and wet in spring and
autumn. During the rains the whole tracks, and not only the ruts, are
under water. They are only passable and worthy of the name of road in
winter, when the sleighs have pressed down a hard and polished track.

Along the middle road--which is the worst and the least frequented--a
number of carts made their way soon after eight o'clock at night. The
road is not only unmade, but is neglected and allowed to fall into such
deep ruts and puddles as to make it almost impassable. It is bordered on
either side by trees and a deep ditch. In the late summer it is used for
the transit of the hay which is grown on the low-lying land. In winter
it is the shortest road to Wilanow. In spring and autumn it is not used
at all.

It was raining hard now, and the wind hummed drearily through the
pollarded trees. Each of the four carts was dragged by three horses,
harnessed abreast in the Russian fashion. They were the ordinary
hay-carts of the country, to be encountered at any time on the more
frequented road nearer to the hills, carrying produce to the city. The
carts were going towards the city now, but they were empty.

Fifty yards in front of the caravan a man splashed along through the
standing water, his head bent to the rain. It was Kosmaroff. He was in
his working clothes, and the rain had glued his garments to his spare
limbs. He walked with long strides, heedless of where he set his feet.
He had reached that stage of wetness where whole water could scarcely
have made him wetter. Or else he had such business in hand that mere
outward things were of no account. Every now and then he turned his
head, half impatiently, to make sure that the carts were following him.
The wheels made no sound on the wet sand, but the heavy wood-work of the
carts groaned and creaked as they rolled clumsily in the deep ruts.

At the cross-ways, where the shorter runs at right angles into
the larger Wilanow road, Kosmaroff found a man waiting for him, on
horseback, under the shadow of the trees, which are larger here. The
horseman was riding slowly towards him from the town, and led a spare
horse. He was in a rough peasant's overcoat of a dirty white cloth,
drawn in at the waist, and split from heel to band, for use in the
saddle. They wear such coats still in Poland and Galicia.

Kosmaroff gave a little cough. There is nothing so unmistakable as a
man's trick of coughing. The horseman pulled up at once.

"You are punctual," he