f their ancestors from
starvation. My fathers before me have not toiled and slaved and
legislated for them. I have not learnt medicine that I might doctor
them. I have not risked my health and life in their sties, where pigs
would refuse to live. I have not given my whole heart and soul to their
welfare, to receive no thanks, but only hatred. No, it is different for
me. I owe them nothing, mein lieber; that is the difference."

"If I agree to make a bolt for Petersburg to-morrow will you come?"
retorted Paul.

"No," answered the stout man.

"I thought not. Your cynicism is only a matter of words, Steinmetz, and
not of deeds. There is no question of either of us leaving Osterno. We
must stay and fight it right out here."

"That is so," answered Steinmetz, with the Teutonic stolidity of manner
which sometimes came over him. "But the ladies--what of them?"

Paul did not answer. They were passing over the rise of a heavy drift.
It was necessary to keep the horses up to their work, to prevent the
runners of the sleigh sinking into the snow. With voice and whip Paul
encouraged them. He was kind to animals, but never spared them--a strong
man, who gave freely of his strength and expected an equal generosity.

"This is no place for Miss Delafield," added Steinmetz, looking straight
in front of him.

"I know that!" answered Paul sharply. "I wish to God she was not here!"
he added in a lower tone, and the words were lost beneath the frozen
mustache.

Steinmetz made no answer. They drove on through the gathering gloom. The
sky was of a yellow gray, and the earth reflected the dismal hue of it.
Presently it began to snow, driving in a fine haze from the north. The
two men lapsed into silence. Steinmetz, buried in his furs like a great,
cumbrous bear, appeared to be half asleep. They had had a long and
wearisome day. The horses had covered their forty miles and more from
village to village, where the two men had only gathered discouragement
and foreboding. Some of the starostas were sullen; others openly scared.
None of them were glad to see Steinmetz. Paul had never dared to betray
his identity. With the gendarmes--the tchinovniks--they had not deemed
it wise to hold communication.

"Stop!" cried Steinmetz suddenly, and Paul pulled the horses on to their
haunches.

"I thought you were asleep," he said.

There was no one in sight. They were driving along the new road now, the
high-way Paul had constructed from Osterno