‘Come here, boy,’ he cried in a loud stern voice.
Gerald obeyed, but without shewing any signs of alarm.
‘Thou’rt not Russian?’ the Czar added, surveying his person with a scrutinizing glance.
‘I know not to what country I belong, Sire,’ the youth replied; ‘I was shipwrecked on the coast hard by, and I owe my life and everything else I possess to Michael Kopt.’
‘And who is Michael Kopt?’
‘Sire, Michael Kopt is the man whose place in the public works I wish to fill.’
‘Thou art of too slight a make for such work, boy,’ cried the Czar.
‘Nay, I have a stronger arm than I may seem to have, Sire; and if anything can nerve it for the work surely gratitude will do so.’
‘By what name art thou called?’ demanded the Emperor.
‘My name is Gerald, Sire.’