Sowers, The 
 
The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Sowers, by Henry Seton 
Merriman This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and 
with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away 
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included 
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net 
Title: The Sowers 
Author: Henry Seton Merriman 
Release Date: November 19, 2003 [EBook #10132] 
Language: English 
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE 
SOWERS *** 
 
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Christine Gehring and PG Distributed 
Proofreaders 
 
THE SOWERS 
BY 
HENRY SETON MERRIMAN 
 
1895
CONTENTS 
CHAP. 
I. A WAIF ON THE STEPPE 
II. BY THE VOLGA 
III. DIPLOMATIC 
IV. DON QUIXOTE 
V. THE BARON 
VI. THE TALLEYRAND CLUB 
VII. OLD HANDS 
VIII. SAFE! 
IX. THE PRINCE 
X. THE MOSCOW DOCTOR 
XI. CATRINA 
XII. AT THORS 
XIII. UNMASKED 
XIV. A WIRE-PULLER 
XV. IN A WINTER CITY 
XVI. THE THIN END 
XVII. CHARITY
XVIII. IN THE CHAMPS ÉLYSÉES 
XIX. ON THE NEVA 
XX. AN OFFER OF FRIENDSHIP 
XXI. A SUSPECTED HOUSE 
XXII. THE SPIDER AND THE FLY 
XXIII. A WINTER SCENE 
XXIV. HOME 
XXV. OSTERNO 
XXVI. BLOODHOUNDS 
XXVII. IN THE WEB 
XXVIII. IN THE CASTLE OF THORS 
XXIX. ANGLO-RUSSIAN 
XXX. WOLF! 
XXXI. A DANGEROUS EXPERIMENT 
XXXII. A CLOUD 
XXXIII. THE NET IS DRAWN 
XXXIV. AN APPEAL 
XXXV. ON THE EDGE OF THE STORM 
XXXVI. À TROIS 
XXXVII. À DEUX
XXXVIII. A TALE THAT IS TOLD 
XXXIX. HUSBAND AND WIFE 
XL. STÉPAN RETURNS 
XLI. DUTY 
XLII. THE STORM BURSTS 
XLIII. BEHIND THE VEIL 
XLIV. KISMET 
 
THE SOWERS 
 
 
CHAPTER I 
A WAIF ON THE STEPPE 
"In this country charity covers no sins!" 
The speaker finished his remark with a short laugh. He was a big, stout 
man; his name was Karl Steinmetz, and it is a name well known in the 
Government of Tver to this day. He spoke jerkily, as stout men do 
when they ride, and when he had laughed his good-natured, 
half-cynical laugh, he closed his lips beneath a huge gray mustache. So 
far as one could judge from the action of a square and deeply indented 
chin, his mouth was expressive at that time--and possibly at all 
times--of a humorous resignation. No reply was vouchsafed to him, and 
Karl Steinmetz bumped along on his little Cossack horse, which was 
stretched out at a gallop. 
Evening was drawing on. It was late in October, and a cold wind was
driving from the north-west across a plain which for sheer dismalness 
of aspect may give points to Sahara and beat that abode of mental 
depression without an effort. So far as the eye could reach there was no 
habitation to break the line of horizon. A few stunted fir-trees, standing 
in a position of permanent deprecation, with their backs turned, as it 
were, to the north, stood sparsely on the plain. The grass did not look 
good to eat, though the Cossack horses would no doubt have liked to 
try it. The road seemed to have been drawn by some Titan engineer 
with a ruler from horizon to horizon. 
Away to the south there was a forest of the same stunted pines, where a 
few charcoal-burners and resin-tappers eked out a forlorn and obscure 
existence. There are a score of such settlements, such gloomy forests, 
dotted over this plain of Tver, which covers an area of nearly two 
hundred square miles. The remainder of it is pasture, where miserable 
cattle and a few horses, many sheep and countless pigs, seek their food 
pessimistically from God. 
Steinmetz looked round over this cheerless prospect with a twinkle of 
amused resignation in his blue eyes, as if this creation were a little 
practical joke, which he, Karl Steinmetz, appreciated at its proper worth. 
The whole scene was suggestive of immense distance, of countless 
miles in all directions--a suggestion not conveyed by any scene in 
England, by few in Europe. In our crowded island we have no 
conception of a thousand miles. How can we? Few of us have travelled 
five hundred at a stretch. The land through which these men were 
riding is the home of great distances--Russia. They rode, moreover, as 
if they knew it--as if they had ridden for days and were aware of more 
days in front of them. 
The companion of Karl Steinmetz looked like an Englishman. He was 
young and fair and quiet. He looked like a youthful athlete from Oxford 
or Cambridge--a simple-minded person who had jumped higher or run 
quicker than anybody else without conceit, taking himself, like St. Paul, 
as he found himself and giving the credit elsewhere. And one finds that, 
after all, in this world of deceit, we are most of us that which we look 
like. You, madam, look thirty-five to    
    
		
	
	
	Continue reading on your phone by scaning this QR Code
 
	 	
	
	
	    Tip: The current page has been bookmarked automatically. If you wish to continue reading later, just open the 
Dertz Homepage, and click on the 'continue reading' link at the bottom of the page.
	    
	    
