tribute, and the saint kept his word to look after me.
Although when I was married I was in America and my mother was in Russia, she did not fail to pay the ransom which made it possible for me to change masters without angering the saint. In place of the little silver chain and bell, which I could not return personally, she gave a gold one.
As I write I can see the badge of my former slavery where it hangs around a little old Byzantine icon in my room. I have never been separated from it. During the whole of my girlhood I wore it; and when I was in a convent school in Paris it gave me a certain distinction among my mystified companions, who could hear it tinkle whenever I moved.
Asked about it, I only said that it was the badge of my slavery. This gave rise to a variety of stories, invented by their Gallic imaginations, in which I, with my bell, was the heroine.
As I look at it now, it reminds me of the three days spent with St George—the three days during which sensuous mysticism completely clouded my awakening intelligence.
