The girl’s voice called, and Malcolm left old Kensky without a word and went to her side.  “Will you walk with me to my father’s palace?” she said.  “I do not think it is safe for you to be alone.”

A semi-circle of mounted Cossacks surrounded them now, and the unfaithful Boolba (such was the servant’s name, he learnt) was standing with an impassive face holding his horse’s head.

“One of the soldiers will take your horse,” she said.  “Boolba, you will follow us.”

Her voice was stern and she looked the man straight in the eyes, but he did not flinch.

“Prikazeno, Highness, it is ordered,” he said simply.

She turned and walked the way she had come, turning into the big square followed by a small escort of Cossacks.

They walked in silence for some time, and it was the girl who first spoke.

“What do you think of Russia, Mr. Hay?” she asked.

He jerked his head round at her in surprise.

“You didn’t know me on the hill,” she laughed, “but I knew you!  And there are not so many foreigners in the Kieff region that you should be unknown to the Grand Duke,” she said, “and besides, you were at the reception which my father gave a year ago.”

“I did not see your Highness there,” said Malcolm.  “I came especially ­” he stopped short in confusion.

“That was probably because I was not visible,” she replied dryly.  “I have been to Cambridge for a year to finish my education.”

“That is why your English is so good,” he smiled.

“It’s much better than your Russian,” she said calmly.  “You ought not to have said ‘ukhoditzay’ to people ­you only say that to beggars, and I think they were rather annoyed with you.”

“I should imagine they were,” he laughed; “but won’t you tell me what happened to your servant?  I thought I saw him on the outskirts of the crowd and the impression I formed was ­” he hesitated.

“I shouldn’t form impressions if I were you,” she said hurriedly.  “Here in Russia one ought not to puzzle one’s head over such things.  When you meet the inexplicable, accept it as such and inquire no further.”

She was silent again, and when she spoke she was more serious.

“The Russian people always impress me as a great sea of lava, boiling and spluttering and rolling slowly between frail banks which we have built for them,” said the girl.

“I often wonder whether those banks will ever break,” said Malcolm quietly; “if they do ­”

“Yes?”

“They will burn up Russia,” said Malcolm.

“So I think,” said the girl.  “Father believes that the war ­” she stopped short.

“The war?”

Malcolm had heard rumours so often of the inevitable war which would be fought to establish the hegemony of the Slav over Eastern Europe that the scepticism in his tone was pardonable.  She looked at him sharply.

“You do not think there will be war?”

“One has heard so often,” he began.

“I know, I know,” she said, a little impatiently, and changed the subject.

They talked about the people, the lovable character of the peasants, the extraordinary depth of their religious faiths, their amazing superstitions, and suddenly Malcolm remembered the book in his pocket, and was about to speak of it, but stopped himself, feeling that, by so speaking, he was betraying the confidence of the old man who had entrusted his treasure to a stranger’s care.

“What is this story of the book of Kensky?”

“’The Book of All-Power’?”

She did not smile as he had expected her to.

“Old Israel Kensky is a curious man,” she said guardedly.  “The people credit him with all sorts of powers which of course he does not possess.  They believe he is a wizard, that he can bend people to his will.  They say the most terrible things about the religious ceremonies over which he presides.”

They were mounting the hill behind which lay the fashionable quarter of Kieff with its great stone palaces, its wonderful cherry gardens and broad avenues.

“I like old Kensky,” she went on; “he sometimes comes to the palace to bring new silks ­he is the greatest merchant in Little Russia.  He even tells me his troubles ­he has a terrible daughter:  you have heard about her?”

“I thought she was rather good,” said Malcolm humorously.  “Isn’t she a Christian?”

The girl shrugged her shoulders.  Evidently her Grand Ducal Highness had no great opinion of Sophia Kensky’s conversion.

The Grand Ducal palace was built in the Byzantine style and presented, from the broad carriage drive that led from the road, a confusion of roofs, windows and bastions, as though the designer had left the working out of his plan to fifty different architects, and each architect had interpreted the scheme of construction in his own way.

The Grand Duke was standing in the portico as they went through the gate, and came down the steps to meet them.  He was a mild-looking man of medium height and wore pince-nez.  Malcolm remembered that on the one occasion he had met his Highness he had been disappointed in his lack of personal grandeur.

“My child, my child!” said the Duke, coming to the girl with outstretched arms.  “What a terrible misfortune!  How came you to be mixed up in this matter?  The commandant has just telephoned to me.  I have called for his resignation.  By St. Inokeste, I will not have the rabble breathing upon you!  And this is the good gentleman who came to your rescue?”

He surveyed Malcolm with his cold blue eyes, but both glance and intonation lacked the cordiality which his words implied.

“I thank you.  I am indeed grateful to you.  You understand they would not have harmed the Grand Duchess, but this you could not know.  As for the Jew ­”

He became suddenly thoughtful.  He had the air of a man wholly preoccupied in his secret thoughts and who now emerged from his shell under the greatest protest.  To Malcolm it seemed that he resented even the necessity for communicating his thoughts to his own daughter.

“I am happy to have been of service to your Grand Ducal Highness,” said Malcolm correctly.

“Yes, yes, yes,” interrupted the Grand Duke nervously, “but you will stay and breakfast with me?  Come, I insist, Mr. ­er ­er ­”

“Mr. Hay, father,” said the girl.

The conversation throughout was carried on in English, which was not remarkable, remembering that that was the family language of the Court.

“Yes, yes, yes, Mr. Hay, you must stay to breakfast.  You have been very good, very noble, I am sure.  Irene, you must persuade this gentleman.”  He held out his hand jerkily and Malcolm took it with a bow.

Then without another word or even so much as a glance at his daughter, the Grand Duke turned and hurried back into the palace, leaving Malcolm very astonished and a little uncomfortable.

The girl saw his embarrassment.

“My father does not seem to be very hospitable,” she smiled, and once more he saw that little gleam of mischief in her eyes, “but I will give you a warmer invitation.”

He spread out his hands in mock dismay and looked down at his untidy clothes.

“Your Highness is very generous,” he said, “but how can I come to the Grand Duke’s table like this?”

“You will not see the Grand Duke,” she laughed; “father gives these invitations but never accepts them himself!  He breakfasts in his own room, so if you can endure me alone ­” she challenged.

He said nothing but looked much, and her eyes fell before his.  All the time he was conscious that red-haired Boolba stood stiffly behind him, a spectator, yet, as Malcolm felt, a participant in this small affair of the breakfast invitation.  She followed Malcolm’s look and beckoned the man forward.  He had already surrendered the horses to an orderly.

“Take the lord to a guest-room,” she said in Russian, “and send a valet to attend to him.”

“It is ordered,” said the man, and with a nod, the girl turned and walked into the house, followed at a more leisurely pace by Malcolm and the man with the crooked nose.

Boolba led the way up a broad flight of stairs, carpeted with thick red pile, along a corridor pierced at intervals with great windows, to another corridor leading off and through a door which, from its dimensions, suggested the entrance to a throne-room, into a suite gorgeously furnished and resplendent with silver electroliers.  It consisted of a saloon leading into a bedroom, which was furnished in the same exquisite taste.  A further door led to a marble-tiled bathroom.

“Such luxury!” murmured Malcolm.

“Has the gospodar any orders?”

It was the solemn Boolba who spoke.  Malcolm looked at him.

“Tell me this, Boolba,” he said, falling into the familiar style of address which experience had taught him was the correct line to follow when dealing with Russian servants, “how came it that your mistress was alone before the house of Israel Kensky, the Jew, and you were on the outskirts of the crowd urging them on?”

If the man felt any perturbation at the bluntness of the question he did not show it.

“Kensky is a Jew,” he said coolly; “on the night of the Pentecost he takes the blood of new-born Christian babies and sprinkles his money so that it may be increased in the coming year.  This Sophia Kensky, his own daughter, has told me.”

Malcolm shrugged his shoulders.

“You are no ignorant moujik, Boolba,” he said contemptuously, “you have travelled with his Highness all over the world.” (This was a shot at a venture, but apparently was not without justification.) “How can you, an educated man of the people, believe such rubbish?”

“He has a book, gospodar,” said Boolba, “and we people who desire power would have that book, for it teaches men how they may command the souls of others, so that when they lift their little fingers, those who hate them best shall obey them.”

Malcolm looked at him in astonishment.

“Do you believe this?”

For the first time a smile crossed the face of the man with the crooked nose.  It was not a pleasant smile to see, for there was cunning in it and a measureless capacity for cruelty.

“Who knows all the miracles and wonders of the world?” he said.  “My lord knows there is a devil, and has he not his angels on earth?  It is best to be sure of these things, and we cannot be certain ­until we have seen the book which the Jew gave to your lordship.”

He paused a little before uttering the last sentence which gave his assertion a special significance.  Malcolm eyed him narrowly.

“The Jew did not give me any book, Boolba,” he said.

“I thought your lordship ­”

“You thought wrongly,” said Malcolm shortly.

Boolba bowed and withdrew.

The situation was not a particularly pleasant one.  Malcolm had in his possession a book which men were willing to commit murder to obtain, and he was not at all anxious that his name should be associated with the practice of witchcraft.

It was all ridiculous and absurd, of course, but then in Russia nothing was so absurd that it could be lightly dismissed from consideration.  He walked to the door and turned the key, then took from his pocket the thing which Israel Kensky had slipped in.  It was a thick, stoutly bound volume secured by two brass locks.  The binding was of yellow calf, and it bore the following inscription in Russian stamped in gold lettering: 

“THE BOOK OF ALL-POWER.”

“Herein is the magic of power and the words and symbols which unlock the sealed hearts of men and turn their proud wills to water.”

On the bottom left-hand corner of the cover was an inscription in Hebrew, which Malcolm could not read, but which he guessed stood for the birth-name of Israel Kensky.  He turned the book over in his hand, and, curiosity overcoming him, he tried to force his thumb-nail into the marbled edge of the leaves that he might secure a glimpse of its contents.  But the book was too tightly bound, and after another careful examination, he pulled off his coat and started to make himself presentable for breakfast.

The little meal was wholly delightful.  Besides Malcolm and the girl there were present a faded Russian lady, whom he guessed was her official chaperon, and a sour-visaged Russian priest who ceremoniously blessed the food and was apparently the Grand Duke’s household chaplain.  He did not speak throughout the meal, and seemed to be in a condition of rapt contemplation.

But for all Malcolm knew there might have been a hundred people present ­he had eyes and ears only for the girl.  She had changed to a dark blue costume beneath which was a plain white silk blouse cut deeply at the neck.

He was struck by the fact that she wore no jewels, and he found himself rejoicing at the absence of rings in general and of one ring in particular.

Of course, it was all lunacy, sheer clotted madness, as he told himself, but this was a day to riot in illusions, for undreamt-of things had happened, and who could swear that the days of fairies had passed?  To meet a dream-Irene on his way to Kieff was unlikely, to rescue her from an infuriated mob (for though they insisted that she was in no danger he was no less insistent that he rescued her, since this illusion was the keystone to all others), to be sitting at lunch with such a vision of youthful loveliness ­all these things were sufficiently outside the range of probabilities to encourage the development of his dream in a comfortable direction.

“To-night,” thought he, “I shall be eating a prosaic dinner at the Grand Hotel, and the Grand Duchess Irene Yaroslav will be a remote personage whom I shall only see in the picture papers, or possibly over the heads of a crowd on her way to the railway station.”

And so he was outrageously familiar.  He ceased to “Highness” her, laughed at her jokes and in turn provoked her to merriment.  The meal came to an end too soon for him, but not too soon for the nodding dowager nor the silent, contemplating priest, who had worn through his period of saintly abstraction and had grown most humanly impatient.

The girl looked at her watch.

“Good gracious,” she said, “it is four o’clock and I have promised to go to tennis.” (Malcolm loathed tennis from that hour.)

He took his leave of her with a return to something of the old ceremonial.

“Your Grand Ducal Highness has been most gracious,” he said, but she arrested his eloquence with a little grimace.

“Please, remember, Mr. Hay, that I shall be a Grand Ducal Highness for quite a long time, so do not spoil a very pleasant afternoon by being over-punctilious.”

He laughed.

“Then I will call you ­”

He came to a dead end, and the moment was embarrassing for both, though why a Grand Ducal Highness should be embarrassed by a young engineer she alone might explain.

Happily there arrived most unexpectedly the Grand Duke himself, and if his appearance was amazing, as it was to judge by the girl’s face, his geniality was sensational.

He crossed the hall and gripped the young man’s hand.

“You’re not going, Mr. Hay?” he asked.  “Come, come, I have been a very bad host, but I do not intend to let you go so soon!  I have much that I want to talk to you about.  You are the engineer in charge of the Ukraine Oil Field, is it not so?  Excellent!  Now, I have oil on my estate in the Urals but it has never been developed....”

He took the young man by the arm and led him through the big doors to the garden, giving him no chance to complete or decently postpone his farewell to the girl, who watched with undisguised amazement this staggering affability on the part of her parent.