By Neva's waters

by John R. Carling

It was over Russian ground that the car was speeding, its goal being St. Petersburg, distant now about one hundred miles.

Wilfrid had met with considerable difficulty in entering the Czar’s dominions. Twenty days had he been detained at the frontier-town of Kowno for no reason whatever as far as he could see, save the caprice of petty officials, whose insolence and greed had so galled the spirit of the Englishman that several times he was on the point of turning back. However, he thought better of it, and when at last leave was granted him to go forward, forward he went. Having learned by experience that travelling in one’s own equipage is more convenient, and, in the end more economical, than the ordinary method of posting, Wilfrid had purchased at Kowno a covered car, together with three steeds to draw it, accepting at the same time the proffered services of a yamchik, who boasted that he knew every verst of the way from Kowno to St. Petersburg.

And here he was speeding along at the rate of twelve miles an hour. The keen cold air, combined with the rapid swaying of the car, caused him to fall into a semi-slumber, from which he was roused by the voice of Izak.

“If the little father will condescend to look, he will see the village of Gora,” he cried, pointing with his whip to a light shining far off like a star.

Welcome news to the cold and hungry Wilfrid. Gora should be his stopping-place for the night.

Fifteen minutes more and they reached the silent, sleeping village, which, like most of its kind in Russia, consisted merely of a line of wooden cabins on each side of the post-road with a row of trees in front.

At one end of the village stood its only house of entertainment, the Inn of the Silver Birch—an inn very different externally from the generality of its class. As a matter of fact, it had originally been the seat of a rich boyar, the lord of the village and of the surrounding land. It was a large and handsome structure of timber, pillared and balconied, and with much carving about its eaves and gables. On three sides grew lofty birch trees with silvery bark; the fourth side lay open to the gaze of the travellers.

“This is the twentieth inn I’ve seen painted red,” remarked Wilfrid.

“’Tis the will of the Czar,” answered the yamchik. “Some weeks ago he gave a ball, and to it came a lady wearing a red dress. ‘What a pretty colour!’ said Paul. And lo! at once a law that all post-houses and bridges shall be painted red. Great is the word of the Czar! He wills, and—pouf! ’tis done.”