ch Wanda had
become possessed at the hand of the prince and Martin and Kosmaroff. It
touched those things which Cartoner had come to Poland to learn, but not
from Wanda.

The smell of the wood-smoke from the chimneys of the farm told them that
they were nearing the edge of the forest, and Wanda stopped short.

"You must not go any nearer," she said. "You are sure no one saw you
when you came?"

"No one," answered Cartoner, whom fortune had favored as he came. For
he had approached the farm through the wood, and he had seen Wanda's
footsteps in the snow. He had often ridden over the same ground on the
very horse which he was now riding, and knew every inch of the way to
Warsaw. He could get there without being seen, might even quit the city
again unobserved.

For he knew--indeed, Wanda had told him--the dangers that surrounded
him. He knew also that these dangers were infinitely greater for Martin
and the prince.

"It is only what you foresaw," she said, "when--when we first
understood."

"No, it is worse than I foresaw," he answered.

So they parted, with the knowledge that they must not meet again in
Poland when their meeting must mean such imminent risk to others. They
could not even write to each other while Wanda should be within the
circle of the Russian postal service. There was but the one link between
them--Paul Deulin; and to him neither would impart a confidence. Deulin
had brought about this meeting to-day. Warned by telegram, he had met
Cartoner at Warsaw Station, and had counselled him not to go out into
the streets. Since he was only waiting a few hours in Warsaw for the St.
Petersburg train, he must either sit in the station or take a horse and
go for a ride into the country. The Bukatys, by-the-way, were not in
town, but at their country house.

"Go and see them," he added. "A man living on a volcano may surely play
with firearms if he wants to. And you are all on the volcano together.
Pah! I know the smell of it. The very streets, my friend, reek of
catastrophe."

Wanda was gay and light-hearted to the end. There was French blood in
her veins--that gay, good blood which stained the streets of Paris a
hundred years ago, and raised a standard of courage against adversity
for all the world to imitate so long as history shall exist.

Cartoner turned once in his saddle and saw her standing in the sunlight
waving him a farewell, with her eyes smiling and her lips hard pressed.
Then he rode on, w