with dead nursery maids and murdered governesses. That's what's happening in Russia. They don't mean any harm. They're doing all they know to govern, only they don't know much—take no notice of his reverence, he always gets like this round about meal times."
The voice of the black-coated priest grew louder. He stood before the barred window, crossing himself incessantly.
"It is the celebration of the Divine Mystery," said Malinkoff in a low voice, and removed his cap.
"For our holy fathers the high priests Basil the Great, Gregory the Divine, Nicholas of Myra in Lycia, for Peter and Alexis and Jonas, and all holy high priests," groaned the man, "for the holy wonder workers, the disinterested Cosmas and Damiauns, Cyrus and John, Pantaleon and Hermolaus, and all unmercenary saints . . .!
"By the intercession of these, look down upon us, O God!"
He walked back to his seat and, taking compassion upon this man with a white, drawn face, Malcolm went to him.
"Little father," he said, "is there anything we can do for you?"
He produced his cigarette case, but the pope shook his head.
