But especially I had a friend, a Scottish gentleman, whom I knew in the days when we Russians were still a nation.

I saw him again in Italy, and since he was kind and brave I told him some part of my troubles.

He was called Quentin Kennedy, and now he is dead.

He told me that in Scotland he had a lonely chateau, where I could hide secretly and safely, and against the day when I might be hard-pressed he gave me a letter to his steward, bidding him welcome me as a guest when I made application.

At that time I did not think I would need such sanctuary, but a month ago the need became urgent, for the hunt in France was very close on me.