“I can’t help that; I wrote.  But there I was on the wide world again.  So I took up with a Russian prince, whom I met at a gambling-table in Pera,—­a mere boy, but such a plucky one,—­and went with him to Circassia, and up to Astrakhan, and on to the Kirghis steppes; and there I did see snakes.”

“Snakes?” says Mary.  “I should have thought you had seen plenty in India already.”

“Yes, Mary! but these were snakes spiritual and metaphorical.  For, poking about where we had no business, Mary, the Tartars caught us, and tied us to their horses’ tails, after giving me this scar across the cheek, and taught us to drink mares’ milk, and to do a good deal of dirty work beside.  So there we stayed with them six months, and observed their manners, which were none, and their customs, which were disgusting, as the midshipman said in his diary; and had the honour of visiting a pleasant little place in No-man’s Land, called Khiva, which you may find in your atlas, Mary; and of very nearly being sold for slaves into Persia, which would not have been pleasant; and at last, Mary, we ran away—­or rather, rode away, on two razor-backed Calmuc ponies, and got back to Russia, via Orenberg,—­for which consult your atlas again; so the young prince was restored to the bosom of his afflicted family; and a good deal of trouble I had to get him safe there, for the poor boy’s health gave way.  They wanted me to stay with them, and offered to make my fortune.”

“I’m so glad you didn’t,” said Mary.

“Well—­I wanted to see little Mary again, and two worthy old gentlemen beside, you see.  However, those Russians are generous enough.  They filled my pockets, and heaped me with presents; that bracelet among them.  What’s more, Mary, I’ve been introduced to old Nick himself, and can testify, from personal experience, to the correctness of Shakspeare’s opinion that the prince of darkness is a gentleman.”

“And now you are going to stay at home?” asked the Doctor.

“Well, if you’ll take me in, daddy, I’ll send for my traps from London, and stay a month or so.”

“A month!” cried the forlorn father.

“Well, daddy, you see, there is a chance of more fighting in Mexico, and I shall see such practice there; beside meeting old friends who were with me in Texas.  And—­and I’ve got a little commission, too, down in Georgia, that I should like to go and do.”

“What is that?”

“Well,—­it’s a long story and a sad one:  but there was a poor Yankee surgeon with the army in Circassia—­a Southerner, and a very good fellow; and he had taken a fancy to some coloured girl at home—­poor fellow, he used to go half mad about her sometimes, when he was talking to me, for fear she should have been sold—­sent to the New Orleans market, or some other devilry; and what could I say to comfort him?  Well, he got his mittimus by one of Schamyl’s bullets; and when he was dying, he made me promise (I hadn’t the heart to refuse) to take all his savings, which he had been hoarding for years for no other purpose, and see if I couldn’t buy the girl, and get her away to Canada.  I was a fool for promising.  It was no concern of mine; but the poor fellow wouldn’t die in peace else.  So what must be, must.”