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The Master, when they returned to him, had not budged from his
resting-place. The fingers still lay, starfish-wise, upon the folds of
that soiled homespun; his eyes still stared out of the leafy bower; his
face still wore its mask of placid imbecility.
The glass was empty.
Slowly, as on a pivot, his head turned in the direction of the
bodyguard.
Forthwith some favourite disciple--not Krasnojabkin, who happened to be
escorting Madame Steynlin to her villa just then--darted to his side;
with the help of two lady-apostles known, respectively, as the
"goldfinch" and the "red apple," they conveyed him out of that shelter
into the deserted, moonlit garden. He leaned heavily on the arm of the
youth; peevish sounds, quasi-human, proceeded from his colourless lips.
And now he was almost speaking; desirous, it seemed, of formulating
some truth too deep for human utterance.
"I bet I know what he is saying," whispered Keith. "It's something
about the Man-God."



CHAPTER XI


The Russian Government is notoriously tender-hearted.


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