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 Rh prescribed a little pure country air in a remote frontier village of Siberia, as being more beneficial to mental health than an explosive factory in a back street in Warsaw. So here he was now, in this remote district, assisting the village priest in chanting and incense-burning on Sundays, and ruminating over projected assassination of ministers on weekdays. After studying the phenomenon of this mental disease, and deciding that it was a deformity which I could not comprehend, I took leave of this gentleman, and decided that it would probably not be wise to be seen in his company more than was necessary. The day after this incident happened to be Sunday, and early in the morning groups of peasant youths in bright red and blue tunics sauntered casually down the main streets of the village, while one of their number played Russian peasant airs upon the accordion. I somehow felt much safer in company with these innocent peasant youths, who, although strong, hardy and independent, would not hurt anyone unnecessarily, than I did in company with an assistant acolyte who was an exiled member of a socialist revolutionary society.

On that Sunday morning the bells of the little wooden church began tinkling and booming as they always do in Russia, and a crowd of peasants thereupon collected for the morning service. Eager to catch a glimpse of the religious life of this little community, I joined in the crowd and pushed my way to the little church. One or two of the peasants whom I knew recognized me and gave me a friendly wink, but otherwise I passed unheeded as one of them. The church was like any other of the Pravo-Slavonic faith, with a raised altar studded with brass