CHAPTER III.
DORRIS'S JOURNAL.
SITTING on the floor in a low, smoky Russian car, with a flickering candle over my head, I am trying to write a short account of our journey. We entered the land of the Tsar about three hours ago, after travelling twenty-four hours from Berlin. Tom says that ours is the most competent courier who ever took charge of a party, so of course it must be so. He is tall and dark, and looks like a bandit. He is known as Gustave, but we don't often dare to address him by name. He makes profound bows whenever he enters our presence, and is continually giving us titles such as "Excellency," "My Lady," "Your Grace," and then correcting himself, as though he had always served the nobility, and found it difficult to descend to common mortals.
He is not travelling with us; we are travelling with him. We do whatever he tells us,—eat, drink, walk, and sleep when he thinks best. I fancy that he makes a good profit on everything, even on the suspicious-looking apples which he brings us; but such is the awe with which he inspires me that I dare not remonstrate.
We left Berlin at seven o'clock last night. When I
