wasted away, and died in less than two months after its birth.
There was great and genuine sorrow among the serfs of Kinesma.
Each had received a shining ruble of silver at the christening;
and, moreover, they were now beginning to appreciate the milder
regime of their lord, which this blow might suddenly terminate.
Sorrow, in such natures as his, exasperates instead of chastening:
they knew him well enough to recognize the danger.

At first the old man's grief appeared to be of a stubborn, harmless
nature. As soon as the funeral ceremonies were over he betook
himself to his bed, and there lay for two days and nights, without
eating a morsel of food. The poor Princess Helena, almost
prostrated by the blow, mourned alone, or with Boris, in her own
apartments. Her influence, no longer kept alive by her constant
presence, as formerly, began to decline. When the old Prince
aroused somewhat from his stupor, it was not meat that he demanded,
but drink; and he drank to angry excess. Day after day the habit
resumed its ancient sway, and the whip and the wild-beast yell
returned with it. The serfs even began to tremble as they never
had done, so long as his vices were simply those of a strong man;
for now a fiendish element seemed to be slowly creeping in. He
became horribly profane: they shuddered when he cursed the
venerable Metropolitan of Moscow, declaring that the old sinner
had deliberately killed his grandson, by sending to him, instead of
the true cross of the Saviour, a piece of the tree to which the
impenitent thief was nailed.

Boris would have spared his wife the knowledge of this miserable
relapse, in her present sorrow, but the information soon reached
her in other ways. She saw the necessity of regaining, by a