The boy gave his grandfather a roll of bank-notes, clean and crisp, and immediately left the room.
In perfect silence the old man handed the notes to Ivan, who tried to express his thanks; but Petrovitch stopped him. "The money," he said coldly, "is a matter of indifference to me. You are more than welcome to it, Prince Ivan." Never until to-day had he addressed him in such a tone.
Ivan drew near, knelt down before his chair, and took his hand affectionately. "Dear old friend," he said, "I see that I have wounded you. Forgive me, for my grandfather's sake,—and for my own, for I love you truly."
The aged face quivered with suppressed emotion, yet Petrovitch drew his hand away. "You cannot love me, Prince Ivan Pojarsky," he said, "if you love not the land of your fathers."
"The land of my fathers!" repeated Ivan in surprise. "What can you mean?"
"Stand up, Prince Ivan," continued the old man, still speaking with sternness; "the posture of a suppliant does not become you. Do you think it is anything to me that you have lost a few thousand roubles at play? Do you think that if you needed my whole fortune I would heave a sigh or shed a tear as I gave it into your hands? But it is a grief to me, beyond sighs and tears, that trifles such as these should occupy the heir of Pojarsky when the foot of the enemy is on the soil of holy Russia."
"What?" cried Ivan, springing to his feet in amazement.
"Can it be possible you have not heard?" asked Petrovitch, the heavy cloud of displeasure beginning to clear from his brow. "At daybreak this morning the tidings came. They have crossed the Niemen, those barbarous hosts that own no God in heaven, no king on earth save that monster from the abyss they call Napoleon. They come—in the stillness and darkness I seem to hear their footsteps across plain, and forest,
