Steinmetz grunted acquiescence and walked wearily to the window.  This was only an old and futile argument of his own.

“And make it impossible for me to live another day among them,” said Paul.  “Do you think St. Petersburg would countenance a prince who works among his moujiks?”

Stepan Lanovitch’s pale blue eyes looked troubled.  Steinmetz shrugged his shoulders.

“They have brought it on themselves,” he said.

“As much as a lamb brings the knife upon itself by growing up,” replied Paul.

Lanovitch shook his white head with a tolerant little smile.  He loved these poor helpless peasants with a love as large as and a thousand times less practical than Paul’s.

In the meantime Paul was thinking in his clear, direct way.  It was this man’s habit in life and in thought to walk straight past the side issues.

“It is like you, Stepan,” he said at length, “to come to us at this time.  We feel it, and we recognize the generosity of it, for Steinmetz and I know the danger you are running in coming back to this country.  But we cannot let you do it—­No, do not protest.  It is quite out of the question.  We might quell the revolt; no doubt we should—­the two of us together.  But what would happen afterward?  You would be sent back to Siberia, and I should probably follow you for harboring an escaped convict.”

The face of the impulsive philanthropist dropped pathetically.  He had come to his friend’s assistance on the spur of the moment.  He was destined, as some men are, to plunge about the world seeking to do good.  And it has been decreed that good must be done by stealth and after deliberation only.  He who does good on the spur of the moment usually sows a seed of dissension in the trench of time.

“Also,” went on Paul, with that deliberate grasp of the situation which never failed to astonish the ready-witted Steinmetz; “also, you have other calls upon your energy.  You have other work to do.”

Lanovitch’s broad face lightened up; his benevolent brow beamed.  His capacity for work had brought him to the shoemaker’s last in Tomsk.  It is a vice that grows with indulgence.

“It has pleased the Authorities,” went on Paul, who was shy of religious turns of phrase, “to give us all our own troubles.  Mine—­such as they are, Stepan—­must be managed by myself.  Yours can be faced by no one but you.  You have come at the right moment.  You do not quite realize what your coming means to Catrina.”

“Catrina!  Ah!”

The weak blue eyes looked into the strong face and read nothing there.

“I doubt,” said Paul, “whether it is right for you to continue sacrificing Catrina for the sake of the little good that you are able to do.  You are hampered in your good work to such an extent that the result is very small, while the pain you give is very great.”

“But is that so, Pavlo?  Is my child unhappy?”