o the Pole
Star. There were many tracks in the snow, and we kept to the line of
these, that no one might remark that a body of cavalry had passed that
way.

These are the little precautions which mark the experienced officer.
Besides, by keeping to the tracks we were most likely to find the
villages, and only in the villages could we hope to get food. The dawn
of day found us in a thick fir-wood, the trees so loaded with snow that
the light could hardly reach us. When we had found our way out of it it
was full daylight, the rim of the rising sun peeping over the edge of
the great snow-plain and turning it crimson from end to end. I halted
my Hussars and Lancers under the shadow of the wood, and I studied
the country. Close to us there was a small farm-house. Beyond, at the
distance of several miles, was a village. Far away on the sky-line
rose a considerable town all bristling with church towers. This must be
Minsk. In no direction could I see any signs of troops. It was evident
that we had passed through the Cossacks and that there was nothing
between us and our goal. A joyous shout burst from my men when I told
them our position, and we advanced rapidly toward the village.

I have said, however, that there was a small farm-house immediately in
front of us. As we rode up to it I observed that a fine grey horse
with a military saddle was tethered by the door. Instantly I galloped
forward, but before I could reach it a man dashed out of the door, flung
himself on to the horse, and rode furiously away, the crisp, dry snow
flying up in a cloud behind him. The sunlight gleamed upon his gold
epaulettes, and I knew that he was a Russian officer. He would raise the
whole country-side if we did not catch him. I put spurs to Violette and
flew after him. My troopers followed; but there was no horse among them
to compare with Violette, and I knew well that if I could not catch the
Russian I need expect no help from them.

But it is a swift horse indeed and a skilful rider who can hope to
escape from Violette with Etienne Gerard in the saddle. He rode well,
this young Russian, and his mount was a good one, but gradually we wore
him down.

His face glanced continually over his shoulder--dark, handsome face,
with eyes like an eagle--and I saw as I closed with him that he was
measuring the distance between us. Suddenly he half turned; there were a
flash and a crack as his pistol bullet hummed past my ear.

Before he could draw h