“No, indeed,” I replied, and attempted a brief description of Tammany Hall and its methods. Either my description was vague or his understanding of it imperfect, for his face took on an expression of disgust.
“What an awful country, your honour; what tyranny! I am glad I am not an American. Yet after all one’s own country is best, I suppose, and it must be sad to be an exile.”
His tone and glance were quite pitying now. He regarded me apparently as an exile.
I began to be amused at him, and drew out some of his views on Russia. The result surprised me. He was an intense and indeed a passionate patriot, but he hated the Russian Government. The Czar, as the God-appointed head of Russia, was a quite sacred person, a sort of Fetish in his eyes; but the ministers round him were as the incarnation of evil. For the Little Father it was the heaven-ordained duty of every good Russian to lay down his life willingly and instantly; while he seemed to suggest that it would be almost equally meritorious to take the lives of those who did evil and ground the people in his name.
I looked for the key to this queer mixture of political faiths in the man’s association with Helga, and knowledge of her wrongs.
“You are very devoted to Mademoiselle Helga?” I asked presently.
“My life is hers if ever she should need it, your honour,” he answered readily, simply and very earnestly.
“You are a good fellow, Ivan,” I said; and soon after that we rattled on again at the canter. As we rode, he evidently thought over what had passed between us, for when we drew rein again he came up and said—
“I crave your honour’s pardon, but was it your honour who came last night to mademoiselle’s villa?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”