Vasili raised one eyebrow significantly.
"Of course, if you do not want to talk," in slightly injured tones. "But every one knows that the Emperor is dying."
Allard summoned his recollections of affairs European, doubtfully allowing for the gap of more than two years.
"The Grand Duke Feodor is the Emperor's nephew, not his son," he objected.
"Oh, he will only be regent, certainly," was the dry reply. "Never mind; I told you I understood nothing of politics."
Allard opened his lips to avow equal ignorance, then closed them. He had no idea of the rôle Stanief designed for him, or of what he was supposed to know. He moved to the table, instead of answering, and let his gaze devour the topmost paper of the pile. Vasili watched him, deeply impressed by the reticence and a little anxious as to his own frankness. When Allard again turned to him, the lieutenant welcomed the amity with relief and joyously accepted the suggestion of return to the deck.
The morning wore on quietly. The preparations for sailing were completed; the yacht poised restlessly like a snowy bird on the point of flight. Allard no less quivered with the restless desire for departure, the thirst for the peace which would come with absolute security. Lying in his chair, regarding the teeming river shut in on either side by the two great cities and feeling all alike hostile toward him, he clung almost superstitiously to the phrase of the night before:
"A Stanief guards his own."
And not all content with bare liberty, he treasured the being no longer an outlaw; he had learned the old primitive ache of the "masterless man."
Near noon a tiny boat darted from shore. The captain hurried to the head of the miniature stairway; Vasili uttered a hasty excuse and also went in that direction. Allard hesitated, in some doubt before this new etiquette, then judged by the others' attitude and remained where he was.