Paul Howard Alexis was not a man to analyze his thoughts.  Your strong man is usually ignorant of the existence of his own feelings.  He is never conscious of them.  Paul walked slowly through the village of Osterno, and realized, in his uncompromising honesty, that of the nine hundred men who lived therein there were not three upon whom he could rely.  He had upheld his peasants for years against the cynic truths of Karl Steinmetz.  He had resolutely refused to admit even to himself that they were as devoid of gratitude as they were of wisdom.  And this was the end of all!

One of the men following him hurried on and caught him up.

“Excellency,” he gasped, breathless with his haste, “you must not come here alone any longer.  I am afraid of them—­I have no control.”

Paul paused, and suited his pace to the shorter legs of his companion.

“Starosta!” he said.  “Is that you?”

“Yes, Excellency.  I saw you go into the kabak, so I waited outside and watched.  I did not dare to go inside.  They will not allow me there.  They are afraid that I should give information.”

“How long have these meetings been going on?”

“The last three nights, Excellency, in Osterno; but it is the same all over the estate.”

“Only on the estate?”

“Yes, Excellency.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“Yes, Excellency.”

Paul walked on in silence for some paces.  The third man followed them without catching them up.

“I do not understand, Excellency,” said the starosta anxiously.  “It is not the Nihilists.”

“No; it is not the Nihilists.”

“And they do not want money, Excellency; that seems strange.”

“Very!” admitted Paul ironically.

“And they give vodka.”

This seemed to be the chief stumbling-block in the starosta’s road to a solution of the mystery.

“Find out for me,” said Paul, after a pause, “who this man is, where he comes from, and how much he is paid to open his mouth.  We will pay him more to shut it.  Find out as much as you can, and let me know to-morrow.”

“I will try, Excellency; but I have little hope of succeeding.  They distrust me.  They send the children to my shop for what they want, and the little ones have evidently been told not to chatter.  The moujiks avoid me when they meet me.  What can I do?”

“You can show them that you are not afraid of them,” answered Paul.  “That goes a long way with the moujik.”

They walked on together through the lane of cottages, where furtive forms lurked in door-ways and behind curtains.  And Paul had only one word of advice to give, upon which he harped continually:  “Be thou very courageous—­be thou very courageous.”  Nothing new, for so it was written in the oldest book of all.  The starosta was a timorous man, needing such strong support as his master gave him from time to time.