“Did you learn any thing in the village?” asked Paul.
“No; they suspected me. They would not talk. But I understand them, Pavlo, these poor simple fools. A pebble in the stream would turn the current of their convictions. Tell them who is the Moscow doctor. It is your only chance.”
Steinmetz grunted acquiescence and walked wearily to the window. This was only an old and futile argument of his own.
“And make it impossible for me to live another day among them,” said Paul. “Do you think St. Petersburg would countenance a prince who works among his moujiks?”
Stipan Lanovitch’s pale blue eyes looked troubled. Steinmetz shrugged his shoulders.
“They have brought it on themselves,” he said.
“As much as a lamb brings the knife upon itself by growing up,” replied Paul.
Lanovitch shook his white head with a tolerant little smile. He loved these poor helpless peasants with a love as large as and a thousand times less practical than Paul’s.
In the meantime Paul was thinking in his clear, direct way. It was this man’s habit in life and in thought to walk straight past the side issues.
“It is like you, Stipan,” he said at length, “to come to us at this time. We feel it, and we recognize the generosity of it, for Steinmetz and I know the danger you are running in coming back to this country. But we cannot let you do it—No, do not protest. It is quite out of the question. We might quell the revolt; no doubt we should—the two of us together. But what would happen afterward? You would be sent back to Siberia, and I should probably follow you for harboring an escaped convict.”