“You are of royal blood.”

He rose, poured some wine over my head. “In the name of Jesus Christ, Our Saviour, and His servant, Peter Romanoff, Tsar of Russia, I baptize you Prince Daniel Petrovich,—for you are as wise as the prophet Daniel and I make you my son. You shall be my chief minister.”

I kissed his hand over which a few drops of the wine trickled.

“Permit me, Sire, to be your shadow, rather than your minister.”

“So be it.”

His Majesty poured some wine over Kotikokura’s head.

“In the name of Jesus Christ, our Saviour, and His servant, Peter Romanoff, Tsar of Russia, I baptize you Duke Samson Romanovich,—for you are as strong as Samson and the adopted son of the House of Romanoff. You are the commander-in-chief of the Tsar’s bodyguard.”

Kotikokura kissed his hand.

The Inn keeper laughed, considering it all the farce of drunken men.

“Chop his head off, Duke!” the Tsar commanded.

Kotikokura rose, drew his knife, and was about to jump at the man’s throat.

“Stop!” I shouted, and turning to the Tsar, I continued, “Sire, we are on foreign soil.”

Peter kissed us both. “I merely wished to test your fidelity. Samson, you acted as you should. It is not for you to question my orders. You are my strength. And you, Daniel, have done your duty well. You are my wisdom. You must not allow anger to overcome your master. I am proud of both of you. The Lord Jesus has sent me the two men needed for my country.”

We all crossed ourselves and proceeded with our drinks.

Peter’s eyes closed and he began to snore.

“Is there a bed here?” I asked the Inn keeper.

“Yes, upstairs.”

“Samson, let us take His Majesty to bed. It is not well for an emperor to expose himself to the ridicule of the rabble.”

Kotikokura lifted the colossal body of the emperor and carried him up the stairs, placing him gently on the bed. He removed his boots and smoothed his pillow. Peter opened his eyes and stood up.

“Once more have I tested you, my dear friends. I only pretended to sleep. Your wisdom, Daniel, is incomparable, and so are your strength and faithfulness, Samson. Approach, that I may kiss you both.”

He kissed us.

“Bring me a woman, Samson. It is not well for a monarch to sleep alone.”

Kotikokura made a movement to go.

“Where are you going, Samson?” I asked. “Do you forget the fate of monarchs in the hands of strange women?”

“Splendid, Daniel! Splendid, Samson!”

Peter rose, stretched, and yawned.

“I no longer doubt you. I needed three signs of your wisdom and fidelity and I obtained them. We cannot remain here overnight. My royal guard is in revolt at Moscow. They have allied themselves with the nobles and churchmen who are horrified at my new ideas. They call them German ideas.”

“They are your ideas, Sire. Ideas have no validity unless they take root in a strong man’s soul.”

“Splendid, Daniel! Those traitors hate me because I wished to civilize them; they hate me because I ordered their beards shaved,—their beards full of lice and vermin. They hate me because I introduced tobacco, good manners, and sensible clothing. They call me Anti-Christ!”

“Anti-Christ!” I laughed.

“We go back at once! And oh, the revenge!” He stretched himself. “The sweet revenge! Samson, you will be busy.”

Kotikokura grinned and danced.

“But you must not let me forget myself entirely, Daniel, even if I get so exasperated at your words of prudence that I order Samson to chop your head off.”

The arrival of Peter at Moscow occasioned a universal panic. The conspirators so vociferous, so arrogant, during his absence, scurried off like frightened mice. This dismay was largely due to a rumor that I had caused to be spread from town to town as we were reaching the Capital, that the Emperor was returning with a vast army of German, Dutch, and English mercenaries whose new guns and cannons were capable of bombarding places from a distance of many miles.

The Kremlin was empty, save for some old serfs who, uncertain of what was transpiring, and unconcerned, continued to tend the gardens and to scrape slowly, drearily, the mud which the boots of the noblemen had left behind.

The Emperor seated himself upon the throne, Kotikokura in the garb of a general, heavily medaled on his left, and myself at his right. At the various entrances, officers stood at attention, their swords drawn.

“There must be no mercy, Prince,” Peter thundered. “We are in Russia now. My people understand only the knout and the sword.”

“We shall respect the customs of the land.”

“Samson, I have given you your medals in advance of your deeds. See that I am not compelled to tear them off your chest, skin and all.”

Kotikokura stiffened up and stamped his enormous sword.

I almost regretted having accompanied this strange and terrible Monarch. The affair, however, promised to be a huge comedy, and I could not refrain from taking a part in it. Kotikokura was superb in his new attire. Did he take his new position seriously? Would he deny Ca-ta-pha, preferring the mastership of a mortal monarch? Could he serve two masters? Sooner or later, there would be a crisis, I was certain. Despots weary of their favorites. I must warn Kotikokura. He was but a child.

The Patriarch, the chief of the Strelitzes and several Boyars, appeared. They formed a semicircle about the throne.

Peter glared at them in silence for a long while, then stood up and pointing his forefinger at them, exclaimed, “Traitors to your God, your Emperor, and your Country!”

They fell upon their faces, grumbling words of mercy.

“Grunting hogs, bearded and dirty! You thought you could outwit and outpower Peter Romanoff. In his absence, you turned his palace and his country into puddles of mud in which you wallowed, planning the while to rid yourself of your lawful master, divinely appointed!”

“Mercy, Little Father,” several grumbled.

“How dare you ask for mercy?”

The Patriarch raised his head. “Be unto us like Jesus, Master of all of us, Little Father!”

“Judas!” the Emperor shouted, and unsheathing his sword, severed the priest’s head with one blow. The blood jutted out of his neck like some fantastic fountain.

“Duke!” he commanded Kotikokura, “let this scoundrel’s head be placed upon a spike over the roof of the palace as a warning to others whose hearts may harbor treachery. Do the same to the rest of these wretches! Throw their carcasses to my dogs!”

“Little Father! Mercy! Mercy! We are not guilty! We were misled! Little Father!”

“Take them out! They stink like a litter of hogs.”

Kotikokura waved his sword. A bugle sounded. A company of soldiers appeared. They dragged the corpse and the bodies of the rest who were too limp to move. Kotikokura followed gravely, his sword and medals dazzling in the sun, which shone calmly through the stained glass.

I summoned an officer.

“Perfume!” I commanded.

He brought a large bottle of perfume.

“Your Majesty,” I said, “Pilate who could not endure the smell of the rabble, washed his hands with perfume at the trial of Jesus; and Nero—the lover of the beautiful—maligned and misunderstood by vulgar historians, found the essence of flowers invigorating and delightful.”

Peter cupped his hands, which I filled to the brim. He washed his face, and breathed deeply through his mouth.

“Daniel Petrovich! You will civilize us! Ah! Ah!”

He smelt the tips of his fingers for a long while.

“I am pleased to hear you say that Nero was not a monster, but a man who loved the beautiful. Great emperors are always misunderstood.”

“The shriveled blade of grass complains against the splendor of the sun. The descendants of the men whom you have ordered beheaded, may proclaim their great Emperor a monster.”