strayed away from me, I found myself (_they_ didn't find me though;
they _have_ been finding me in wittles and drink during the whole
of the voyage,--humorous again, eh? It's _in_ me, only there's a
depression in the Baltic. Why call it Baltic? Nobody on board knows)
outside the fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul. I daresay there's
some legend about their having built it, but, as I remarked before,
my knowledge of the Russian tongue is limited to what I get _dried
for breakfast_, and that doesn't go far when there are many more
than myself alongside the festive board--and so I couldn't get
any explanation. But I managed to sneak inside the fortress--and
then,--_lost my way_!!! Couldn't get out. "If you want to know
your way, ask a Policeman" in London, and, in St. Petersburg, ask a
Bobbiski. Here's one with a sword--at least, I think he's one. I said,
"Please, Sir, which way?" Then I tried him with French--"_Où est_,"
says I, "_le chemin pour aller_ out of (I couldn't remember the French
for 'out of') _cette_ confounded fortress?" He wouldn't understand
me. I tipped him a wink--I tipped him a two-shilling piece. It wasn't
enough I suppose, as he called another fellow. The other chap came
up,--what _he_ was I don't know--but suddenly, from their awful
manner, their frowns, and violent expressions, it occurred to me,
"Hang it all! they take me for a Jew!" Never was so alarmed. With
great presence of mind I pointed to my nose--they saw the point at
once. Then the pair of them marched me off ("to Siberia," thinks I!
and I wondered how far we should have to walk!) to the courtyard,
where I had entered, and then passed me through the gate on to the
road again. Then I fled to the yacht!! Away! Away!

[Illustration: Policeman.]

Never will I venture out of the yacht again, until I can do so safely.