t up in the morning. Poland will yet be free."
The sergeant stared at them in astonishment, and answering in a low
tone in some words which were, the boys guessed, the countersign to
the pass, sat down by them. "But you are not Poles?" he said in a low
voice in Russian. "Your language is strange. I could scarce understand
you."

"No," Jack said, in similar tones, "we are not Poles, nor Russians. We
are English, and England has always been the friend of Poland."

"That is so," the sergeant said heartily. "Landlord," he said, raising
his voice, "a glass of vodka for each of my friends. I fear that my
money will not run to brandy. And now," he said, when the landlord had
returned to his place, "what are you doing here? Can I help you in any
way?"

"We are English officers who have escaped, and are making our way to
Poland. We expect to find friends there. Do you know the intendant of
the Countess Preskoff at--?"

"Do I know him?" the soldier repeated. "Why, I belong to the next
village. I have seen him hundreds of times. And the countess, do you
know the countess?"

"Certainly we do," Jack said. "We have been living for six weeks in
her chateau, it is she who has written to the intendant to aid us."

"You will be welcome everywhere for her sake. She is a kind mistress,
and greatly beloved. It is a pity that she married a Russian, though
they say he is a good fellow. Tell me, can I do anything for you? Do
you want for money?"

"No, indeed," Jack replied. "The countess has taken care of that."

"Look here," the sergeant said. "I will give you a note to my brother,
who is a horse-dealer at Warsaw. It may be useful to you. He knows
every one, and if, as they say, there is trouble in Poland, he is sure
to be in the thick of it, and at any rate he will be able to give you
advice which may be useful, and addresses of safe people in different
towns to whom you can go. Landlord, give me some paper and pen and
ink. My comrades here know friends of mine at home, and will carry a
letter for me."

"Please be careful," Dick said, as the soldier began to write. "It is
possible we may be searched on the way; so do not say anything that a
Russian official might not read."

"Trust me," the sergeant answered, laughing. "We Poles have been
learning to conceal our feelings for generations. Trust me to write a
letter which my brother will understand at once, but which will seem
the most innocent thing in the world to any Russian of