Paul, standing by the table with two paraffin lamps placed behind him, saw each suppliant in turn, and all the while he kept up a running conversation with the more intelligent, some of whom lingered on to talk and watch.

“Ah, John the son of John,” he would say, “what is the matter with you?  It is not often I see you.  I thought you were clean and thrifty.”

To which John the son of John replied that the winter had been hard and fuel scarce, that his wife was dead and his children stricken with influenza.

“But you have had relief; our good friend the starosta—­”

“Does what he can,” grumbled John, “but he dare not do much.  The barins will not let him.  The nobles want all the money for themselves.  The Emperor is living in his palace, where there are fountains of wine.  We pay for that with our taxes.  You see my hand—­I cannot work; but I must pay the taxes, or else we shall be turned out into the street.”

Paul, while attending to the wounded hand—­an old story of an old wound neglected, and a constitution with all the natural healing power drained out of it by hunger and want and vodka—­Paul, ever watchful, glanced round and saw sullen, lowering faces, eager eyes, hungry, cruel lips.

“But the winter is over now.  You are mistaken about the nobles.  They do what they can.  The Emperor pays for the relief that you have had all these months.  It is foolish to talk as you do.”

“I only tell the truth,” replied the man, wincing as Paul deliberately cut away the dead flesh.  “We know now why it is that we are all so poor.”

“Why?” asked Paul, pouring some lotion over a wad of lint and speaking indifferently.

“Because the nobles—­” began the man, and some one nudged him from behind, urging him to silence.

“You need not be afraid of me,” said Paul.  “I tell no tales, and I take no money.”

“Then why do you come?” asked a voice in the background.  “Some one pays you; who is it?”

“Ah, Tula,” said Paul, without looking up.  “You are there, are you?  The great Tula.  There is a hardworking, sober man, my little fathers, who never beats his wife, and never drinks, and never borrows money.  A useful neighbor!  What is the matter with you, Tula?  You have been too sparing with the vodka, no doubt.  I must order you a glass every hour.”

There was a little laugh.  But Paul, who knew these people, was quite alive to the difference of feeling toward himself.  They still accepted his care, his help, his medicine; but they were beginning to doubt him.

“There is your own prince,” he went on fearlessly to the man whose hand he was binding up.  “He will help you when there is real distress.”

An ominous silence greeted this observation.