.

You could not live within a hundred miles of Kieff and not know of Israel Kensky.  Malcolm realized with a start that he had not met the old man since he left him in London.

“In what way has Israel Kensky offended?” asked Malcolm, understanding the menace in the man’s tone.

Gleb, squatting in the dust, brushed his sheepskin delicately with the tips of his fingers.

“Little father,” he said, “all men know Israel Kensky is a Jew and that he practises secret devil-rites, using the blood of Christian children.  This is the way of Jews, as your lordship knows.  Also he was seen on the plains to shoot pigeons, which is a terrible offence, for to shoot a pigeon is to kill the Holy Ghost.”

Malcolm knew that the greater offence had not yet been stated and waited.

“To-day I think they will kill him if the Grand Duke does not send his soldiers to hold the people in check ­or the Grand Duchess, his lovely daughter who has spoken for him before, does not speak again.”

“But why should they kill Kensky?” asked Malcolm.

It was not the first time that Israel Kensky had been the subject of hostile demonstrations.  The young engineer had heard these stories of horrible rites practised at the expense of Christian children, and had heard them so often that he was hardened to the repetition.

The grin had left the man’s face and there was a fanatical light in the solemn eyes when he replied: 

“Gospodar, it is known that this man has a book which is called ’The Book of All-Power!’”

Malcolm nodded.

“So the foolish say,” he said.

“It has been seen,” said the other; “his own daughter, Sophia Kensky, who has been baptised in the faith of Our Blessed Lord, has told the Archbishop of this book.  She, herself, has seen it.”

“But why should you kill a man because he has a book?” demanded Malcolm, knowing well what the answer would be.

“Why should we kill him!  A thousand reasons, gospodar,” cried the man passionately; “he who has this book understands the black magic of Kensky and the Jews!  By the mysteries in this book he is able to torment his enemies and bring sorrow to the Christians who oppose him.  Did not the man Ivan Nickolovitch throw a stone at him, and did not Ivan drop dead the next day on his way to mass, aye and turn black before they carried him to the hospital?  And did not Mishka Yakov, who spat at him, suffer almost immediately from a great swelling of the throat so that she is not able to speak or swallow to this very day without pain?”

Malcolm jumped down from the wall and laughed, and it was a helpless little laugh, the laugh of one who, for four long years, had fought against the superstitions of the Russian peasantry.  He had seen the work of his hands brought to naught, and a boring abandoned just short of the oil because a cross-eyed man, attracted by curiosity, had come and looked at the work.  He had seen his wells go up in smoke for some imaginary act of witchcraft on the part of his foreman, and, though he laughed, he was in no sense amused.

“Go with God, little brother,” he said; “some day you will have more sense and know that men do not practise witchcraft.”

“Perhaps I am wiser than you,” said Gleb, getting up and whistling for his donkey, who had strayed up the side lane.

Before Malcolm could reply there was a clatter of hoofs and two riders came galloping round the bend of the road making for the town.  The first of these was a girl, and the man who followed behind was evidently the servant of an exalted house, for he wore a livery of green and gold.

Gleb’s ass had come cantering down at his master’s whistle and now stood broadside-on in the middle of the road, blocking the way.  The girl pulled up her horse with a jerk and, half-turning her head to her attendant, she called.  The man rode forward.

“Get your donkey out of the way, fool,” he boomed in a deep-chested roar.

He was a big man, broad-shouldered and stout.  Like most Russian domestic servants, his face was clean-shaven, but Malcolm, watching the scene idly, observed only this about him ­that he had a crooked nose and that his hair was a fiery red.

“Gently, gently.”  It was the girl who spoke and she addressed her restive horse in English.

As for Gleb, the peasant, he stood, his hands clasped before him, his head humbly hung, incapable of movement, and with a laugh Malcolm jumped down from the bank, seized the donkey by his bridle and drew him somewhat reluctantly to the side of the road.  The girl’s horse had been curveting and prancing nervously, so that it brought her to within a few paces of Malcolm, and he looked up, wondering what rich man’s daughter was this who spoke in English to her horse ... only once before had he seen her in the light of day.

The face was not pale, yet the colour that was in her cheeks so delicately toned with the ivory-white of forehead and neck that she looked pale.  The eyes, set wide apart, were so deep a grey that in contrast with the creamy pallor of brow they appeared black.

A firm, red mouth he noticed; thin pencilling of eyebrows, a tangle of dark brown hair; but neither sight of her nor sound of her tired drawling voice, gave her such permanence in his mind as the indefinite sense of womanliness that clothed her like an aurora.

He responded wonderfully to some mysterious call she made upon the man in him.  He felt that his senses played no part in shaping his view.  If he had met her in the dark, and had neither seen nor heard; if she had been a bare-legged peasant girl on her way to the fields; if he had met her anywhere, anyhow ­she would have been divine.

She, for her part, saw a tall young man, mahogany faced, leanly made, in old shooting-jacket and battered Stetson hat.  She saw a good forehead and an unruly mop of hair, and beneath two eyes, now awe-stricken by her femininity (this she might have guessed) rather than by her exalted rank.  They were eyes with a capacity for much laughter, she thought, and wished Russian men had eyes like those.

“My horse is afraid of your donkey, I think,” she smiled.

“It isn’t my donkey,” he stammered, and she laughed again frankly at his embarrassment.

And then the unexpected happened.  With a frightened neigh her horse leapt sideways toward him.  He sprang back to avoid the horse’s hoofs and heard her little exclamation of dismay.  In the fraction of a second he realized she was falling and held out his arms to catch her.  For a moment she lay on his breast, her soft cheek against his, the overpowering fragrance of her presence taking his breath away.  Then she gently disengaged herself and stepped back.  There was colour in her face now and something which might have been mischief, or annoyance, or sheer amusement, in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she said.

Her tone was even and did not encourage further advances on his part.

“I lost my balance.  Will you hold my horse’s head?”

She was back in the saddle and turning, with a proud little inclination of her head, was picking a way down the steep hill before he realized what had happened.  He gazed after her, hoping at least that feminine curiosity would induce her to turn and look back, but in this he was disappointed.

The peasant, Gleb, still stood by the side of the road, his hands clasped, his head bent as though in a trance.

“Wake up, little monkey,” said Malcolm testily.  “Why did you not hold the horse for the lady whilst I helped her to mount?”

“Dudushka, it is forbidden, Zaprestcheno,” said the man huskily.  “She is Kaziomne!  The property of the Czar!”

“The Czar!” gasped Malcolm.

He had lived long enough in Russia to have imbibed some of the awe and reverence for that personage.

“Little master,” said the man, “it was her Magnificence, the Grand Duchess Irene Yaroslav.”

“The Grand !” Malcolm gasped.  The reality of his dreams and he had not recognized her!

Long after the peasant had departed he stood on the spot where he had held her, like a man in a trance, and he was very thoughtful when he picked up the reins of his horse and swung himself into the saddle.

Kieff is built upon many hills and it has the beauty and distinction of possessing steeper roads than any other city in Europe.  He was on his way to the Grand Hotel, and this necessitated his passing through Podol, crossing the Hill of the Cliff, and descending into the valley beyond.

Considering it was a feast day the streets were strangely deserted.  He met a few old men and women in festal garb and supposed that the majority of the people were at the shrines in which Kieff abounds.  He passed through the poorer Jewish quarter, and did not remember the peasant’s warning not to go into the Street of Black Mud until he had turned into that thoroughfare.

Long before he had reached the street he heard the roar of the crowd, and knew that some kind of trouble was brewing.  The street was filled with knots of men and women, and their faces by common attraction, were turned in one direction.  The focal point was a densely packed crowd which swayed toward the gateway of a tall, grim-looking house, which he recognized as the home of the millionaire, Kensky.

The roar intensified to a continuous shriek of malignant hate.  He saw sticks and fists brandished and heard above the scream of frenzied women the deep-throated “Kill!  Death to the Jew!” which was not unfamiliar to one who knew Kieff in moments of religious excitement.  It was no business of his, and he drew his horse to the side of the street and watched, wondering what part the black-bearded Russian priests, who were in force and who seemed to form the centre of each knot of idlers, were playing in this act of persecution.

On the outskirts of the crowd he observed a green and gold coat, and, its wearer turning his head, he recognized him as the swarthy menial who had ridden behind the Grand Duchess.  He was as violent and as energetic as the most lawless, and seemed engaged in pushing men into the crowd and dragging forward hesitant bystanders to swell the throng which was pressing about the iron gates of the building.

And then Malcolm saw something which brought his heart to his mouth, a white hand raised from above the bobbing black heads, a hand raised in appeal or command.  Instinctively he knew its owner and spurred his horse into the throng, sending the people flying in all directions.  There was a small clear space immediately before the door which enabled him to see the two chief actors in the drama long before he was within hailing distance.

The space was caused by a dead horse, as he afterwards discovered, but, for the moment, his eyes were fixed on the girl who stood with her back to the grille, shielding with her frail body a little old man, white-bearded and bent, who crouched behind her outstretched arms, his pale face streaming with blood.  A broken key in the grille told the story of his foiled attempt to escape.  Grimy hands clutched at Malcolm’s knees as he drove through the press, a stone whistled past his ear and shrill voices uttered imprecations at the daring foreigner, but he swerved to left and right and made a way until the sight of the dead horse brought his frightened mount to a quivering standstill.

He leapt from the saddle and sprang to the girl’s side, and to his amazement his appearance seemed to strike consternation into her heart.

“Why did you come?  Get away as quickly as you can,” she breathed.  “Oh, you were mad to come here!”

“But ­but you?” he said.

“They will not hurt me,” she said rapidly.  “It is the old man they want.  Can you smash the lock and get him inside?”

“Give us the book, Jew,” yelled a deep voice above the babel of sound.  “Give us the book and you shall live!  Lady!  Magnificence!  Make the old man give us the book!”

Malcolm took a flying kick at the gate and the lock yielded.  He half lifted, half carried the old man and pushed inside, where another locked door confronted them.

“Have you a key?” demanded Malcolm hurriedly.  “Quick!”

The old man felt in his pocket with trembling fingers and in doing so he crept behind his guardian.  Malcolm now turned and faced the crowd.

“Come in, for God’s sake,” he called to the girl, but she shook her head.

“They will not hurt me,” she said over her shoulder; “it is you!”

At that moment Malcolm felt something heavy slipped into the loose pocket of his jacket and a quivering voice, harsh with fear, whispered in his ear: 

“Keep it, gospodar.  To-morrow I will come for it at the Grand Hotel at the middle hour!”

The crowd was now surging forward and the girl was being pressed back into the little lobby by their weight.  Suddenly the door opened with a crack and the old man slipped through.

“Come, come,” he cried.

Malcolm leapt forward, clasped the girl about the waist and swung her behind him.

The shrieks of the crowd broke and a new note crept into the pandemonium of sound, a note of fear.  From outside came a clatter of hoofs on the cobbled roadway.  There was a flash of red and white pennons, the glitter of steel lances and a glimpse of bottle-green coats as half a sotnia of Cossacks swept the street clear.

They looked at one another, the girl and the man, oblivious to the appeal of hand and voice which the old man in the doorway was offering.

“I think you are very brave,” said the girl, “or else very foolish.  You do not know our Kieff people.”

“I know them very well,” he said grimly.

“It was equally foolish of me to interfere,” she said quickly, “and I ought not to blame you.  They killed my horse.”

She pointed to the dead horse lying before the doorway.

“Where was your servant?” he asked, but she made no reply.  He repeated the question, thinking she had not heard and being at some loss for any other topic of conversation.

“Let us go out,” she said, ignoring the query, “we are safe now.”

He was following her when he remembered the packet in his pocket and turned to the old man.

“Here is your ­”

“No, no, no, keep it,” whispered Israel Kensky.  “They may come again to-night!  My daughter told them that I was carrying it.  May she roast!”

“What is it?” asked Malcolm curiously.

The old man’s lips parted in a toothless smile.

“It is the ‘Book of All-Power!’”

He blinked up at Malcolm, peering into his face expectantly.  “They all desire it, gospodar, from the Grand Duke in his beautiful palace to the moujik in his cellar ­they all desire my lovely book!  I trust you with it for one night, gospodar, because you are English.  Ah, well, you are not Russian.  Guard it closely, for it holds the secret of tears and of happiness.  You shall learn how to make men and women your slaves and how to turn people into Jews, and how to make men and women adore you, aï, aï!  There are recipes for beauty in my book which make plain women lovely and old men young!”

Malcolm could only stare.