Without waiting for a reply to the question, he went on, hurriedly—
“You saw that Turk to-day, who pushed me aside as if I had been a dog? That showed you the spirit of the men in power here, but you little know their practices—”
“Petroff,” said I, interrupting, and looking at the man earnestly, “forgive me if I say that we had better not discuss the subject now. I have just arrived in your land, and know little about it yet. When I have seen and heard and thought much, I will be better able to understand you.”
Petroff admitted with ready grace that I was right, and thrusting his fingers through the wild clustering curls of his black hair, as if to let the air circle more freely about his head, he turned sharp round, and pointed to a cottage which stood at a short distance from the high-road, at the entrance to the village.
“That is our home, sir; we shall feel happy if you will enter it.”
I willingly complied, and turned with them into the by-path that led to it.
The cottage was a mere hut, long and low, one end of which constituted the forge, the other end, divided into three compartments, being the dwelling-house. Here I found the hand of Marika very evident, in the neatness and cleanliness of everything in and around the place. The owners were very poor, but there was sufficient for comfort and health. On a shelf in a corner lay the Bible which the family had received from the colporteur. It was the only book in the house, and evidently a cherished treasure.
In another corner, on a rudely-made but warm couch, lay a treasure of a different stamp—a boy, apparently about two years of age. As I looked at the curly black hair, the well-shaped nose, the firm, rosy lips, and the broad brow, I turned to Petroff with a smile, and said—
“I need not ask if that boy is yours.”
The man did not at once reply, but seized the child, which our entrance had awakened, and raised it high above his head.