The Prince smiled a little gravely.

“Did I say too much?” he asked.  “It all came as a surprise to me—­the toast and everything connected with it.  I saw my name down to reply, and it seemed discourteous of me not to speak.  But, as yet, I do not altogether understand these functions.  I did not altogether understand, for instance, how much I might say and how much I ought to leave unsaid.”

“We have read what you said,” Bransome remarked.  “What we should like to hear, if I may venture to say so, is what you left unsaid.”

The Prince for a moment was thoughtful.  Perhaps he remembered that the days had passed when it was necessary for him to keep so jealously his own counsel.  Perhaps his natural love of the truth triumphed.  He felt a sudden longing to tell these people who had been kind to him the things which he had seen amongst them, the things which only a stranger coming fresh to the country could perhaps fully comprehend.

“What I said was of little importance,” the Prince remarked, “but I felt myself placed in a very difficult position.  Before I knew what to expect, I was listening to a glorification of the arms of my country at the expense of Russia.  I was being hailed as one of a nation who possess military genius which had not been equalled since the days of Hannibal and Caesar.  Many things of that sort were said, many things much too kind, many things which somehow it grieved me to listen to.  And when I stood up to reply, I felt that the few words which I must say would sound, perhaps, ungracious, but they must be said.  It was one of those occasions which seemed to call for the naked truth.”

Penelope and the Duchess had joined the little group.

“May we stay?” the former asked.  “I read every word of your speech,” she added, turning to the Prince.  “Do tell us why you spoke so severely, what it was that you objected to so strongly in General Ennison’s remarks?”

The Prince turned earnestly towards her.

“My dear young lady,” he said, “all that I objected to was this over-glorification of the feats of arms accomplished by us.  People over here did not understand.  On the one side were the great armies of Russia,—­men drawn, all of them, from the ranks of the peasant, men of low nerve force, men who were not many degrees better than animals.  They came to fight against us because it was their business to fight, because for fighting they drew their scanty pay, their food, and their drink, and the clothes they wore.  They fought because if they refused they faced the revolver bullets of their officers,—­men like themselves, who also fought because it was their profession, because it was in the traditions of their family, but who would, I think, have very much preferred disporting themselves in the dancing halls of their cities, drinking champagne with the ladies of their choice, or gambling with cards.  I do not say that these were not brave