. Spring Hill Review Jan - June 1907. l town on the Jerseycoast. The weather, almost ideal for riding, had evidentlylent something of its beauty to the counts usually sour dispo-sition, for he sallied forth from the stable where he hired thehorse, humming snatches of tunes from French operas andwith the sign of a smile playing about his mouth. Choosingone of the quieter streets, Maxinoff rode to the ferries. Hewas just in time for an outgoing boat and that, too, seemed toincrease his good spirits. As the gang plank was being pulledin, a man came rushing down the landing. With a bound hecleared
. Spring Hill Review Jan - June 1907. l town on the Jerseycoast. The weather, almost ideal for riding, had evidentlylent something of its beauty to the counts usually sour dispo-sition, for he sallied forth from the stable where he hired thehorse, humming snatches of tunes from French operas andwith the sign of a smile playing about his mouth. Choosingone of the quieter streets, Maxinoff rode to the ferries. Hewas just in time for an outgoing boat and that, too, seemed toincrease his good spirits. As the gang plank was being pulledin, a man came rushing down the landing. With a bound hecleared the three feet between the boat and dock and landedsafely on the ferry. Maxinoff barely caught a glimpse of themans face but it was enough. His own face paled, the handwhich held the reins trembled and he plainly showed signs ofagitation. By my soul, the picture of Stepan, the peasant. Thenas the strange man vanished from his sight he resumed some-thing of his former happy manner. Bah, what a fool I am, he mused. How could it be he?. THE SPRING HILL REVIEW 2£ Where could he secure money to pay his passage from Rus-sia? Besides why should I fear him? I, Count Maxinoff, fearthis cur of a peasant. But he had forgotten. He was not Count Maxinoff the moment he had passed the statue of Liberty guard-ing the entrance to the harbor he ceased to be Maxinoff the (jCount, Maxinoff the nobleman, Maxinoff the hireling of theGreat White Czar. Now he was Maxinoff the brute, Maxinoffthe animal, not even Maxinoff the man was he; man he hadnever been and never would be. And Stepan, for something in his innermost soul, if suchit was, told him that it was he, was no longer Stepan the peas-ant. Now he was Stepan the man, the hound of vengeance,tracking the demon-incarnate with the sureness of death. Soat least it appeared to Maxinoffs feverish and excited brain. When the ferry reached the Jersey shore Maxinoff has-tened away from the crowds leaving the boat and urging hishorse into the t
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