he said. "No Russian can forget his fatherland. No Russian can
forget his brother." His eyes were lit with a dreamy light,
as he gazed far beyond the plain and the glowing horizon.

At the door of the little black shack Simon halted the party.

"Pardon, I will prepare for my brother," he said.

As he opened the door a cloud of steaming odours rushed forth to
meet them. The stranger drew back and turned his face again to the
horizon, drawing deep breaths of the crisp air, purified by its
sweep of a thousand miles over snow clad prairie.

"Ah," he said, "wonderful! wonderful! Yes, that is Russia, that
air, that sky, that plain."

After some minutes Simon returned.

"Enter," he said, bowing low. "This is your house, brother;
we are your slaves."

It was a familiar Russian salutation.

"No," said the stranger, quickly stretching out his hand.
"No slaves in this land, thank God! but brothers all."

"Your brothers truly," said Simon, dropping on his knee and
kissing the outstretched hand. "Lena," he called to his wife,
who stood modestly at the other side of the room, "this is
the Elder of our Brotherhood."