"Possibly," answered the starosta.

"The prince--curse him, curse his mother's soul, curse his wife's
offspring!"

"Yes," said the starosta quietly. "Yes, curse him and all his works.
What is it you want, little father--tea?"

He turned into the shop and served his customer, duly inscribing the
debt among others in a rough, cheap book.

The word soon spread that a carriage was coming along the road from
Tver. All the villagers came to the doors of their dilapidated wooden
huts. Even the kabaks were emptied for a time. As the vehicle approached
it became apparent that the horses were going at a great pace; not only
was the loose horse galloping, but also the pair in the shafts. The
carriage was an open one, an ordinary North Russian travelling carriage,
not unlike the vehicle we call the victoria, set on high wheels.

Beside the driver on the box sat another servant. In the open carriage
sat one man only, Karl Steinmetz.

As he passed through the village a murmur of many voices followed him,
not quite drowned by the rattle of his wheels, the clatter of the
horses' feet. The murmur was a curse. Karl Steinmetz heard it
distinctly. It made him smile with a queer expression beneath his great
gray mustache.

The starosta, standing in his door-way, saw the smile. He raised his