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—tomorrow.”
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. One of them gave a low laugh, and that was all. He appeared to be an old man with a white beard, and had perhaps waited a long time for this moment. There was a wealth of promise in his curt hilarity.
Then Martin and Kosmaroff turned and rode on towards Warsaw at a trot. Before long they wheeled to the right, quitting the highway and taking to the quieter Czerniakowska, that wide and deserted road which runs by the riverside, skirting the high land now converted into a public pleasure-ground, under the name of the Lazienki Park.
In the daytime the Czerniakowska is only used by the sand-carts and the workmen going to and from the manufactories. Tonight, in the pouring rain, no one passed that way.
Before the iron-foundry is reached the road narrows somewhat, and is bounded on either side by a high stone wall. On the left are the lower lands of the Lazienki Park; the yards and storehouses of the iron-foundry are on the right.
At the point where the road narrows Kosmaroff suddenly reined in his horse, and leaning forward, peered into the darkness. There are no lamps at the farther end of the Czerniakowska.
“What is it?” asked Martin.
“I thought I saw a glint under the wall,” answered Kosmaroff. “There—there it is again. Steel. There is someone there. It is the gleam of those distant lights on a bayonet.”
“Then let us go forward,” said Martin, “and see who it is.”
And he urged his horse, which seemed tired, and carried its head low beneath the rain. They had not gone ten paces when a rough voice called out:
“Who goes there?”
“Who goes there?” echoed Martin. “But this is a high-road.” And he moved nearer to the wall. The man stepped from the shadow, and his bayonet gleamed again.
“No matter,” he said; “you cannot pass this way.”
“But, my friend—” began Martin, with a protesting laugh. But he never finished the sentence, for Kosmaroff had slipped out of the saddle on the far side, and interrupted him by pushing the bridle into his hand. Then the ex-Cossack ran round at the back of the horses.
The soldier gave a sharp exclamation of surprise, and the next moment his rifle rattled down against the wall. Both men were on the ground now in the water and the mud. There came to Martin’s ears the sound of hard breathing, and some muttered words of anger; then a sharp cough, which was not Kosmaroff’s cough.
After an instant of dead silence, Kosmaroff rose to his feet.
“First blood,” he said, breathlessly. He went to his horse and wiped his hands upon its mane.
“Bah!” he exclaimed, “how he smelled of bad cigarettes!”
Martin was leaning in the saddle, looking down at the dark form in the mud.
“Oh, he is dead enough,” said Kosmaroff. “I broke his neck. Did you not hear it go?”
“Yes—I heard it. But what was he doing here?”
“That is yet to be found out,” was the reply, in a sharp, strained voice. “This is Cartoner’s work.”
“I doubt it,” whispered Martin. And yet in his heart he could scarcely doubt it at that moment. Nothing was further from his recollection than the note he had given to Netty in the Saski Gardens ten hours ago.
“What does it mean?” he asked, with a sudden despair in his voice. He had always been lucky and successful.
“It means,” answered the man who had never been either, “that the place is surrounded, of course. They have got the arms, and we have failed—this time. Take the horses back towards the barracks—and wait for me where the water is across the road. I will go forward on foot and make sure. If I do not return in twenty minutes it will mean that they have taken me.”
As he spoke he took off his white overcoat, which was all gray and bespattered with mud, and threw it across the saddle. His working clothes were sombre and dirty. He was almost invisible in the darkness.
“Wait a moment,” he said. “I will get over the wall here. Bring your horse against the wall.”
Martin did so, avoiding the body of the sentry, which lay stretched across the footpath. The wall was
