“Day by day we held on to the eastward, coasting along almost within hail of the lonely shore.  Often the ice threatened to close in upon us.  Sometimes the growling of the pack churned and crackled only a quarter of a mile out.  One night as we lay asleep—­it was my watch, but in that great silence I too had fallen asleep—­Big Peter waked first, and in his strong emphatic fashion he rose to take the oars.  But there before us were three boats’ crews within half a mile, all rowing toward us, while a mile out from shore, near the edge of the pack, lay a steamer, blowing off steam through her escape-valves, as though at the end of her day’s run.

“As we woke our first thought was, ‘Lost!’ For we had no expectation that any other vessel save a Russian cruiser could be in these waters.  But out from the sternsheets of the leading cutter fluttered the blessed Stars and Stripes.  My companions did not know all the happiness that was included in the sight of that ensign.  Leof had reached for his case-knife to take his life, and I snatched it from him ere I told him that of all peoples the Americans would never give us up.

“We were taken on board the U.S. search-vessel Concord, commissioned to seek for the records of the lost American Polar expedition.  There we were treated as princes, or as American citizens, which apparently means the same thing.  That is all my yarn.  The Czar’s arm is long, but it does not reach either London or New York.”

“And Leof and Big Peter?” I asked, as Constantine ceased speaking.  As though with an effort, he recalled himself.

“Big Peter,” he said, “is at St. Louis.  He is in the pork trade, is married, and has a large family.”

“And Leof?”

“Ah, Leof! he went back to Russia at the time of the former Czar’s death, and has not been heard of since.”

“And you, Constantine, you will never put your nose in the lion’s den again—­you will never go back to Russia?”

Almost for the first time throughout the long story, Constantine looked me fixedly in the eyes.  The strange light of another world, of the fatalist East, looked plainly out of his eyes.  Every Russian carries a terrible possibility about with him like a torch of tragic flame, ready to be lighted at any moment.

“That is as may be,” he said very slowly; “it is possible that I may go back—­at the time of other deaths, and—­also—­not—­return—­any—­more.”

BOOK FOURTH

IDYLLS

I

ACROSS THE MARCH DYKE

  I

  Far in the deep of Arden wood it lies;
    About it pleasant leaves for ever wave. 
      Through charmed afternoons we wander on,
    And at the sundown reach the seas that lave
      The golden isles of blessed Avalon. 
        When the sweet daylight dies,
    Out of the gloom the ferryman doth glide
      To take us both into a younger day;
      And as the twilight land recedes away,
    My lady draweth closer to my side.