There’s a woman in it of course—and a glorious woman too. A tall, queenly creature, as handsome as a Greek, with the free carriage of one of our own American girls. I saw her on the train, or rather she saw me and seemed particularly interested in me, and it was suiting me very nicely when out came the reason. We stopped at a station some miles from the capital, and as the girl and I were separated from the rest of the people, she said in an undertone—
“Your Majesty does not count the risks of travelling incognito, alone?”
“There are pleasures to counterbalance any risks, mademoiselle,” I answered. “Your solicitude is one of them.” And I smiled, partly at her amazing mistake and partly because she was so pretty. Then to put myself right, I added: “But you mistake, I am no Majesty. I am an American, Harper C. Denver is my name.” She lifted her eyebrows and smiled again, in obvious disbelief, and replied in French—
“An American who understands Russian, speaks French, and resembles His Majesty the Czar.”
“An American who would gladly welcome an opportunity of seeing you again, mademoiselle.”
“An American who does not desire it more fervently than I. Meanwhile, accept my warning, sire.” She spoke with intense earnestness, and then left the train.
How’s that for an adventure, eh? But that was only scene one. I sat thinking it over until the train ran into the station at Petersburg, and then came scene two.
The moment I stepped from the cars I saw that considerable preparations had been made to receive some one of importance, and while I stood looking about for him an old man, tightly bound in a somewhat rich uniform, with two or three companion volumes in attendance and a shelf of soldiers behind, came up to me. He waved everybody else out of earshot, and then with an almost reverential salute, said, in a low voice—
“Mr. Denver, I am sure.”
“Yes, that’s my name.”