Malcolm was so used to being addressed as little grandfather

Malcolm was so used to being addressed as "little grandfather," and that for all his obvious youth, that he saw nothing funny in the address.
"God save you, my little man," he replied.
The new-comer was a broad-faced, pleasant-looking fellow with a ready grin, and black eyebrows that met above his nose. Malcolm Hay knew the type, but to-day being for idleness, he did not dread the man's loquacity as he would had it been a working day.
"My name is Gleb," introduced the man: "I come from the village of Potchkoi where my father has seven cows and a bull."
"God give him prosperity and many calves," said Malcolm mechanically.
"Tell me, _gospodar_, do you ride into our holy city to-day?"
"Surely," said Malcolm.
"Then you will do well to avoid the Street of Black Mud," said Gleb.
Malcolm waited.
"I speak wisely because of my name," said the man with calm assurance; "possibly your excellence has wondered why I should bear the same name as the great saint who lies yonder," he pointed to one of the towering belfries shimmering with gold that rose above the shoulder of a distant hill. "I am Gleb, the son of Gleb, and it is said that we go back a thousand years to the Holy Ones. Also, it was prophesied by a wise woman," said the peasant, puffing out a cloud of smoke and crossing himself at the same time, "that I should go the way of holiness and that after my death my body should be incorruptible."
"All this is very interesting, little brother," said Malcolm with a smile, "but first you must tell me why I should not go into the Street of Black Mud."
The man laughed softly.
"Because of Israel Kensky," he said significantly.
You could not live within a hundred miles of Kieff and not know of Israel Kensky. Malcolm realized with a start that he had not met the old man since he left him in London.
"In what way has Israel Kensky offended?" asked Malcolm, understanding the menace in the man's tone.
Gleb, squatting in the dust, brushed his sheepskin delicately with the tips of his fingers.
"Little father," he said, "all men know Israel Kensky is a Jew and that he practises secret devil-rites, using the blood of Christian children. This is the way of Jews, as your lordship knows. Also he was seen on the plains to shoot pigeons, which is a terrible offence, for to shoot a pigeon is to kill the Holy Ghost."
Malcolm knew that the greater offence had not yet been stated and waited.
"To-day I think they will kill him if the Grand Duke does not send his soldiers to hold the people in check--or the Grand Duchess, his lovely daughter who has spoken for him before, does not speak again."
"But why should they kill Kensky?" asked Malcolm.
It was not the first time that Israel Kensky had been the subject of hostile demonstrations. The young engineer had heard these stories of horrible rites practised at the expense of Christian children, and had heard them so often that he was hardened to the repetition.
The grin had left the man's face and there was a fanatical light in the solemn eyes when he replied:
"_Gospodar_, it is known that this man has a book which is called 'The Book of All-Power!'"