said. "I was nearly asleep in the saddle."

And the voice was that of Prince Martin Bukaty. He had another coat
such as he was wearing thrown across the saddle in front of him, and he
leaned forward to hand it down to Kosmaroff.

"You are not cold?" he asked.

"No; I feel as if I should never be cold again."

"That is good. Put on your coat quickly. You must not catch a chill. You
must take care of yourself."

"So must you," answered Kosmaroff, with a little laugh.

Though one was dark and the other fair, there was a subtle resemblance
between these two men which lay, perhaps, more in gesture and limb than
in face. There also existed between them a certain sympathy which
the French call _camaraderie_, which was not the outcome of a long
friendship. Far back in the days of Poland's greatness they must have
had a common ancestor. In the age of chivalry some dark, spare knight,
with royal blood in his veins, had perhaps fallen in love with one of
the fair Bukatys, whose women had always been beautiful, and their men
always reckless.

Kosmaroff climbed into the saddle, and they stood side by side, waiting
for the carts to come up. Martin's horse began to whinny at the sound
of approaching hoofs, when its rider leaned forward in the saddle and
struck it fiercely on the side of its great Roman nose, which sounded
hollow, like a drum.

"I suppose you had little sleep last night," said Kosmaroff when Martin
yawned, with his face turned up to the sky.

"I had none."

"Nor I," said Kosmaroff. "We may get some--to-morrow."

The carts now came up. Each team had two drivers, one walking on either
side.

"You know what to do," said Martin to these in turn. "Come to the
iron-foundry, where you will find us waiting for you. When you are laden
you are to go straight back as quickly as you can by this same road to
the military earthworks, where you will find our friends drawn up in
line. You are to turn to the left, down the road running towards the
river on this side of the fortifications, and pass slowly down the line,
dropping your load as directed by those who will meet you there. If you
are stopped on the road by the police or a patrol, who insist on asking
what you have in your carts, you must be civil to them, and show them;
and while they are looking into your carts you must kill them quietly
with the knife."

The drivers seemed to have heard these instructions before, for they
merely nodded, and made no comment