He would evidently have said more, but the sight of Prince Boris
caused him to pause, while a quick shade of suspicion and alarm
passed over his face. The Prince stepped forward, instantly
relieved of his unaccustomed timidity, and rapidly described the
accident. The old nurse Katinka, had meanwhile assisted the lovely
Helena into the house.

The old man turned to follow, shivering in the night-air. Suddenly
recollecting himself, he begged the Prince to enter and take some
refreshments, but with the air and tone of a man who hopes that his
invitation will not be accepted. If such was really his hope, he
was disappointed; for Boris instantly commanded the istvostchik to
wait for him, and entered the humble dwelling.

The apartment into which he was ushered was spacious, and plainly,
yet not shabbily furnished. A violoncello and clavichord, with
several portfolios of music, and scattered sheets of ruled paper,
proclaimed the profession or the taste of the occupant. Having
excused himself a moment to look after his daughter's condition,
the old man, on his return, found Boris turning over the
leaves of a musical work.

"You see my profession," he said. "I teach music?"

"Do you not compose?" asked the Prince.

"That was once my ambition. I was a pupil of Sebastian Bach.
But--circumstances--necessity--brought me here. Other lives
changed the direction of mine. It was right!"