Munsey's Magazine, Vol. VI, No. 1, October 1891

by Various

UNBROKEN.

I.

At a quaint shop, wherein were sold

All curious objects rare and old,—

Books, carvings, porcelain and plate

Of fashion odd and out of date—

I found this china drinking cup,

And, for a trifle, picked it up.

II.

See, ’tis a wine cask, wreathed about

With broad, green vineyard leaves without,

Round which a ring of peasants dance

With vigor more than elegance,

While laughter, loud and long, is seen

Breaking their parted lips between.

III.

Maddest of all the merry group

Which thus encircles stave and hoop,

The farmer in his cap and blouse

Roars a right jovial vintage rouse,

Nor heeds—so drowned in wine is he—

How Jean with Julie’s cheek makes free.

IV.

Midway around the leafy cask

His goodwife’s face, like some old mask

Of Laughter, glows beneath the vine

The while she foots it, warm with wine

And, like her frolic comrades, bent

On festal mirth and merriment.

V.

Standing upon my mantel there,

No blood of grape, or dark or fair,

Exhales its balmy breath for me;

And, save a carven rosary

From some spoiled convent, three or four

Odd trinkets are its only store.

VI.

Yet, on their swift unending round—

Without a motion or a sound—

These noisy peasants will keep up

Their revels round my drinking cup,

Until, by some uncareful maid,

In fragments on the floor they’re laid.

Charles H. Lüders.

VERA SHAMARIN.
A STORY OF SIBERIAN EXILE.

By William Murray Graydon.

CHAPTER I.
INSPECTOR SANDOFF.

Victor Sandoff, the Inspector of that famous and dreaded branch of the Russian police known as the “Third Section,” was seated in a cheerful room at his headquarters. These, for the sake of secrecy, were located in the second floor of an old building which stood on a narrow and little frequented street not far from the Admiralty Place. The house was guarded day and night by police spies, and a secret entrance in the rear permitted Sandoff to enter and depart at will. As the history of Sandoff is a somewhat remarkable one, a few words concerning him will not be out of place at this point.

He was a man of tall and slender build, with a light beard and mustache, deep blue eyes, a ruddy complexion, and an expression that had a charm all its own. It betokened a strong individuality and a rare depth of character. At the time when this history opens he was just thirty years of age, and though possessed of a fortune that yielded an ample income, his time was devoted to the service of the Bureau of Police. He had already made his name dreaded among the revolutionary classes of St. Petersburg, and more than one unhappy prisoner immured in the Fortress dungeons, or plodding the snows of Siberia, owed his arrest and conviction to Victor Sandoff. He found a keen zest in the pursuit of criminals. In devoting his life to this work he was actuated by motives which none could question, for his father, Colonel Sandoff, who was Minister of Police at St. Petersburg during a long period, had been brutally assassinated ten years before, presumably by the Nihilists whose enmity he had incurred.

Though the assassins were never discovered, Victor Sandoff became more attached to his chosen profession each year, partly from a desire to avenge his father’s death indirectly—for he had lost hope of finding the real criminals after this lapse of time, and partly because he had inherited a natural aptitude for police work, his grandfather, as well as his father, having been identified with that branch of the ministry in his time. Sandoff was well educated and possessed a fluent knowledge of French and English, as well as his own language. He was well fitted to assume the high position that was his in the social and military circles of the Russian metropolis. He had wealth, for the fortune left him by his deceased mother yielded an annual income of thirty thousand rubles. But only on rare occasions was he seen in the clubs or salons of St. Petersburg, for the present state of Russia kept the Bureau of Police constantly on the alert. If Victor in his own heart preferred the gayer side of life he made no sign. He was untiring in his labors, and possessed the full confidence of the Czar and of the ministry.

He had an uncle in St. Petersburg with whom he was not on good terms owing to causes which will appear later. This was Count Sandoff, his father’s brother, a man sixty years of age, who divided his time between the clubs, the gaming table, and his yachts. He was reputed to be wealthy, but though ostensibly the owner of a mansion on the Court Quay and a country house on the Gulf of Finland, his losses at cards had covered his property with mortgages to the full extent of its value. Count Sandoff was living on the edge of a volcano into which he was liable to be precipitated at any day.

To return to Victor. His position in St. Petersburg was a peculiar one. As chief of the terrible Third Section his power was almost unlimited. He had his own force of men, and every month a large sum of money was placed to his credit in the Bank of Russia for current expenses. He was directly responsible to no one but the Minister of Police. His assistant and confidant in the affairs of the Third Section was Serge Zamosc—himself a very clever police agent. Zamosc was a short, spare man, and always wore his face smooth shaven, the better to assume needed disguises. He was about forty years old, and had been in the service for nearly one half of that period. It was he who ferreted out information for Sandoff, and then acted upon it according to the latter’s instructions.

On this particular evening Inspector Sandoff was in a complacent frame of mind as he sat smoking a fragrant cigar and sipping vodka and water from a glass standing on the table beside him. He was momentarily expecting to hear of an important arrest that would bring no little credit to him and his department. Felix Shamarin, a leader of the revolutionary party, and the publisher of its most incendiary newspaper, had long evaded the utmost vigilance of the police, who had been endeavoring to arrest him for a dozen offenses of which he was believed to be guilty or cognisant. Victor Sandoff’s men had at length discovered that he had found a refuge in a densely populated part of St. Petersburg, lying between two of the canals that intersect it. Since early morning the cordon of police had been tightening its lines about the locality in which Shamarin was supposed to be hiding, and it was almost impossible that he could escape.

As he sat and waited for the expected news, Sandoff’s thoughts went back to a previous encounter he had had with the set of Nihilists to which Shamarin belonged—an encounter so remarkable that every incident of it was indelibly graven upon his memory. He leaned back in his chair, contemplating the bluish haze of cigar smoke that dimmed the ceiling, and dreamily reviewed the scene as it passed before him.

At an early hour one morning, a little more than a year before, he had gone, with four of his men, to an obscure quarter of the town to raid a house believed to be the headquarters of Shamarin’s seditious journal. An entrance was forced, but the police encountered a more stubborn resistance than they had expected. There was a fierce fight, and in the struggle Sandoff’s forces became divided. The leader himself laid low two of the men who sprang upon him, and a third antagonist turned and fled before him. Sandoff’s blood was up, and, his zeal outrunning his discretion, he pursued the fleeing Nihilist along a dark passageway, at the further end of which the fugitive was lost to sight. Stumbling blindly forward in the almost total darkness, Sandoff passed through a doorway. Instantly the door closed behind him, and he heard the sharp click of a key turning in the lock.

The sound told him the peril of his situation. He turned and grasped the handle of the door, but could not budge it. He felt along the wall—for there was not a ray of light—and to his dismay found that he was in a small, square room, with no means of exit—no avenue of escape from the cruel and unscrupulous men who held him prisoner.

As minutes passed by his hope of rescue grew fainter and fainter. The sounds of strife gave way to a complete silence. His men must have been outnumbered and overpowered by the Nihilists, and it would be hours before his absence would be discovered by the police and reinforcements sent to ascertain what had become of him. Before that time his fate was sure to be sealed. He could expect no mercy from his relentless enemies, who would wreak upon him a terrible vengeance for their losses in the fight with the police.

Sandoff had almost abandoned himself to despair when he heard a slight sound that seemed to come from the wall behind him. He was nerving himself to meet what he supposed must be his executioner, when a soft voice whispered:

“Make no noise as you value your life!”

A hand grasped his arm, and drew him toward a secret door that had opened in the wall of his prison. A faint gleam of light shone through it, dimly revealing to Sandoff’s astonished eyes the figure of a woman.

Mindful of her injunction, he followed her noiselessly through the secret doorway into a narrow passage. She led the way around several corners and down a winding flight of stairs, finally pausing in a small paved court hemmed in by lofty brick walls.

The light here was still too dim to reveal her face, but her figure was slight and her voice was of singular sweetness.

“I have saved your life, Victor Sandoff,” she said to him, “and at great peril to my own, as you will believe. Some day I may exact a similar favor of you. Will you grant it if that time ever comes?”

Sandoff was influenced by the tinge of romance that invested the situation. He was deeply grateful to the woman who had saved him, so he readily promised to grant whatever she might ask him.

“Swear it!” she said, and without hesitation he took the required oath.

Then she led him by more than one barred and bolted gate to a street on the canal bank, and left him there, vanishing without a word and as mysteriously as she had come. He knew his surroundings, and quickly made his way to the nearest police bureau, gathered a force of officers, and returned as speedily as possible to the house from which he had just escaped. All was quiet there. Sandoff’s four men were found lying in the hallway, bound and gagged, and all of them more or less severely wounded. The Nihilists, who had no doubt taken alarm on discovering Sandoff’s escape, had fled from the house, and disappeared in the mazes of the great city.

It was a year ago that these things had happened, and though Sandoff made diligent inquiry through his men as to the identity and whereabouts of the girl—for he was convinced that she must be very young—he never discovered the slightest trace of her. Tonight, under the fragrant influence of his cigar—which may have been stronger than usual—he found himself wondering vaguely if the fulfillment of his oath would ever be exacted, and trying to recall the girl as she appeared to him that night.

From this train of reveries he was aroused by footsteps in the hall. Then came a sharp rap on the door. As the command to enter left Sandoff’s lips Serge Zamosc stepped into the room, followed by a short thick set man, muffled to his ears in a great coat. Zamosc’s manner gave evidence of excitement. He glanced at Sandoff, and then turned to his companion, who stood awkwardly in the center of the floor with his eyes downcast and his hands pulling nervously at his fur coat.

“This is the Honorable Inspector,” he cried impatiently. “Now speak! Tell him what you know. If you have brought me here for nothing, it will fare ill with you.

“I found this fellow in the street a few moments ago,” he added to Sandoff. “He insisted that he had something of importance to communicate, and as he would have nothing to say to me, but insisted on seeing you, I thought it best to let him have his way. Possibly he brings some news bearing on the Shamarin affair.”

Sandoff turned to the man, whose dress and appearance showed him to belong to the lower classes.

“Well, what is it?” he said kindly. “I am Inspector Sandoff.”

“I—I beg pardon, your honor,” stammered the fellow appealingly. “I—I must see you alone.”

“Very well,” replied Sandoff. “That is easily arranged.”

He led the man into the adjoining apartment, which was the middle one of the suite of three rooms which formed the headquarters of the Third Section. A third room adjoined this, and like the one into which Sandoff had just ushered his visitor, it had a few chairs, a table, and a cot, and was lighted by a small barred window high up in the wall. These two rear apartments had witnessed many a tragic scene, for here prisoners were often brought for secret examination, and sometimes confined for a day or two. The walls were thick and the doors massive.

When Sandoff had shut off communication with the front room by closing the door, he turned questioningly to the stranger, who was sitting on the edge of a chair, with a very pale face.

“Is it true, your honor,” began the man finally, in a weak, quavering voice, “that a reward of five thousand rubles is offered for information that will cause the arrest of Felix Shamarin, the Nihilist?”

The fellow spoke the last words glibly enough. He had evidently committed them to memory.

“Ah!” thought Sandoff, “an informer?

“Yes,” he said aloud, “it is true that such a sum will be paid—not for any indefinite information, though. We have already located our man within a certain radius. Who are you, and what do you know?”

“My name is Poussin,” replied the fellow. “I have come to claim the reward. Felix Shamarin is in hiding at the house of one Lyapin, a locksmith, who dwells on the bank of the Fontana Canal, near the Ostroff bridge. He intends to escape before the break of another day, so you must lose no time if you wish to take him.”

Sandoff’s eyes sparkled.

“Are you sure this information is correct?” he asked.

“You can rely on it,” said Poussin. “I am in a position to know. But I trust that your honor will keep my share in the matter a secret,” he continued imploringly. “If it were known, my life would not be worth a kopec.”

“Have no fear,” said Sandoff. “If you are betrayed it will be your own doing. As for the reward, you will get it in good time, provided your information proves to be correct.”

He was interrupted by a sudden rap on the door, and when he walked over and opened it slightly he saw the face of his man Ivan, whose duty it was to stand guard in the hall.

“Beg pardon, your honor,” said the servant, “but a lady is outside demanding to see you. I told her that you were busy, but she would take no denial. She insists on speaking with you, and refuses to go away.”

“What does she look like?” asked Sandoff, wrinkling his brow. “Has she ever been here before?”

“Not to my knowledge,” replied Ivan. “Her face is covered with a thick veil, but she appears to be young.”

Sandoff hesitated for an instant. The wrinkles deepened on his forehead, and his hands trembled slightly as they rested on each side of the doorway.

“I will see her in a few moments,” he announced abruptly. “Give her that message, Ivan, and bid her wait in the hall.”

As Ivan went back to the front room, Sandoff closed the door and turned to Poussin.

“You must excuse me for a moment,” he said. “Some one is waiting for a private interview with me. I am going to put you in here,” leading the way to the rear apartment, “and as my agent Zamosc will be with you, I must caution you to be silent and to make no reply to any questions he may ask you,” for it was Sandoff’s custom to permit the identity of informers to be known to none but himself. “I know better than to open my lips,” returned the fellow shrewdly, and the reply thoroughly satisfied Sandoff. He left his companion and passed through to the outer room. Zamosc was sitting there by the desk, perusing a newspaper.

“I must ask you to retire to the rear room for a little while,” said Sandoff hurriedly. “You heard Ivan state that a lady wishes to see me. I think I know what she wants. It is some personal affair that should have been arranged at my house, but since she is here I may as well see her.”

“Don’t apologize, I beg of you,” replied Zamosc. He walked quietly back and entered the rear room, where Poussin was already seated.

Sandoff followed him, and then returned to the front apartment, closing both doors. He walked to the hall door and threw it open. “You may come in,” he said. “I am at leisure now.”

With a soft rustling of skirts a woman entered. She glided to the center of the room without a word, and quickly removed her cloak and veil.

Sandoff was thrilled with amazement and admiration. His eyes were riveted upon the slender figure standing opposite him—so close that he could have touched her by extending his hand. He had seen many beautiful women in his time, but never one to match this young girl—for she was scarcely more than twenty. Her hair was of a rich golden brown, her eyes gleamed with a slightly darker shade of the same color, from beneath long drooping lashes; her cheeks were faintly tinged with a hue like the early bloom of a peach, and the ivory whiteness of her neck and throat was only equaled by the pearly rows of teeth that showed through her parted lips as she breathed quickly and deeply. She wore a close fitting dress, made of dark material and richly trimmed with sable fur.

The two stood in silence for a moment, and then, meeting Sandoff’s eye, the girl blushed.

“You don’t know me?” she said abruptly. “Do you remember the night of the 30th of December, one year ago——”

The sweet voice, the accent, revealed the truth to Sandoff instantly.

“Yes; I remember now,” he said gravely. “It was you who saved my life.”

“And you remember the promise you made me?” she continued.

Sandoff inclined his head. He was greatly troubled by this visit, now that he began to guess its import. Yet he had no thought of breaking his oath.

“What can I do for you?” he said. “Speak! Don’t be afraid.”

The girl’s eyes sought the floor for a moment, and then were turned to Sandoff entreatingly.

“It is not for myself that I have come here tonight,” she said. “I want you to save the life of a friend—as I once saved yours. Unless he can leave the city before daylight he is lost. Only one thing can aid him, and that is a passport.”

“His name?” demanded Sandoff quickly. “Tell me his name!”

The girl sank upon a chair and buried her face in her hands. She sobbed audibly for an instant, and then looked up appealingly through her tears.

“His name,” she replied in a broken voice, “is Felix Shamarin. He is my brother. I am Vera Shamarin.”

CHAPTER II.
THE TRIUMPH OF COUNT SANDOFF.

The effect of the girl’s brief words upon Sandoff was startling.

His face suddenly assumed the color of ashes; he retreated to his desk, and stood there supporting himself by one hand and looking down at Vera Shamarin with an expression that was hard to define—a glance of mingled horror and pity.

The girl sprang forward and threw herself at his feet.

“Save him! Save him!” she cried incoherently. “He is my brother—all that I have in the world. If he is taken they will send him to Schlusselburg or to Siberia—or perhaps even worse.”

Sandoff drew back a little.

“Do you realize what you are asking of me?” he said. “Do you know that I could have granted you anything rather than that?”

He spoke in a low tone and signified to the girl to be equally cautious. But she was in no mood for reasoning.

“Your oath! Remember your oath!” she cried. “You dare not break it. You must save my brother, as you have sworn to do. It cannot imperil you, for none will ever know how he escaped. Give him such a passport as you give to your own agents when they are sent out of Russia on police business. He will be perfectly disguised, and the manner of his escape will never even be suspected.”

She looked at Sandoff, and seeing no trace of pity or of yielding on his stern features, she sank back on the chair and gave way to a flood of tears, her slender frame shaking with emotion.

Sandoff fixed his eyes vacantly on the floor. He was passing through a tremendous mental struggle. He could easily do what this girl asked of him—but only at the cost of his honor. He did not fear that his treachery to the government would be discovered—his power was too absolute for that—but he knew that the sting of conscience would be always with him; that he would ever be reminded by that self accusing mentor of his unfitness to retain his high position and the confidence of the Czar. But on the other hand his word was binding. He had sworn to aid this girl to his utmost power—had taken the oath with a full knowledge of the straits into which it might some day lead him, remote as such a contingency seemed at the time. Moreover, her tears and her beauty now moved him to pity. He deplored the fact that one so young and fair should be connected with the revolutionary party.

As he thus reviewed his unpleasant situation, a clock on his desk struck the hour of ten, and the girl rose quickly to her feet.

“If you intend to save him you must lose no time,” she sobbed. “Your police are drawing closer every moment, and he dare not leave his hiding place without means of getting away from the city. Do you think that it cost me nothing to save your life a year ago? You are mistaken. My act was discovered, and I was cruelly beaten. But for my brother I should have been killed. Do you still hesitate? If you care nothing for your oath, I appeal to your pity. Help me, I implore you, and I shall be grateful as long as I live. If you will send my brother safely out of Russia, I promise you that he shall never return. My influence over him is great, and he will do what I ask. Oh, help him—help him for my sake——”

Her voice failed her. She stood before Sandoff with her hands outstretched, and the tears coursing down her cheeks. He was visibly moved by her misery.

“Have no fear, your brother shall be saved,” he said gently. “I will keep my promise, even at the sacrifice of my honor. In return I ask of you two things—that Felix Shamarin shall never return to Russia, and that none shall know what I have done tonight.”

“Yes, yes, I promise,” she whispered brokenly. “You may rely upon it.” She caught his hand and covered it with kisses, but Sandoff quickly withdrew it, and, turning away without a word, seated himself at his desk. For a few moments he wrote briskly, glancing from time to time at the clock, while Vera’s eyes followed every motion of his own.

Finally he laid aside his pen and handed her a folded paper.

“Here is a passport for your brother,” he said quietly. “It is made out fictitiously, of course, but none will question the signature, and if he is properly disguised there will be no risk, either to him or to me. At midnight a through train leaves the Moscow terminus for Berlin. Let him take it, if possible. But are you sure that he can pass through the police lines in safety—my men are very close to Lyapin’s house?”

The girl started violently. “Ah, you know where he is concealed?” she cried. “You are the most noble—the most generous of men. Yes, he can pass through in safety; there is a way.”

She tried to say more, but her voice choked with emotion. She hastily donned her cloak and veil and approached the door. Sandoff preceded her.

“God bless you, Inspector Sandoff,” she whispered.

The door opened and closed. Her light footsteps echoed through the hall and down the staircase. Then all was silence.

When she had gone Sandoff remained standing a moment by the door, pressing his hands to his forehead as though he would stifle the conflicting thoughts that were struggling for mastery in his brain.

Then he picked up a glass of vodka from the table, and swallowed a little of the strong spirit. The composing effect of this was instantaneous. He walked steadily across the floor and threw open the door of the middle room. An expression of relief appeared on his face as he saw that the apartment was empty, and the rear door as he had left it.

“My fears were groundless,” he thought. “Zamosc is the last man to pry into private affairs.”

He opened the back room and called the occupants out.

“I regret being compelled to keep you waiting so long,” he said in apologetic tones. “My visitor was very importunate.”

“It makes no difference,” said Zamosc; “but I am glad that you are here all the same, for I have an important engagement, and must leave at once. It is already half past ten. What about this stupid fellow whom I brought here?” he added in a low tone. “Does he know anything of the Shamarin affair?”

“Nothing new,” replied Sandoff. “He tells me that Shamarin is concealed within half a mile of the Ostroff bridge on the Fontana Canal—a piece of information which we have known for the past two days. By the way, if anything turns up before morning, let me know. I shall remain here all night.”

“Very well,” said Zamosc.

He passed out of the room, and his quick, firm footsteps were heard descending the stairs.

Sandoff turned to Poussin, who was seated on a chair, fumbling with his cap.

“Follow me. I have something to say to you,” he commanded.

He passed into the front room with Poussin at his heels, and, stopping before a ponderous iron chest in one corner, unlocked and opened the lid. He took out a roll of bank notes—a portion of his private fortune, received that morning from his bankers—and, approaching the table, counted out six thousand rubles in full view of Poussin, who watched the operation with sparkling eyes. Then he passed them into the fellow’s hand.

“Here is the reward for your information, and an extra thousand besides,” he said. “Put the money away, and say nothing to any one of what has occurred tonight. Do you understand? You must keep the information about Shamarin strictly to yourself. If you disobey me you will probably lose your money and your life, too. Stay, you had better not return to your home tonight. Go to some other quarter of the city. That is all. Remember my warning!”

Poussin stuffed the bank notes into his pocket with a trembling hand. His eyes were fairly bulging from their sockets at the unprecedented sight of so much money. He would have fallen at the feet of his benefactor, but Sandoff’s manner forbade any such demonstration.

The latter was tempted for an instant to ask the fellow if Zamosc had remained in the back room with him all the time, but a second later he changed his mind. He had implicit faith in his agent, and felt ashamed of the momentary suspicion that had crossed his mind. He opened the door, and Poussin shuffled out, half crazy with joy, and went slowly through the hall and down the stairs.

Sandoff paced the floor a couple of times, and then, drawing his chair up to the lamp that was burning cheerily on his desk, he lit a fresh cigar and picked up one of the evening papers. The clock unceasingly ticked off the minutes, and the street without, at first enlivened by the occasional tread of a passer by, soon became entirely deserted.

---

On this same evening, and while Victor Sandoff was reading the St. Petersburg papers at the headquarters of the Third Section, his uncle, Count Sandoff, was engaged in a similar occupation in his luxuriously furnished library of his stately residence on the Court Quay. A touch of gout had confined him to the house, and his right leg was propped on a couch surrounded by soft pillows. Consequently he was in an unusually vile temper, and this frame of mind was aggravated by the merry and continuous tinkle of bells from the sleighs that were speeding swiftly over the ice covered waters of the Neva, and along the frozen surface of the Quay.

Count Sandoff was a short, portly man, some sixty years of age. His features, once handsome and aristocratic, had become coarse and bloated by reason of many years of constant and excessive dissipation. As already stated, the count was on bad terms with his nephew Victor, and the cause of this estrangement shall be explained.

When Victor’s mother died—shortly before the assassination of her husband—she left to the latter her fortune, the income to be used by him during his lifetime, and the principal to revert to Victor at his father’s death. But the property was not legally tied up, and knowing this, Count Sandoff, who needed a large sum of money to retrieve recent losses at the gaming table, applied to his brother for a loan of one hundred thousand rubles from his deceased wife’s estate. Colonel Sandoff refused the request absolutely. He was a man of honor, and knew how little chance there was of the money being returned. Moreover, some years before, when the position of the brothers was reversed, a similar request on his part—though for a much smaller sum—had been indignantly refused by the count, who could easily have spared the money at that time.

From this point dated the coolness between the brothers; and when, after the death of his father, Victor came into possession of his inheritance, the count’s animosity toward his nephew deepened. He envied the young man the possession of so much wealth, which he fancied should, at least in part, have belonged to him. Indeed he went so far as to enter into a conspiracy with one of Victor’s own men—a very ambitious and unscrupulous fellow—with a view to accomplishing the downfall of his nephew by whatever foul means the course of events might offer. Up to the present time nothing had been accomplished, in spite of the count’s influence, which by the way was considerable. The name of his assistant in this nefarious plot was Serge Zamosc.

Perhaps the count’s thoughts were dwelling on the family feud this evening, for his face wore a bitter expression as he pored over the columns of the paper. Finally he flung the sheet aside with a muttered curse, and reached for a bell cord with the intention of summoning his servant. But before he could touch it a shadow fell across the doorway, and Serge Zamosc entered the room with an ease of manner that showed him to be a frequent and unannounced visitor.

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said the count curtly. “Sit down. Nothing new, I suppose? Have a glass of wine?”

“Yes to the first question, no to the last,” replied Zamosc quietly, as he settled himself in an easy chair by the count’s side.

“What! Has your clever brain discovered a plan?” demanded the latter, suddenly becoming animated. “Do you mean to say that I shall succeed at last—after all this time! Don’t keep me in suspense. Explain yourself.”

“Softly, softly,” replied Zamosc. “I said nothing of the sort, did I? But let us suppose that I had succeeded—that I had discovered a sure and speedy way of accomplishing your object. Would you in that event be prepared to carry out the agreement you made some time ago?”

“You are concealing something,” growled the count in reply. “Why don’t you come to the point, Zamosc? You know how impatient I am. But stop—I will answer your question. In case you had really accomplished what you suggest, I would keep my word to the letter. I would see to it that you were appointed Inspector of the Third Section, in place of my nephew, and I would give you in addition the sum of ten thousand rubles.”

“But could you get the property into your hands?” said Zamosc. “The government, you know——”

“Yes, I know,” replied the count coolly. “The government usually confiscates the property of condemned criminals, but there are exceptions, and this would be one of them. I have already made my way clear for that, and I am sure of receiving at least one half of my nephew’s wealth—if not more.”

“Enough!” rejoined Zamosc. “Just sign this paper, will you?”

He passed the document to the count, who read its contents with a wrinkled brow. Then, after a brief hesitancy, he took a pen from the table, dipped it in ink and wrote his signature at the bottom.

“You watch the loopholes sharply,” he said, handing the paper back.

“True,” replied Zamosc, “else I should not be where I am. But now to business,” he added. “The supposition I mentioned a few moments ago is not a supposition at all, but a reality. I have in my possession proof that will send Victor Sandoff to Siberia for life, and that, too, without any risk to us, for the proof is genuine. We have been spared the trouble of concocting a conspiracy.”

The count rose up, heedless of the pain in his gouty leg.

“Is this true?” he cried sharply. “Pardon me, Zamosc, but your story seems incredible.”

“It is true,” replied Zamosc. “Wait a moment. I will convince you.”

He left the room and returned shortly, followed by the man Poussin, who had been waiting in the lower hall. They drew their chairs close up to the count, and Zamosc related hurriedly the events of the evening—how he had overheard, by placing his ear to the crack of the door, the whole conversation between Inspector Sandoff and his fair guest, and how he waited outside until Poussin appeared and then compelled him by threats to confess the story of his bribery, and finally to accompany him to the house of the count.

As link after link in the chain of evidence was revealed, the count’s brutal eyes glowed with delight.

“Yes, we have him at last,” he cried. “But I would not have believed it of him, Zamosc—I swear I would not. He has thrown himself away for a woman—played right into our hands.”

“Yes,” replied Zamosc, glancing at the clock. “He is lost. And now for action. There is no time to lose. Shamarin must be arrested, first of all—the Moscow terminus will be the place for that—and then we will surprise the inspector at headquarters.”

“Yes, yes, that is a good plan,” exclaimed the count eagerly. “But you had better let the gendarmes make the two arrests. Go around to the first station on the Nevskoi Prospekt. You will find Captain Nikolin in charge. He has men there, and will act at once—a very necessary thing, for it is half past eleven o’clock now.”

“True,” said Zamosc, “and the train for Berlin leaves at midnight. Before morning the affair will be accomplished, and within a month, at the furthest, I shall expect a fulfillment of your promise, my dear count.”

“And you shall not be disappointed—if my influence counts for anything. Good night, and success to you.”

“Good night,” rejoined Zamosc.

He hurriedly left the room, taking Poussin with him, and a moment later the two were striding hurriedly along the Court Quay in the direction of the Nevskoi Prospekt.

---

Although the St. Petersburg newspapers seldom obtain any information concerning the movements of the police—at least not until it is several days old—no less than two of the morning journals announced, in their issue for January 11, that Felix Shamarin, the Nihilist, and his sister, had been arrested on the previous night at the Moscow terminus, and that Inspector Victor Sandoff was apprehended an hour later on a charge of aiding the aforesaid Felix Shamarin in his attempt to escape.

The assassination of the Czar could hardly have created more surprise and consternation throughout the city, and when the true facts became known, as they did in time, much pity was felt for Sandoff, and not a few expressed the opinion that he could not have acted differently under the circumstances.

But pity and public opinion have nothing in common with the Russian government. In spite of the high rank of the offender, Victor Sandoff was brought to trial three weeks after his arrest, convicted, sentenced to a term of ten years at hard labor in the Czar’s Siberian gold mines, and sent off post haste to begin his term of banishment. He attempted no defense, nor would any have been possible. The testimony of Zamosc and Poussin was beyond question, and the passport that had been taken from Shamarin was a still more damning bit of evidence.

Felix Shamarin and his sister had left St. Petersburg on the way to Siberia ten days earlier—for the devoted girl, despite her youth and beauty, was sentenced to share his punishment for the part she had played in his attempted escape. Neither of them was aware of Sandoff’s arrest. They believed that his perfidy was responsible for their own fate, and their hearts were full of bitterness and hatred toward him. Nor did Sandoff in turn know what had become of the Shamarins. All information was refused him. He rightly attributed his downfall to Serge Zamosc, but he was ignorant of the connection between the latter and his uncle, Count Sandoff. Not for an instant did he suspect the truth.

Two weeks after Sandoff’s conviction, the papers briefly announced that the ministry had appointed Serge Zamosc to fill the vacant office of Inspector of the Third Section, and a short time later it was rumored in club and social circles of the city that his Imperial Majesty the Czar had been graciously pleased, for family reasons, to permit one half of Victor Sandoff’s estate to revert to Count Boris Sandoff. So all the actors in the Shamarin affair received their reward. Zamosc attained the height of his ambition and the sum of ten thousand rubles, Count Sandoff replenished his bank account and entered on a fresh course of dissipation, and the rest—went to Siberia.

CHAPTER III.
THE GOLD MINES OF KARA.

In the background a murky, leaden colored sky. Outlined against it, ranges of low hills scantily clad with stunted larches and pines and whitened by a light fall of snow. At their base a stream, narrow and rapid, brawling between scattered rocks and huge shapeless mounds of gravel and sand. In the foreground a straggling village of whitewashed cabins and long barracks of unpainted logs, with a few more pretentious houses with tin roofs, and a black, weather beaten log prison, in the open space before which stand a group of Cossacks in sheepskin boots and dark green uniforms, leaning moodily upon their Berdan rifles.

Such was the scene on a dreary January morning in that portion of the Siberian gold mine settlements known as Middle Kara.

Within the gloomy prison the convicts have answered to the morning roll call, and are now taking their breakfast of weak tea and rye bread. A moment later the heavy doors are thrown open and the mournful procession files out, a haggard, toil worn group of men, wearing long gray overcoats with yellow diamonds on their backs. The Cossacks shoulder their rifles, surround the convicts front and rear, and at the sharp word of command from the officer in charge, the column is moving briskly up the dreary valley to begin another day’s relentless toil.

A sad and hopeless place is this valley of the Kara River, lined at intervals, for a distance of nearly twenty miles, by the prisons and settlements that constitute the Czar’s convict mines. The mines themselves consist of a series of open placers, stretching at irregular intervals along the Kara River—a river in name only. From these placers the convicts extract yearly, by the sweat of their brow, about 3,600 pounds of pure gold—all of which goes into the Czar’s private purse. The misery and suffering of the unfortunate beings who are condemned to spend their days here in hard labor, is not unknown to the civilized world. It need not be dwelt upon further.

Among the group of convicts who marched up the valley in the gray wintry light of this particular morning was one whose figure had not lost its straightness, nor his face its look of conscious pride, in spite of the wretchedness he had endured for two long years. But his features were haunted, nevertheless, by an expression of suffering that might have defied recognition from any who knew Victor Sandoff in the days when he was the famous Inspector of the terrible Third Section. Two years had come and gone since his arrest and conviction—one year of monotonous journeying across Siberia, and one year of toil, day by day, in the gold placers of the Kara River. He had nothing to look forward to but a long vista of slavery—terminated, perhaps, by an unmarked grave among the Siberian hills, or at the best by a return to Russia in poverty, disgrace and degradation, to spend the remainder of his life shunned by all men. Strange irony of fate, that this man whose signature had sent many a poor wretch to Siberia, should come at last to the same place! Many of those by whose side he worked from day to day owed their arrest and conviction to him, but none knew him, nor did he know them. The gray convict garb makes its wearer only an indistinguished unit in the army of slaves.

His thoughts—and terrible they must have been at times—Victor Sandoff kept well beneath the surface. His face was always grave, impassive, set in that rigid expression which sometimes awed his companions, and impressed even the rude Cossacks.

On this morning his keen blue eyes had a far away look as he plodded over the frozen clods of snow, for it was two years to a day since the fateful 10th of January that had witnessed such a change in his life, and he could not help recalling the series of events that had wrought his undoing—the visit of Zamosc and Poussin, the interview with Vera Shamarin, and the abrupt entry of the gendarmes into his room with the terrible order of arrest.

Thus absorbed he failed to note his surroundings—the squads of mounted Cossacks who galloped by or were seen at a distance, winding over some barren hill top, the eager mutterings of his companions, and the excited interest of the guards who had the convicts in charge.

At sunrise that morning, while he was yet lying on his hard bed, half awake, half asleep, he had heard the dull boom of a cannon echoing through the valley, and now when a second report thundered among the hills, he glanced up, curious to know what it meant.

A brief exchange of words between the Cossack officer and one of his men—who were marching close by—gave him the wished for information.

“There goes another gun,” said the latter. “The fugitive must be still at large.”

“They will soon capture her,” returned the other, with a harsh laugh. “It is seldom that a man gets five miles away from the valley—what can a woman hope to do?”

A woman, then, had escaped! Sandoff was conscious of a vague hope that the poor creature might elude her pursuers—a hope that he knew could never be realized. It was a frequent thing for convicts to break away from the mines, but they either perished from cold and hunger or were ultimately brought back to endure aggravated miseries in expiation of their offense. The knowledge of this deterred many who could easily have accomplished a temporary escape. What would have been the use? It was five thousand miles to St. Petersburg, and a good thousand to the Pacific coast. Every foot of the way was beset by incredible perils.

The scene of the day’s toil was reached after a march of an hour—for it lay three miles from the settlement. Without delay the men were put to work under the keen eye of the overseer, while the Cossacks stacked their rifles and built fires, about which they gathered, stamping their feet and clapping their arms together, for the weather was bitterly cold and the snow was beginning to fall thickly from the leaden sky.

With pick and shovel the convicts delved into the stratum of clay and gravel beneath which lies the bed of gold bearing sand—sometimes at a depth of twenty feet. The frozen clods of earth were taken in charge by others, who loaded them on rude wheelbarrows and trundled them away. At a spot some little distance down the stream, a bed of sand, uncovered on the previous day, was being washed out in the wooden hoppers.

The biting cold compelled the men to work with more than their usual energy, and all were hungry when the time for the scanty noonday lunch arrived. They drew as close to the fires as the Cossacks would permit, and ate their bread and drank their weak tea, sitting on the snowy ground.

Sandoff found himself opposite a man who interested him strangely—a tall, slender fellow of about his own age, with dark hair, piercing black eyes, and an expression that was moody and even desperate, as though the burning remembrance of his wrongs was always taunting him.

Two nights before this man had been placed in the prison cell occupied by Sandoff and two others, having been transferred to Middle Kara from one of the lower settlements. He had maintained a dogged silence ever since, and Sandoff had more than once found the stranger’s eyes fixed upon him with a strange earnestness of gaze.

The man ate the last morsel of his bread and washed it down with his tea, glancing casually at Sandoff as he did so. Suddenly his face flushed and a tigerish look came into his eyes—a look of hatred and recognition. The Cossacks were some distance away, and before they could note what was going on, much less take any action, the fellow sprang to his feet and hurled himself on Sandoff, clutching his throat in a vicious grip.

“I know you, I know you,” he cried in passionate accents. “I can’t be mistaken. You are Inspector Sandoff. It was you, you traitorous dog, who deceived my sister and decoyed me from my hiding place!”

In an instant all was wild excitement. The convicts gathered eagerly about the scene of the struggle, but were speedily thrown aside by the guards, who tore the combatants roughly apart, the one senseless with rage, the other stunned and bewildered.

“Who are you?” demanded Sandoff in a troubled voice.

“You should easily guess,” replied the other bitterly; “but I will tell you my name. I am Felix Shamarin.”

A strange look came into Sandoff’s eyes, and he shrugged his shoulders.

“You do well to attack me,” he said. “Could not your own eyes have told you the truth? What, think you, brought me here? It was the passport I gave your sister on that night two years ago. I am suffering for her sake, and for yours. Did you know nothing of it?”

Shamarin drew a short, fierce breath. His face changed color, and a tear forced itself into each eye.

“As God is my witness,” he said with emotion, “I did not know of this thing. I thought it was you who betrayed us—your perfidy that decoyed us to the railway station. And so the fulfillment of your oath to Vera proved your ruin! I wish to God she had never gone near you on that night. It were better for me to have been caught and to have suffered alone. Can you ever forgive me?—I must seem to you the basest, the most ungrateful of men. My sudden passion when I recognized you destroyed my reason, else I must have suspected the truth.”

“It was but natural,” replied Sandoff gently. “Say no more.”

He leaned forward and took the hand that Shamarin extended to him. For a moment the two men were united by a common bond of misery, despite the great gulf that had separated their lives in former days.

The Cossacks had paid no attention to this brief conversation, but just at that moment their officer, Lieutenant Zagarin, pushed his way to the spot with a flushed and angry face.

The cause of the quarrel mattered not to him, nor did he make any distinction between the offenders, though it was perfectly plain that Shamarin had been the aggressor.

“You mutinous dogs!” he cried harshly. “You deserve to be shot. I will be lenient this time—but beware in future. Chain these men to their barrows,” he added, turning to the Cossacks, “and put them to work in that spot yonder, where the soil is so hard. See that they get no supper when they return tonight—or on the following night either.”

Remonstrance or explanation would have been worse than useless. The officer’s command was speedily obeyed, and in a short time Sandoff and Shamarin were working by themselves in a small hollow on the western side of the river, opposite their companions. A single Cossack was detailed to guard them.

The stratum of gravel was unusually hard at this point, and they found the labor very severe as they dug out the clods with their picks and conveyed them to the water’s edge in the wheelbarrows. The watchful eye of the Cossack was upon them, and conversation was out of the question.

The hollow in which they were working was square in shape, bounded on one side by the river, and on the other three sides by a bluff about fifteen feet high, the top of which was covered with dense, scrubby bushes. Being a little way down stream this hollow was beyond the scrutiny of the Cossacks or of the labor gang, and the two toilers were in range of only one pair of eyes, the property of the solitary Cossack.

This individual was disposed to regard his position as somewhat of a sinecure. He had no fear that his captives would run away, for they were securely chained to their wheelbarrows. Nor did he imagine that they would quarrel, for with his own eyes he had seen the reconciliation between them. His duty was to keep them at work, and as this did not require his presence on the exact spot he varied the monotony of his employment by marching up and down that portion of the river shore which commanded a view of the hollow, and by gazing fiercely at Sandoff or Shamarin when they approached with a load of clods. The snow was now an inch thick on the ground, and as the afternoon waned it came down still more persistently, blowing to and fro in blinding flurries.

The men could have conversed with safety, since the Cossack was beyond earshot, but neither felt in the mood for speech. The cold was so intense that their only refuge from it was in hard and incessant work. They had just returned from wheeling a load of clods to the river, and as they drove their picks into the hole they had excavated a ringing sound came to their ears. Glancing around, they saw the Cossack place his rifle against a rock and bend down toward the water, tin cup in hand, with the evident intention of procuring a drink.

That instant a stone, thrown from above, struck Shamarin smartly on the arm. His sudden exclamation startled Sandoff, and both glanced up to see a face peering dimly over the edge of the bluff between the parted bushes.

“Be cautious,” whispered a feminine voice of singular sweetness. “Keep your heads down and pretend to be working, but don’t lose a word I say.”

Shamarin staggered and nearly dropped his pick.

“My God!” he muttered hoarsely, “it is Vera—my sister!”

“Yes, it is I, Vera,” came the reply from above. “Is your companion to be trusted? Quick!”

Shamarin instantly regained his self possession.

“Yes, he is all right,” he replied. “Go on. I am listening.”

The Cossack was still bending over the water. It took him a long time to find a suitable drinking place.

“Here, take this,” said the girl. She threw down a short thin package, which Shamarin deftly caught and hid in his bosom.

“You heard the cannon this morning?” she continued quickly. “They were for me. I escaped last night from the women’s prison at Ust Kara. I will explain all later. I have been watching here all day. Tonight you must escape. Remove a board from the floor of your cell—that packet contains tools which will help you. Come directly to this spot. I have plans which I will explain then. Don’t be alarmed about me. I am warmly clothed, and have a safe hiding place.”

“If possible we shall be there,” replied Shamarin. “I think your plan will work—but if anything happens and we don’t come, give yourself up. I have a strange thing to tell you. This man here, my companion, is——”

“Hush! hush! the Cossack is returning. Good by—until tonight.”

Vera quickly withdrew her head and Sandoff and Shamarin plied their picks with trembling hands and agitated faces, as the Cossack came quickly forward, shouldering his rifle. He had evidently received some signal from his companions, for as he reached the spot he said gruffly: “The lieutenant has ordered a return. The snow is becoming too deep to do good work.”

He conducted his temporary prisoners out of the hollow, and across the shallow stream on the scattered stones. A few moments later the convict gang was marching back to the settlement. At least two of their number bore lighter hearts than had been theirs when they started from their cells that morning.

CHAPTER IV.
A DARING ESCAPE.

The convict prison at the settlement of Middle Kara was a long, low, single story building, so situated that one of its longer sides fronted upon the street, while the other opened on a square courtyard surrounded by a high stockade. Of the two narrow ends one faced another street, and the other was backed by the pretentious tin roofed dwelling belonging to the commander of the prison. The interior of this wretched building, which sheltered nightly from one to two hundred convicts, was dirty and foul in the extreme, and was apportioned into kameras or sleeping cells, holding anywhere from four to a dozen men apiece. Sandoff and Shamarin occupied one of the smaller apartments and shared it with two other prisoners, Butin and Vraskoi by name.

Thus, when they returned that night from the mines and were locked up in their dreary cells, they found themselves confronted by a very perplexing question—how to dispose of Butin and Vraskoi.

At present they gave no thought to what lay beyond the first and most important step—the escape from the prison. It was enough for Shamarin to know that his sister had some possible plan in her head—some plan that offered a fair chance of overcoming the terrible obstacles that usually confronted fugitives who tried to escape from Siberia, and especially at this time of year—the dead of winter. He had sufficient faith in Vera to believe this, and patience enough to act and wait.

As for Sandoff, the possibility of escape thrilled and cheered him and left no room in his heart for the dark side of the question. He, too, had faith in Vera. His past experience had taught him something of her strength of character.

As there was little opportunity for conversation, Shamarin conceived a course of procedure and boldly took the initiative. When the four had eaten their supper—for the lieutenant’s harsh order concerning Sandoff and Shamarin was for some reason not carried out—and were lounging on the hard platforms before retiring, Shamarin revealed the whole affair to Butin and Vraskoi. He felt safe in doing this, for both were political prisoners and had a high sense of honor.

The result was satisfactory. As concerned themselves, Butin and Vraskoi refused to entertain for a moment any project of escape at such a time of year, but they cheerfully offered to assist their companions to the best of their ability, although by so doing they would lay themselves open to severe punishment.

“It will be nothing worse than a deprivation of food, or being chained to our barrows for a week or so,” remarked Vraskoi. “We can endure that easily enough. Surely you would do the same in our place.”

This was quite true, and the services of the two brave men were reluctantly accepted.

While waiting for the prison to quiet down and the night guard to go on duty, Shamarin told Sandoff that his sister had been confined for the past year in the female prison at Ust Kara—which was the most southerly of the settlements. He had seen her but once in that time, on which occasion, three months before, they had mutually agreed to try to escape during the approaching spring, and attempt to make their way to Vladivostok on the Pacific coast.

“Why she has chosen this time to escape I do not know,” concluded Shamarin. “But depend upon it she has a good reason. I know her well enough for that.”

“I believe you,” replied Sandoff. “God willing, we will join her before midnight.”

“It will be a partial reparation for what we have made you suffer, if through her efforts you get safely out of Siberia,” rejoined Shamarin. “It will be a terrible blow when she learns of your misfortune. She will reproach herself bitterly.”

“That will be needless,” said Sandoff. “Fate willed that we should suffer in this way. Your sister saved my life. Could I have acted otherwise than I did? But let us dismiss the past and think only of the future. It will be better.”

“Yes, that is true,” assented Shamarin. “We will think only of the future.”

The conversation then ceased, and as all the prisoners were supposed by this time to have gone to sleep, Sandoff and Shamarin stretched themselves on the hard platform beside their companions. For some time sounds of voices and the shuffling of feet came from the main portion of the prison, but finally, about nine o’clock in the evening, everything became quiet, save for the occasional tramp of a Cossack sentry in the corridor without the cell. This signified that the commander of the prison, his staff of officers, and in fact all residing in the settlement of Middle Kara—except the night guard of Cossacks—had retired to rest. The time for action had arrived.

None of the inmates of the cell were sleeping. They rose noiselessly to their feet and gathered about Shamarin as he drew the package given him by Vera from his pocket. Outside, in the courtyard on which the cell faced, the sentries had built fires, and these sent a dull reflection through the grimy panes of a window high up in the wall. The packet proved to contain a long, sharp bladed knife and a short, flat iron wedge—tools well fitted for the proposed undertaking. How the brave girl had acquired them it was impossible to guess.

Shamarin made a brief examination of the floor, which fortunately was old and rotten. Choosing a likely spot, he set to work with such energy and skill that in less than five minutes two planks had been pried loose, and a dark hole was revealed, through which came a damp and musty odor. All this was accomplished without a particle of noise. Meanwhile Sandoff had been doing up in a neat bundle the blankets and change of clothes belonging to himself and Shamarin.

“Now is our time,” said the latter. “Come, Sandoff, delay may be fatal.”

“Yes, you had better go at once,” added Butin. “It will be safer—though the chances are that your absence will not be discovered until morning. It is very seldom that the guard looks into our cell of a night.”

“Yes, as far as that goes you are safe,” added Vraskoi. “The critical point is to get clear of the prison without detection.”

“That will be easily managed,” said Shamarin. “The weather is in our favor. Come, let us start!”

The parting with Butin and Vraskoi was a sad one. Good wishes were exchanged and hands were clasped in a friendly embrace. Then Shamarin lowered himself into the hole, followed by Sandoff, and the planks were forced into place over their heads.

The first step had been safely accomplished, and the fugitives were now in a hollow place about three feet high and extending under the entire prison, for the building had been erected on piles above the ground. This space was full of dirt and filth that had been dropped in through holes in the floor, and was surrounded on all four sides by a wall of heavy logs roughly plastered together.

Shamarin knew the location of the prison well, and had formed his plans accordingly. Bending low he groped his way forward, with Sandoff by his side, until he came in contact with the wall of logs. With his knife he picked out some of the dried plaster from the chinks. Putting his eyes to the fissure thus formed he could see into the stockaded courtyard of the prison. Through the snow, which was still falling, the forms of half a dozen Cossacks loomed darkly as they stood about a blazing fire, warming their limbs. A stack of rifles was visible close by.

“All right! I have my bearings now,” whispered Shamarin. “Keep close to me and don’t make any more noise than you can help.”

He groped his way along the wall until he reached the angle. Turning this he pushed on for half a dozen yards or more. Then he stopped, and asked in a low whisper, “are you there, Sandoff?”

“Yes,” came the instant reply. “Where are we?”

“On a line with the side street,” answered Shamarin. “The next step is to remove a log. Here, take this wedge and help me to pick out the plaster.”

By feeling with his hands Shamarin chose a log suitable for the purpose, midway between the ground and the prison floor, and both attacked it vigorously but noiselessly. In less than half an hour the plaster that held it in place was removed, as far as was possible, and by their combined efforts, one using the knife and the other the wedge, one end of the log was pried inward until they could grasp it with their hands.

It was a critical moment. Before proceeding further Shamarin peeped out through the crevice. The narrow vista afforded only a brief view of snow covered ground, but as all was quiet he plucked up heart and dragged the log entirely out of its setting. It toppled into the inclosure with a slight crash.

Both men thrust their heads out together, and drew them back as quickly with a startled jerk. An armed Cossack was standing on guard along the prison wall not ten feet distant.

The imminence of the peril staggered the fugitive for an instant. They believed that the Cossack had heard the falling log, and expected him to put in an appearance at any moment. The latter part of this supposition was verified almost instantly, and before any plan of action could be decided upon.

The sentry had not heard any noise, for the wind was blowing in the opposite direction, but at the very moment when the fugitives thrust out their heads he decided to exercise his stiffening limbs. With long strides he advanced, bowing his head before the driving snow. In this attitude the dark gap in the prison wall caught his eye, and with more of curiosity than suspicion he bent down close to the mysterious hole and peered into it. He could not see the fugitives, but the conviction that something was wrong quickly forced itself into his mind, and he opened his mouth to summon the officer of the guard.

Too late! A pair of muscular arms darted lightning like through the opening, and the unlucky Cossack was seized by the throat and dragged bodily out of the snow and through the narrow opening. Still holding his victim by the throat, so that no outcry was possible, Shamarin—for it was he who had performed the daring deed—struck the Cossack’s head forcibly against the end of the log. His struggles ceased, and he lay quietly on the ground.

“Not dead, is he?” asked Sandoff fearfully.

“No, only stunned,” replied Shamarin. “Help me to bind him, quick! Every moment that we stay here increases our peril.” As he spoke he tore the Cossack’s leather belt from about his waist and proceeded to sever it in two, lengthwise, with the knife.

“Don’t stop for that,” said Sandoff. “The officer of the guard makes a round every few moments. If he comes by now we are lost.”

“True!” exclaimed Shamarin. “I had forgotten that—what shall we do? It is important that this sentry be put out of the way, as you will see later. Stop! I have an idea. Put on this fellow’s cap and coat, shoulder his rifle, and mount guard outside, keeping your back up against the hole.”

“A good plan,” replied Sandoff approvingly. “I will do it.”

Shamarin handed him the cap and cloak and he quickly donned them. They fitted his tall figure well. Then he crept hurriedly into the snowy street, picked up the rifle that the Cossack had dropped, and assumed a rigid martial attitude. Opposite him was a row of low buildings, dark and silent. To his left, around the angle of the prison, the narrow street opened on the square, and to the right it extended through the outskirts of the settlement to the Kara River. Not a living creature was in sight.

Five minutes passed and no word or signal came from Shamarin. Then a quick crunching sound fell on Sandoff’s ear, and he had barely time to divine its meaning when a Cossack officer rounded the angle of the prison and approached him on a brisk walk.

Sandoff nerved himself for the ordeal. His cap was far over his eyes and the cape of his coat came well up about his ears, so he had little fear of recognition. He presented his rifle respectfully as the officer reached the spot. The latter contented himself with a nod and a brief glance, and was about to pass on when the rattle of hoofs echoed down the narrow street. Hearing this he stopped not six feet from Sandoff, and waited.

Presently half a dozen mounted Cossacks loomed out of the driving snow, and clattered down the street until they were opposite the prison. Then, catching a glimpse of the officer, their commander ordered a halt, and while the horses pranced restlessly from side to side, a brief conversation took place between the two.

“What luck, Captain Petrof?” asked the officer of the guard.

“None whatever, lieutenant,” was the reply. “The girl has probably perished from exposure by this time. Her body will be found after the first thaw.”

From this Sandoff inferred that the squad of Cossacks had been scouring the country in search of Vera. His ears were on the alert to catch every word, though at the same time he was enduring agonies of suspense lest the prying eyes of the Cossacks—which were frequently turned toward him—should discover the gaping hole in the wall that he was trying to hide.

The next question touched on a still more interesting subject.

“By the way, lieutenant,” said Captain Petrof suddenly, “I want to call your attention, while I think of it, to a grave mistake that was made a day or two ago—though it only came to my knowledge this morning. You know the convict Shamarin, who was brought up from the lower prison? Well, by some blunder he was placed in the same kamera with Sandoff, the one time Inspector of the Third Section. You know the connection between them—and by the way, it was this same girl that got Sandoff into trouble who escaped last night—the sister of Shamarin, you know.”

“That was indeed a serious blunder, Captain Petrof,” replied the lieutenant. “I will rectify it at once. I will remove Shamarin to another cell.”

“It will do the first thing in the morning,” suggested Captain Petrof.

“No, I will attend to it tonight,” returned the lieutenant firmly, “as soon as I have finished my round of inspection.”

The captain chirruped to his horse and the squad of Cossacks trotted off toward the barracks across the prison square, while the lieutenant pushed on without a glance at Sandoff and soon disappeared around the corner of the stockade.

The alarm and consternation of the latter at what he had just heard may be easily imagined. As he turned hurriedly a log was thrust endways through the hole behind him, and was followed an instant later by Shamarin.

“Have you heard?” whispered Sandoff huskily. “Our escape will be discovered. They will enter the cell in a few moments.”

“Yes,” said Shamarin coolly, “I heard all. I am sorry now that I wasted so much time with that fellow in there. I wanted to make sure that he would not alarm his companions and put them on our track. I have him nicely gagged and bound. Now my trouble goes for nothing. But don’t despair, Sandoff. We will make good use of what time we may have. Here, help me to put this log in place—then we will be off.”

Sandoff lent a willing hand, and the break in the wall was soon roughly closed up.

“They will find that fellow long before morning,” said Shamarin. “He is in no danger of being buried alive. Are you ready now? Just keep that Cossack coat and rifle. They may do you good service in the future. I will carry the other bundle, and the knife and wedge. We may need them all. Is the breast of that coat you have on filled out with cartridges?”

“Yes,” replied Sandoff, making a hasty examination.

“Good!” said Shamarin. “It is a strong point in our favor to have firearms. That rifle may save us from starvation—and from Cossacks,” he added significantly.

Then, with a last glance at the gloomy prison, they quickly crossed the street, and plunged in among the rows of squalid huts, keeping a sharp lookout for danger. But on such a stormy night no one was abroad except in the vicinity of the prison, and after winding in and out among the narrow streets of the settlement, the fugitives reached the suburbs. Presently they came to the bank of the Kara River, where they stopped for a breath of free air—the first they had enjoyed in two long years.

“It is possible that the lieutenant has changed his mind, and won’t enter the cell until morning,” said Shamarin, at this point, “but we won’t take any chances. The snow is now about half a foot deep, and it is not coming down fast enough to conceal our tracks in case our flight is discovered within the next hour. We should be traced to this point at once.”

“Then what can we do?” asked Sandoff uneasily.

“Only one thing,” was the reply. “Wade up the shallow bed of the river. It is only partly frozen, owing to the swiftness of its current. The Cossacks may suspect our ruse, it is true, but they will follow the stream southward down the valley, and not to the north, in which direction we must go. But come! Vera will be expecting us.”

Without hesitation they waded into the icy waters and worked their way up stream, keeping close to the shore, where it was quite shallow, and sometimes stepping from one to another of the rocks that, covered with snow and ice, rose above the surface of the current.

Two full hours were required to traverse the two miles and a half that separated the settlement from the gold placers where the convicts had recently been working, but at last the ungainly heaps of sand and gravel began to appear here and there. Peering through the falling snow Shamarin descried at a little distance the hollow where his sister had promised to await their coming.

Forgetful of pain and fatigue they pressed on, and as their weary feet trod the soft snow that carpeted the shore of the river, a dull report echoed through the night and shattered the stillness of the valley. Then another, and another—each seeming louder than the last.

CHAPTER V.
DOWN THE SHILKA.

No need to tell the fugitives the meaning of the booming cannon. It was all plain enough. Their escape had been discovered, and in a few moments mounted Cossacks would be riding to and fro through the snowy night. From one end of the settlement to the other the news would spread, and all would be on the alert for the escaped prisoners.

“If we only could have had one night’s start,” panted Shamarin, as he plunged forward through the drifted snow into the mouth of the little hollow. “But the case is not hopeless by any means. Keep your spirits up, Sandoff.”

Then he uttered a glad cry as a figure muffled in heavy furs rose from behind a rock and came swiftly forward.

“Vera!”

“Felix, my brother!”

They fell into each other’s arms and embraced passionately for a moment. Then in a few words Shamarin revealed the identity of his companion, and Vera’s sorrow and remorse on learning the truth were pitiful to see. She bitterly reproached herself for Sandoff’s misfortune.

“Believe me, you are not to blame,” said Sandoff gently, when he had told her all the circumstances. “I entreat you to let it cause you no distress. It is all past now, and we have too much at stake to think of anything but the future.”

“Yes, that is true,” added Shamarin. “Be sensible, Vera, and think of what lies before us. We must act promptly if we would elude the Cossacks who will soon be scouring the valley. I am impatient to hear your story. Some strong motive must have prompted you to escape at such an unfavorable time. I have enough faith in you to be convinced that you acted for the best.”

“I did,” replied Vera with forced calmness. “A few words will explain all. The women’s prison at Lower Kara has been overcrowded of late, and I discovered accidentally that the governor intended to send some of the inmates to Irkutsk in a few days. I was to be included in that number. As this would have separated us forever, I determined to escape and then try to get word to you, for I knew that you had been transferred to Middle Kara. I escaped from the prison at night by a broken window, and went straight to the homes of the Free Command—to some people whom I knew in the prison, and who had been released on parole while I was there. These noble people—who once belonged to the Revolutionary Committee, but before your time, Felix—gave me stout boots, an abundance of warm clothing, a pistol and ammunition, a supply of food, even a little money, and the tools that I gave you yesterday. But this is not all. They gave me information that is more valuable than their gifts, for without it an attempt to escape at this time of year would be madness indeed. They told me that on the bank of the Shilka River, less than a mile below the Kara, lives a peasant who has a large boat, and some miles down the Shilka, just before it empties into the River Amur, stands a hut hidden in a dense wood. This hut was used last fall by some poor fellow who escaped from the mines. He stored a quantity of provisions there, intending to wait until spring and then strike for the coast; but one day when he had ventured out in search of game the Cossacks caught him and brought him back. But the hut was not found, and the store of food is probably still there. My friends gave me written directions for finding the hut, but I have not time to show them to you now. And so do you see my plan, Felix? We must get the boat, float down the Shilka River to this hut, and live there until spring opens. Then we will do our best to reach Vladivostok on the Pacific coast, and once there we shall surely find, among the vessels of all nationalities in the harbor, one that will help us and bear us away to some free country.”

“It is a noble plan,” cried Shamarin. “My brave girl, I believe it will succeed. The obstacles in the way are many, but we won’t stop to consider them now. We will try to look continually at the bright side. The first step is to reach the mouth of the Kara River, which is about eight miles distant, as nearly as I can judge. Unfortunately, to get there we must pass three of the settlements, commencing with Middle Kara, but we can do so in comparative safety by making a circuit. Let us strike across the valley from here, so as to avoid the Kara River and the settlements, and then follow the ridge southward. That will bring us to the Shilka, and by tracing it for a short distance we shall come to the house where lies the boat. As yet the snow is not deep, and if we travel rapidly we can cover the distance by two o’clock in the morning. The danger of pursuit during that period of our escape is slight, for the snow will obliterate our footsteps before the Cossacks can trace us to this point. The chief danger lies in our track being discovered by prowling squads.”

“And that is very improbable,” said Sandoff. “It need not cause us much uneasiness. Your plan is a good one, Shamarin. Let us lose no time in carrying it out!”

“We can start at once,” exclaimed Vera. “Wait until I get my things.”

She led the way to the top of the bluff, and showed them the spot that had served her as a hiding place for the past twenty four hours—a dry, sheltered nook among rocks and dense bushes.

Shamarin took the bundle that contained her supplies—Sandoff assuming charge of the other package—and then at their top speed the little party of three crossed the Kara by the bridge of stepping stones, and headed due east across the valley. Its level surface—barely two miles wide—was crossed in safety, and after ascending the range of low foothills, the fugitives turned to the south and followed the line of the ridge. The wisdom of Shamarin’s plan now became apparent, for but little snow had forced its way through the young timber, and they were able to travel rapidly. The successive settlements were passed at a distance. Twice the crisp air bore to the fugitives the muffled tramp of hoofs, but the sounds remained at a distance and finally faded away.

At length, about two o’clock in the morning, as near as could be guessed, the lights of Ust Kara, the settlement nearest to the mouth of the river, showed them that the first stage of their journey was nearly at an end. They felt no fatigue. Even Vera had indignantly refused her brother’s offer of assistance, and in spite of the bitter cold they were all fairly warm from the brisk speed at which they had been traveling.

Presently the ridge began to slope downward until they were on level ground; and after crossing a belt of pine forest, less than half a mile wide, they emerged on a low bluff and the River Shilka was below them. For a moment they contemplated the scene in silence, and not without some dread, for the pale glow of the moon showed the river to be clogged with huge cakes of ice, whirling down stream with a great grinding and crashing, while each shore was frozen solidly for a distance of some yards from the bank.

“It will be perilous work,” muttered Shamarin to himself, “perilous work!” Then he said aloud, “Well, now for the next step. In what direction is that to be? Up stream or down?”

“Down, I think,” replied Vera. “We are hardly a mile from the Kara as yet. The house must be close at hand, though.”

“Down it is, then,” said Shamarin. He led the way to the beach and thence along the snow covered pebbles, until, on rounding a sharp bluff, the fugitives caught sight of a tiny cabin standing near the water’s edge, in the shadow of a clump of pine trees.

Shamarin crept forward alone to investigate, and presently came back with a joyful face.

“All right,” he announced; “no one is stirring in the cabin, and I have found the boat. Follow me with as little noise as possible.”

The boat was lying in a rude covered shed within a yard or two of the river, and had not been used for so long a time that its keel was frozen tight. The united efforts of the two men freed it, and then they began to drag it over the intervening section of beach, very slowly and cautiously, for the cabin was not ten yards away. When they got it on the belt of firm ice it moved more easily, and they pushed it forward, sounding each step of the way until it was almost on the edge of the whirling black water. The boat was apparently in good condition, and had three seats, one in the middle and one at each end. The owner had probably used it to ferry passengers across the river.

Then Sandoff went back to the shed, and returned with two long, iron pointed boat hooks and a pair of paddles.

“Now get in, Vera,” said her brother, “and Sandoff and I will push the boat into the water and make a leap for it.”

But the girl drew back and took a shining gold coin from her pocket.

“Wait just a moment,” she entreated. “I want to give this to the poor man who owns the boat. We may be taking away his only means of livelihood. Perhaps we shall need the money, but it is better that he should have it.”

Without waiting for a reply she sped swiftly over the ice and up the beach. The two anxious watchers saw her reach the cabin and stoop in front of the door.

She rose and started back, but before she could take three steps a dog began to bark furiously from within. The brute had scented the presence of an intruder.

Vera came swiftly down the beach, and bounding over the ice sprang lightly into the boat. Another instant and the two men had pushed it free of the edge, springing safely in as it settled deep in the black water. Each seized a boat hook, and as they prodded and lunged at the great ice cakes that struck the little craft on all sides, and threatened to grind it to fragments, the door of the cabin opened and a man appeared on the threshold—a frowsy looking peasant, only half clad. His dog, a small noisy cur, slipped between his legs and ran down to the shore, where it stood and barked hoarsely at the retreating boat.

The man stooped and picked up the coin, but at first he did not comprehend what had taken place. When his dull faculties finally grasped the truth, he ran down to look into the shed, and then began to shout loudly, gazing out upon the river. Evidently the money did not console him for the loss of his boat.

Meanwhile the strong current was bearing the fugitives rapidly down stream at imminent risk of an upset, for the boat swirled in every direction, now sinking deep in the water, now rising high on the drifting ice cakes.

“That noisy fellow and his dog will prove our ruin,” muttered Shamarin. “Their cries can be heard at Ust Kara.”

“Courage, courage!” whispered Sandoff. “We will soon be out of sight and reach. Careful now, my friend! Below us the river narrows and flows close to rugged hills. There we shall be likely to encounter a swifter and more dangerous current.”

As they skillfully guided the boat onward, striving to keep it headed with the tide, both heard distinctly, above the roar of the water and the grinding of the ice, a quick, dull noise strangely like the galloping of horses.

Vera heard it too, and started from her seat in alarm. All three forgot for a moment the nearer and more imminent peril, and turned for a look at the spot they had just left. The moonlight shone brightly on the cabin, and on the man and dog standing by the shore, and then its pale rays fell on foaming horses, and rifle barrels, green uniforms, and bearded faces, as a troop of Cossacks spurred at top speed around the bluff and out on the broad stretch of shore.

At sight of that dread body of horsemen they shivered and felt that hope was indeed gone. Sandoff was the first to fling off the lethargy of despair. His mental eye showed him what chances were favorable and what unfavorable. Besides, he would rather have died than submit to recapture.

“Don’t despair,” he whispered sharply to his companions. “We have a chance yet—and a good one. The country below us looks rugged, too rough for the Cossacks to traverse with any speed. If the current continues as it does now, we shall easily distance them. Help me to get the boat toward the other shore as far as possible, Shamarin; they may take it into their heads to fire at us.”

The latter obeyed unquestioningly, and with some trouble the boat was headed obliquely across the current. Then the terrific struggle began anew—the battle with the waves and the impetuous ice floes that constantly menaced the destruction of the craft and its inmates, only to be flung sullenly to one side by the skilled hand of Sandoff or Shamarin. Slowly the boat made headway toward the desired shore, and Vera cheered the men in their labors by timely words of encouragement.

But by this time the ferryman had given the Cossacks all the information they needed, and at the sharp word of command from their officer they spurred down the shore, unslinging their rifles as they rode, until a timbered bluff, jutting into the river, stopped further progress.

The boat was now well toward the other shore, and some distance down stream, but it was still within sight and range. Just as the fugitives dropped flat by Sandoff’s hurried command, a straggling volley was fired, and the leaden bullets plowed into the ice cakes and splashed in the patches of black water. But the boat was untouched. A moment later the current swept it around the curve, and the danger was past for the present.

“Now head it straight—straight with the tide,” said Sandoff. “There! That’s it. Let it take its own course now. All we need do is to keep it trim and fend off the ice.”

The Shilka was at this point less than a quarter of a mile wide, and the fugitives saw with delight steep ridges falling sheer into the water on each side of them.

“If this keeps up,” said Shamarin, “and if the snow storm lasts and grows heavier, as it shows promise of doing, the Cossacks will be compelled to give up the chase. That is one advantage of escaping in the dead of winter—the troops are useless during and after a heavy snow fall.”

The snow was indeed coming down more rapidly, and in small, thick flakes that boded long continuance. The fugitives began to suffer terribly from cold.

More peril was close at hand—in spite of predictions to the contrary. The boat stuck for a time on a projecting reef of rocks, and when it finally floated off again, and had passed down stream for half a mile or so, the steep banks suddenly fell away. Though a continuation of them was visible some distance off, in the interval was a stretch of open country. As the boat drifted out from the shadow of the hills, the ominous thud of hoofs was heard a second time, and down a slight declivity rode the Cossacks at full speed. The relentless pursuers had made a circuit and ridden hard to cut the fugitives off. The officer in command came down to the shore, and descrying the approaching boat he made a trumpet of his hands and shouted hoarsely:

“Come in here at once! If you refuse we will riddle you with bullets.”

“Don’t reply,” whispered Sandoff to his companions. “The situation is critical, but not altogether hopeless. For my part I prefer the chances of being shot to giving myself up. You know what lies in store for us if we are taken?”

“We will go ahead by all means,” whispered Shamarin, and Vera was of the same mind, showing not a particle of fear.

So, without deigning to answer the Cossack, who had by this time repeated his threat, the fugitives dropped below the gunwales, and the boat was allowed to take its own course.

For half a minute there was deep silence and then the valley echoed with ringing reports. Crack!—crack!—crack!—crack—!—crack! So it continued intermittently as the Cossacks quickly loaded and fired, and the boat drifted on its course with provoking slowness. It was a terrible ordeal through which the three crouching figures were passing. The hissing bullets fell everywhere, plowing furrows and holes in the ice cakes, splashing water over the sides of the boat, and not infrequently imbedding themselves in the timbers of the little craft. Had it been closer to the left shore, none of its inmates could have escaped—for the Cossacks were fair marksmen, and kept up the fusillade with untiring persistency. Fortunately no bullets struck very close to the water line, but Sandoff was grazed on the thigh and had his cap shot off, while Shamarin was hit in the fleshy part of his left arm.

At last the firing became less continuous, dwindling down to a few stray shots. When a full minute passed in silence, Sandoff ventured to lift his head, and saw that the boat had once more passed into the shadow of the overhanging hills. He drew his head back, cautioning his companions to do the same, for if they could put the Cossacks under the impression that all three had been killed, it would greatly increase their chances of ultimate escape.

CHAPTER VI.
THE FLIGHT.

The fugitives crouched thus for twenty minutes or more. Then, as the boat could ill spare their attention, and was being driven dangerously among the ice floes, the two men seized the boathooks and stood up.

The Cossacks and the open country had both disappeared. Dark, gloomy hills encircled the river as far as the eye could reach.

Sandoff noted with satisfaction that the snow was still falling thickly.

“If we can reach the hut that you speak of,” he said to Vera, “we shall be quite safe as far as pursuit is concerned. The cold is our greatest enemy now.”

“We must fight it off,” replied the girl. “Even with this swift current we cannot reach the hut before tomorrow afternoon, for it lies very near the point where the Shilka and the Amur River meet.”

“How shall we know the place, Vera?” asked her brother.

For answer she produced a tiny scrap of paper covered with close writing. While Shamarin held a lighted match over her shoulder, she read the contents aloud:

You will pass a small island in the center of the river, on the crest of which grow four big pine trees. Just below this island, on the left bank of the river, is a narrow ravine among thickly wooded hills. Pursue this for a quarter of a mile, and you will find the hut on your right. It lies among rocks and pine trees.

“That has a cheerful and definite ring to it,” remarked Sandoff. “It is a pleasant prospect to look forward to—a sheltered hut among the hills, and in a wild and desolate spot, where the Cossacks will never think of looking for us.”

“Yes, that is true,” said Shamarin. “The valley of the Shilka is a lonely region. If we find this hut, we can safely remain there for some weeks. If we run short of food, there is game in the forest.”

Conversation gave way to silent watchfulness as the boat drifted on through the long, dark hours of the early morning. When daylight came the misty outlines of the hilly shores showed dimly through the driving snow. There was little to be feared from the Cossacks under such circumstances, so the fugitives continued to float down the center of the stream, keeping a sharp lookout, nevertheless, on each bank.

Soon after noon an island hove in sight in mid stream. Four tall pine trees stood on its crest, and when they had passed this and driven the boat far to the left shore, a dark, narrow ravine was visible, with wooded hills on each side. This was the place, beyond doubt, so they landed on the rim of firm ice, and were about to send the boat adrift when Sandoff interfered.

“We had better make sure, first, that the cabin is here,” he said. “I will go up the valley and search for it. If I am successful I will give a sharp whistle. Then turn the boat bottom up—so that the Cossacks, if they find it, will think we have perished—and send it adrift. Then follow my footsteps up the ravine.”

This wise plan was carried out. The others watched Sandoff as he plodded up the ravine, almost waist deep in the drifted snow, and ten minutes later a shrill whistle came distinctly to their ears. Taking out the bundles, they cast the boat adrift, bottom up, and followed the path Sandoff had taken.

Vera’s information proved to be correct. Slightly more than a quarter of a mile from the river, they met Sandoff just starting back to meet them.

“Yes, I have found the hut,” he said. “It is close by, and in a splendid location.”

He led them on for a few yards, and then turned up the hill to a thick cluster of pine trees and scattered rocks. In the very center of this was what they sought—a small, square cabin, strongly built. It was provided with a door and a window, both of which were tightly closed. An entry was effected with little difficulty, and the fugitives examined the interior with growing delight and amazement. In one corner of the floor lay a great heap of withered grass, and a rude closet in the wall held a plentiful supply of dried meat and a lump of brick tea. Everything was just as the former occupant had left it on the morning when he went away in search of game—never to return. A heap of ashes lay in the fireplace, and near by were some plates and a cup rudely fashioned out of wood.

“Nothing could be better suited to our purpose,” said Shamarin. “Here we can live in safety, for the ravine will soon be choked up with snow and no one can come near us.”

“Let us have something to eat,” suggested Sandoff. “I am nearly famished.”

That night was one to be remembered. In spite of the bitter cold outside, the interior of the cabin was snug and comfortable, and the fugitives slept in peace until the sun was far up. They were well provided with coverings, for in addition to their warm clothing each had a heavy blanket—Vera had brought one for herself—and Sandoff owned two overcoats, his own and the one taken from the Cossack.

On the following morning Shamarin partitioned off one end of the cabin for Vera’s use, taking timber for that purpose from a pile that lay outside among the pine trees. It was all drift wood—of which material the cabin itself was made—and the poor fellow who built it must have dragged every piece up the ravine from the river. The tools used in its construction were found in the cabin—a small blunt axe and a rusty saw. Vera knew nothing of the identity of the builder, but the fact of his having these tools showed pretty conclusively that he had belonged to the Free Command.

The fugitives now settled down to a manner of life that was painfully dreary and monotonous. For three whole days it snowed. On the fourth night a small avalanche dropped from the hillside above, and, crashing through the pine trees, completely buried the cabin. This proved to be a rather fortunate thing, for from that time on the little dwelling was snug and warm. After half a day’s labor the men opened communication with the outer world by means of a tunnel leading from the cabin door. At night they slept, and during the day they whiled away the time by conversation and story telling. Not once, however, did either Sandoff or Shamarin touch on his past life. By tacit consent that subject was always avoided. Each felt that it was better to forget the great gulf that had once separated them—better to remember only that they were comrades now, with the same perils and the same hopes.

So the days passed into weeks, and the weeks went by until February was half gone. Food was getting scarce, and all three grew so heart-sick of their cheerless life that a change of almost any sort would have been welcome. One evening when they were all sitting about the fireplace, where a few sticks of wood were burning for the purpose of light, Sandoff said abruptly:

“I have come to the conclusion, my friends, that we had better leave this place at once and begin our journey to the Pacific. I will explain my reasons,” he continued, as his companions gave him their earnest attention. “In the first place, as you know, alternate slight thaws and heavy frosts have put a crust on the snow that will easily bear our weight, while horses would break through it at once. Two months of winter yet remain—a period which is usually one of steady cold—and I maintain that during these two months is the best time for us to travel. The way to Vladivostok leads down the valley of the Amur River. That is really the only path we can take. As you know, the great Siberian post road also follows the windings of the stream. Of course we will keep back among the foothills, and at this time of year, when the post road is little traveled and but few persons are abroad, the danger of discovery would be lessened. If the crust remains on the snow we should be able in two months to cover the thousand miles that separate us from the Pacific. Moreover, if my plan succeeds we shall reach Vladivostok in the early spring, when vessels from foreign countries are coming into the harbor, and when those that have wintered there are preparing to depart. If, on the other hand, we remain here until spring, our progress will be delayed by melting snows and swollen streams, and we shall reach Vladivostok at a very bad season. Still, there are many obstacles in the way of an immediate start—the cold, the difficulty of finding shelter at night, and the necessity of procuring food.”

Sandoff had hardly ceased when Shamarin leaned over and clasped his hand.

“You’ve taken the words right out of my mouth, comrade,” he said eagerly. “I have been thinking of that very thing for the past week or so, and I agree exactly with what you say. As for the obstacles you speak of, we are warmly enough clad to defy the cold. Caverns and bushes will give us shelter by night. We can find an abundance of small game, and now and then pick up food from the friendly peasants who live along the post road. The sooner we start the better—that is my firm opinion. As for Vera, no doubt she is of the same mind.”

“I am,” exclaimed the girl eagerly. “I am anxious to start at once. The journey holds no terrors for me. You know that, Felix?”

“Yes, I know it,” returned her brother proudly. “I know you have twice as much courage and endurance as most men.” At which remark Vera blushed and drew back into the shadow.

So the question was settled without further discussion, and at daybreak on the following morning the fugitives were up and preparing for the eventful journey. That preparation, as may be imagined, was very slight. Shamarin possessed quite an inventive faculty, and in less than an hour he constructed a long flat sledge, rudely but strongly put together.

“This will serve to carry our baggage,” he said, “or any one of us who may be worn out or unable to walk. Moreover, if we come to any long, smooth inclines we can all get on board and go sliding down.”

The blankets, extra clothes, and the small quantity of food that remained, were put up in a neat bundle and strapped to the sledge. Sandoff took the rifle and ammunition, and Shamarin the pistol. Then, with a last look at the dark cabin where so many weary days had been spent, they passed through the door, closing it behind them, and thence along the hard trodden tunnel to the outer air. The day was just two hours old when they started. The sun was shining brightly, and the hard, frozen crust that covered the snow sparkled like myriads of diamonds. They turned up the eastern side of the ravine, pulling the sledge lightly behind them, and stopped for a moment on the summit of the ridge to admire the view that lay before them—range after range of snow topped hills as far as the eye could reach. Then briskly and with light hearts they started away and traveled for hours up one hill and down another—keeping the Shilka River constantly in sight—until the sun was far toward the horizon. The country was desolate and deserted; so when they chose a stopping place in a deep, wooded hollow, they did not hesitate to build a cheerful fire. This was kept up all night, Sandoff and Shamarin mounting guard by turns. In the morning the march was resumed, and during that day the fugitives crossed the Shilka River, very near its mouth, by means of an ice gorge that had formed during the previous night. An hour later they were tramping along the shore of the Amur, the vast watery highway that flows to the Pacific coast. It was now a sheet of ice, and as the Siberian post road—marked by the long line of telegraph poles—skirted the shore, the fugitives made haste to draw back into the forest.

From this time dated a period of progress and security which lasted for three weeks. Day after day they traveled on down the valley, keeping as far back from the river as possible, and during all this time they met not a single human being. The snow crust remained firm, and they made fair progress, covering about fifteen miles every day. At night they suffered much from cold—for sometimes villages were close at hand and they dare not make fires—but they found sufficient shelter to prevent them from freezing.

They nearly starved, however, in spite of the birds and hares that Shamarin skillfully succeeded in trapping. When they halted on the twenty second night after leaving the hut, in a thick wood overlooking the Amur, it was evident that a crisis had been reached. They were worn out with incessant traveling, faint and sick from hunger, and all the shelter they had was this strip of wood—their only food a couple of raw quail.

For themselves the two brave men cared little, but that Vera, whose lips never uttered a word of complaint, should have to endure such suffering was more than they could stand. Especially aggravating to them tonight was the sight of the post station, a mile away, where lights shone cheerily through the twilight from houses in which men were eating and drinking and sitting by warm fires.

“Something must be done,” declared Sandoff earnestly. “We can’t stand this another day. We must have nourishing food or we can go no farther.”

“And where shall we get it?” asked Shamarin moodily. “The outlook is bad enough. We have come less than one third of the distance, and still have seven hundred miles before us.”

For once Vera had no words of cheer for her companions. She knew they had defined the situation truly, and that nothing she could say would help them. Her eyes sought the ground sadly and remained there, fixed with repugnance on the miserable birds that Shamarin had taken from his snares that morning.

“Yes, something must be done,” repeated Sandoff, “and without delay—tonight. I will go down and reconnoiter around yonder post station. If I don’t return soon you need not be alarmed, for I intend to be very careful.”

His companions made no attempt to dissuade him, except that Shamarin offered to go in his place. But Sandoff would not hear of this.

“It is best for me to go,” he said firmly. “My knowledge of government regulations at these post stations will help me if I get into a tight place.”

He hurriedly exchanged the coat he was wearing for the dark green Cossack cloak—knowing that he would attract less attention if seen in this guise. The muff shaped fur cap he had been wearing constantly, and when Shamarin handed him the rifle he looked a thorough Cossack soldier. The deception was still further assisted by the tangled beard and mustache he had grown since his escape from the mines. Thus equipped he bade farewell to his companions, and struck off at a rapid pace through the forest. He had no definite purpose in view—merely a vague hope that he might in some manner procure a supply of food.

The post station was less than a mile distant. By following a ravine covered with thick bushes, Sandoff came out in the rear of a little cluster of houses bunched together on both sides of the post road—the station itself with the square courtyard in front, the telegraph office and half a dozen tiny cabins across the way. A careful glance showed him that no one was in sight and that only one light was visible—a yellow glimmer shining from the rear window of the post station. Toward this Sandoff directed his steps, moving slowly and cautiously over the snow crust.

CHAPTER VII.
THE POST STATION.

The post station was simply a square log building with a stockaded court yard in front. The first floor was thrown into one room, and when Sandoff approached the rear window with noiseless tread, and raised his eyes slowly above the sill, he beheld a scene of cheer and comfort that fairly made his heart ache. In one corner, near the door, stood a large iron stove, heated to a fiery redness. In the center of the room was a table laden with bread, meat, pickles, a bottle of vodka and a steaming samovar of tea, and around it sat three men, evidently Siberian merchants, drinking and eating. In the corner of the room opposite the stove lay a Buriat peasant and a dog, sleeping side by side, and on a bench by the door sat the starosta or station keeper. The window sash was raised half a foot, no doubt because of the extreme heat of the room.

While Sandoff was trying to catch the fragments of conversation from within, the distant tinkle of sleigh bells fell on his ear. The sound came nearer and nearer, now mingled with the tramp of hoofs. Sandoff left his position and crept to the angle of the house, reaching it just in time to see a long covered sledge drawn by a troika—three horses harnessed abreast—come spinning along the post road from the west, and draw up before the court yard gates.

“Some one bound for the Pacific,” muttered Sandoff. “I wonder who it can be.”

Curiosity had by this time mastered his hunger, so he crept back to the window and looked once more into the room. The starosta had gone out—no doubt to welcome the new arrival—and the three merchants were looking inquiringly toward the door. The Buriat and the dog still slept profoundly.

A moment or two later the starosta returned, followed by a short spare man muffled up in furs. His face was clean shaven, and his black, bead-like eyes twinkled at sight of the fire and the well spread table.

Sandoff shot one glance at the stranger, and then drew quickly away from the window and leaned against the end of the house. His hands were clinched, his face black with passion, and he panted fiercely for breath.

“I know him,” he muttered. “It is Serge Zamosc! What can that scoundrel be doing here? I would give my chances of escape to put my hands on his throat for one moment. But this won’t do—I must be calm. I must find out the meaning of this strange thing. To think that the traitor should turn up here in Siberia! How easily I could shoot him through the window!”

Repressing the temptation to do so—but not without difficulty—Sandoff once more put his eyes to the window. Zamosc was standing near the stove, talking in a low tone to the starosta. At that instant the door opened, and a Russian officer in undress uniform entered the room—evidently the head official of the village.

He favored Zamosc with a slight bow, and said abruptly. “I beg your honor’s pardon, but I must trouble you for your passport.”

Zamosc glanced at the other occupants of the room and then led the officer directly to the window, pausing within two feet of Sandoff, who drew his head down and turned his ear upward. Zamosc began to speak in a low voice, but from the fragments that reached him, such as “traveling in secret,” “Inspector of Police,” “government report,” Sandoff was at no loss for a clew to the situation. Then the speakers raised their voices slightly, and the unseen listener heard every word that was spoken.

“Inspector Serge Zamosc and companions,” said the officer, evidently reading from the passport. “How does it come that you are alone?”

“Why, have you not heard?” asked Zamosc in surprise. “I met with an unfortunate accident yesterday about twenty miles back. My horses got off the post road and broke through the ice into the Amur River. I had two Cossacks with me beside the driver. The latter and one of the Cossacks were drowned, and the other soldier was so badly kicked by the horses that I had to leave him at the next station back. I telegraphed on here for a fresh escort. Did you not get the message?”

“No,” said the officer decidedly. “I received no message.”

“That is unfortunate,” exclaimed Zamosc angrily. “The stupid fellow at the office shall pay dearly for his negligence. I will see to that later. But now what am I to do? I am in haste to reach Vladivostok—for I intend to return to Russia by water—and I can’t go on by myself. The driver whom I brought along tonight must return in the morning to the station he came from. Can’t you spare me two of your Cossacks, captain?”

“Impossible, your excellency,” was the quick but courteous reply. “I am short of men now, or I would gladly oblige you. At the next station, however, which is thirty miles distant, you can readily obtain Cossacks and a driver. The latter I could furnish you, but the man I have in view is really not trustworthy and I dare not recommend him.”

“Then I won’t think of taking him,” said Zamosc. “If the next station is but thirty miles away I will drive there alone. I have good horses, and know how to manage them. Bear in mind that I am traveling secretly,” he added in a lower voice.

“Certainly, your excellency. My lips shall be sealed.”

This ended the discussion. Zamosc turned to the starosta and said in a loud voice, “Bring us food and drink for two, my worthy man, and see to it that my sledge is in readiness at three o’clock in the morning. I wish to make an early start.”

Sandoff remained in his place of concealment for fully five minutes, and then rising slowly up he made a cautious survey of the room. The three merchants were spreading rugs on the floor in preparation for going to sleep. At the table they had recently occupied now sat Zamosc and the Russian officer, hobnobbing sociably over food and a bottle of vodka.

Sandoff watched them with a half smile on his face. “A passport for himself and companions!” he whispered. “Traveling on secret service to Vladivostok! He wants an escort and a driver!—Well, he shall have them, if I can provide them for him. You and I will settle up old scores, Serge Zamosc. It is a daring plan—but I will attempt it.”

With this enigmatic self communing Sandoff turned away. Creeping noiselessly around the angle of the house, he passed on to the courtyard stockade—first making sure that no one was in sight. What he had hoped to find was there—a crevice large enough to see through—and putting his eyes to it he obtained a good view of the station yard, and of Serge Zamosc’s sledge. This Sandoff examined long and intently. There was just enough light to reveal its ample dimensions, the huge waterproof hood that covered it, and the mass of furs, rugs, and straw that peeped out from the rear.

“Good,” muttered Sandoff. “Nothing could be better suited for the purpose.”

In the same cautious manner in which he had come he retraced his steps to the ravine. Once there he started off with great strides, and in ten minutes appeared, breathless and excited, before his companions, who had been on the point of starting to look for him, alarmed by his long absence.

“Your hands are empty,” said Shamarin sadly. “You have brought no food?”

“I have brought something better than food,” was the reply. “I bring good news. If you will bear me out in the plan I have formed, I can promise you a quick journey to the Pacific—a journey in a sledge—food in plenty, and a warm shelter. There will be a certain risk, but we won’t talk of that now.”

Before Shamarin and Vera could ply him with questions, he told them what he had just seen and heard. Then he outlined hurriedly the daring plan which had entered his mind.

“All I ask of you,” he concluded, “is strict obedience, courage, and constant presence of mind, no matter what may occur. I know you both well, and I am convinced that you have these qualities.”

His companions were at first stunned with amazement at Sandoff’s daring proposition, but they soon realized its practicability.

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Shamarin. “Truly wonderful! But it can be carried out—the chances are all in our favor. I am with you, Sandoff, body and soul. And what a glorious way to turn the tables on that traitorous Zamosc.”

Vera tried to speak, but, woman-like, broke into tears, and silently clasped Sandoff’s hand.

Judging from the length of time that had passed since sunset, it was now very close to midnight. By Sandoff’s directions the baggage was taken off the hand sled, and the latter was buried deep under the soft snow, in a hole made by cutting the crust with the axe. Then the fugitives struck off at a brisk pace through the forest. They turned aside before reaching the post station, and finally, when the settlement was beyond sight, they struck boldly out to the great Siberian road, and followed it to the eastward. No living or moving object was in sight. On the left lay the frozen Amur, and on the right the sloping foothills. Straight away before them stretched the white frozen road marked by a vanishing line of low telegraph poles.

After walking on for two miles they came to just such a spot as Sandoff hoped to find. A rocky ridge jutted almost to the river, and the road made a sharp turn around it. The view was thus cut off in one direction, while in the other the road was open and straight for several miles. Just beyond the rocky spur a small stream, now ice bound, came down to the river and passed under a low wooden bridge. Beneath this the fugitives discovered a dry, snug spot among the rocks. Nothing could have better suited Sandoff’s plan.

“Wrap yourselves up now and go to sleep,” he said to his companions. “I intend to go on guard at once. I am not weary, and I want time for thought and reflection. I will give you early warning when the decisive moment approaches.”

Shamarin demurred a little, wishing to share his friend’s vigil, but soon acquiesced in the latter’s decision, and he and his sister disappeared under the bridge. Sandoff shouldered his rifle and paced rapidly up and down the strip of road that led from the bridge to the turning place at the point of rocks, from whence he could see without obstruction far back toward the post station. The silence was unbroken. Minutes passed into hours, and hours dragged by until Sandoff was convinced that it was past three o’clock in the morning.

He had been standing for some time at the point of rocks, gazing earnestly to the westward, with a deadly fear creeping into his heart—a fear that something had occurred to spoil the plan on which he and his companions placed such high hopes. Suddenly a dim black speck appeared in the distance. It grew blacker and larger, and came rapidly nearer. It was a sledge beyond doubt, the sledge of Serge Zamosc. Now a tinkle of bells was heard, and a muffled clatter of hoofs.

In haste Sandoff sped back to the bridge, his heart throbbing with excitement. A low call brought forth Shamarin and Vera, still drowsy with sleep. The keen air soon sharpened their senses, and they understood the situation. Sandoff took Vera in charge and led her down to the point of rocks.

“There comes the sledge,” he said, pointing along the frozen road. “Now get in here and crouch down,” pointing to a hollow spot among the rocks. “Your task is simple. When the sledge has gone past, watch the road before you, and if anything approaches give us prompt warning.”

With these instructions he hastened back to the bridge, where Shamarin was waiting. The daring men then took up positions on opposite sides of the road, crouching behind masses of frozen snow. Sandoff had the rifle, Shamarin the pistol, and both weapons were loaded.

“There must be no failure,” said Sandoff grimly.

“There will be no failure,” echoed Shamarin from across the way.

Then all was silent—except for the musical tinkle of bells and crunching of hoofs on the snow. Five minutes later—it may have been less and it may have been more—the sledge whizzed into view from around the point of rocks. The three horses, harnessed abreast, were galloping at full speed, and the only occupant of the sledge was Serge Zamosc, muffled to the nose in furs and holding the lines with a practiced hand.

On and on it came until the planking of the bridge was less than half a dozen yards away. The moment had come. Sandoff and Shamarin sprang up, reaching the center of the road at a bound, and turned their weapons straight into Serge Zamosc’s eyes.

“Stop, or we fire,” they cried loudly.

Zamosc, for all his treacherous traits, was no coward. His first impulse was to check his horses, and he acted upon it—partly. Then he turned to grasp his gun, but finding it out of reach, he struck his horses a terrific blow with the whip and rolled backward from his seat into the body of the sledge.

The frightened steeds plunged forward, but Shamarin was on the alert, and clutched at the lines. He caught them, was dragged along for a few yards, still holding tight, and then, gaining a foothold, he turned the tide and brought the triple team to a standstill on the very edge of the bridge.

Meanwhile Sandoff had bounded into the sledge, and was struggling over the straw, interlocked with Zamosc, who fought with the fury of a madman, believing that he had fallen into the hands of the Siberian assassins who frequently ply their calling along the post road. But he was no match for Sandoff—weakened as the latter was by privation—and soon he was helpless in the grasp of the convict. The horses were by this time quite subdued, and having no fear of a runaway Shamarin left them and ran back to help his companion. There was plenty of strong rope in the sledge, and Zamosc was soon tightly bound, hand and foot. Then his captors placed him in one corner, and proceeded to examine the interior of the sledge. It contained a small iron chest, two trunks, a hamper of provisions, two rifles with ammunition, and nine splendid fur robes.

Sandoff opened one of the trunks. It held clothes—just what they wanted most. He and Shamarin quickly took off their prison garments, and substituted suits of dark material. The coats fitted fairly well, but the trousers were lamentably short—a defect which their high boots partially remedied. This exchange was made by the side of the road, out of Zamosc’s sight. Then Sandoff put on the huge fur cloak, which they had taken from Zamosc before binding him, and handed the Cossack coat and cap to his comrade, who found them a good fit. Shamarin took the discarded garments, wrapped them about a big stone, and dropped them into a black air hole in the Amur, a short distance from the bank.

Up to this time Zamosc had been perfectly quiet, but now he gave voice to a loud cry. Sandoff entered the sledge and gagged him with a handkerchief, performing the operation with as little discomfort as possible to his prisoner, but with such skill that any outcry was out of the question.

“I will have my interview with the fellow later,” he said to Shamarin. “As yet he does not recognize us. The first thing is to get away from this locality.”

A short whistle brought Vera from her post. She was overjoyed at the success of Sandoff’s plan, and reported the road to the westward clear. Five minutes was spent in covering Zamosc up among the rugs in one end of the sledge, and Vera in the other. Then the hood was dropped over the rear end and buttoned down, and Sandoff mounted to the seat, drawing the collar of his fur coat high about his ears, and thrusting his hand into the inner pocket to make sure that Zamosc’s little packet of valuable documents was safe. Shamarin mounted beside him, looking every inch a Cossack with his green uniform, his rifle, and his black, matted beard.

“Remember,” said Sandoff warningly, as he gathered the lines together and flicked the spirited horses with the whip, “remember that from this time on I am Inspector Zamosc!”

Then the sledge bounded forward, rumbled across the bridge, and sped over the frozen road, toward the Pacific, Vladivostok—and freedom.

CHAPTER VIII.
COLONEL NORD OF RIGA.

The gray dawn stole over the sky, and when it was sufficiently light for his purpose Sandoff drew out the bundle of papers and examined them closely. One was the passport, made out in the name of Serge Zamosc and companions—a form which admitted of a very wide construction. The others were letters of instruction, which made clear—at least to a certain point—the object of Zamosc’s journey across Siberia. It appeared that the inspector was to report on the condition of Siberian prisons, with a view to changes which the Minister of Police had in contemplation. Moreover the nature of these letters showed that Zamosc’s mission was a secret one, and among them was one document which enjoined all government officials along the route to give him whatever aid he might require.

“I rely on this more than anything,” said Sandoff to his companion, “for it puts us beyond the reach of unpleasant questioning. As for Vera, I have a plan that promises well. I will say that she is the wife of some Russian officer at Irkutsk, who is going to visit friends at Vladivostok, and whom I have agreed to see to her destination.”

“Yes, that is a splendid plan,” rejoined Shamarin. “But yourself, are you in no danger?”

“Very little, I think,” said Sandoff confidently. “It is not likely that we shall encounter any one who ever saw Zamosc, for he was never out of Russia before. We will travel rapidly and make as few stops as possible. We will part company with our captive as soon as Vladivostok is reached.”

“And what will you do with him in the meantime?” asked Shamarin. “Would it not be best to put him out of the way?”

“By no means,” answered Sandoff decidedly. “I don’t propose to commit murder. We will keep him constantly gagged and bound, and at night—whenever we happen to be stopping at a post station—you, Shamarin, will have to sleep in the sledge with him. We will keep him well covered up, and with care none but ourselves will ever see him.”

Shamarin was satisfied with this plan, and promised to perform his part faithfully. It was now fully light, and on reaching a lonely spot along the road Sandoff turned the horses aside into the forest. The hood was lifted from the end of the sledge, and while Vera was taking the provisions out of the hamper, Sandoff placed the captive in an upright position and removed the gag from his mouth. The early rays of the sun were now shining into the sledge. As Zamosc surveyed the faces of his companions his eyes gleamed with sudden recognition.

“I know you,” he muttered savagely. “I thought you were all drowned—they told me so at the mines. You will pay dearly for this outrage. You know full well that you can never escape.”

Sandoff turned to him with such ill repressed fury that the traitor’s face grew livid with fear.

“I am glad that you know me, you black hearted scoundrel,” he cried hoarsely. “If I gave you your deserts I should put an end to your life, as I at first intended. But I have changed my mind, and shall be satisfied to make you the instrument of our escape. I don’t intend to part company with you, Zamosc, until we have reached the Pacific, and I warn you now that if at any time you attempt to escape or to endanger us, I will kill you as I would a dog.”

Zamosc made no reply, but a strange look of exultation shone about his little eyes that quite escaped the notice of Sandoff and his companions. A short time later, after gagging the captive and placing him in his nest of rugs, Sandoff took the lines and drove the sledge back to the post road.

During the next two weeks the fugitives traveled rapidly, obtaining relays of horses whenever needed. They met plenty of travelers coming from the opposite direction—merchants, squads of Cossacks, and Russian officers journeying from one post to the other, but Sandoff’s distinguished bearing and appearance, and the presence of Shamarin by his side in Cossack uniform, precluded all possibility of detention or suspicion. Vera and Zamosc were at all times out of sight, the covering of the sledge being kept closely down. Sometimes they bivouacked along the road, building fires for comfort and protection from wild animals. Whenever they chanced to spend a night at a post station all passed off well. The starosta’s wife usually took charge of Vera, who was now known as Madame Gunsburg, and Shamarin kept a close watch over Zamosc, both sleeping in the sledge in the courtyard.

The latter bore his enforced captivity well in spite of the fact that he was constantly bound and gagged—except when food was given him. He stoutly refused to answer any questions, however—especially in regard to the key of the small iron chest found in the sledge. The key was certainly not on Zamosc’s person, and a thorough search of the sledge failed to reveal it.

During the first week of their sledge journey the fugitives covered nearly four hundred miles. But after they left the valley of the Amur and turned southward along the valley of the Ussuri River, the weather changed suddenly—an unusual event at this time of year, for it was but the middle of March—and a thaw began, which speedily turned the post road into a bed of slush and water. This lasted for two whole weeks, making rapid traveling out of the question. At the end of that period Sandoff and his companions found they had covered but one hundred and fifty miles, and were still an equal distance from Vladivostok. They now rarely met travelers, for it was the season of the year when journeying by sledge or wagon is equally impossible, and from present indications it would take them three weeks or a month to cover the brief distance remaining.

But on the last night of March a cheering change came. They were stopping at a post station on the Ussuri, and when Sandoff rose early, as was his wont, and went out into the courtyard to see how Shamarin and Zamosc had fared, he found the air bitterly cold, and the river, which had partly broken up on the previous day, ice bound from bank to bank. The post road, as far as the eye could reach, was smooth, hard and glassy.

No time was lost in starting, and as the fresh relay of horses bounded forward under loose rein, with the sledge trailing lightly behind them, Sandoff turned to his companions and cried exultantly: “Hurra! We are safe! This cold spell won’t last long, but it will be quite sufficient to carry us to Vladivostok—or nearly there, for I have no intention of entering the town. We will make no more stops but push right on, and by tomorrow night we ought to reach our journey’s end.”

At noon a village of some size was reached, Riga by name, and here the passports of the travelers were demanded by a bearded Russian officer who stopped the sledge before the military post in the center of the town.

He glanced over the document with sudden interest, whispering to several companions standing near, and then handed it back to Sandoff.

“If your excellency wishes a good hotel,” he said, “I can direct you to one—or perhaps you would prefer the hospitality of the barracks? The best we have is at your service. Our commander, Colonel Nord, is absent, but will return before evening.”

Sandoff looked doubtfully at the speaker, with a dim suspicion that something was wrong.

“Give my best regards to Colonel Nord,” he said calmly. “Tell him that I am in haste, and must go on to the next station.”

The officer was plainly taken aback by this answer. He looked at Sandoff, and then at his companions, who were no less surprised. From his nest of rugs, deep down in the sledge, Zamosc uttered a faint chuckle that no one heard. Sandoff bowed with dignity to the officer, calmly gathered up the lines, and called to the horses. The sledge moved slowly off, gaining speed with each second, but the sharp command to stop that Sandoff more than half feared did not come.

Vera was on her knees, peeping through a hole in the rear curtain.

“The officer is still standing in the center of the road,” she announced eagerly. “He is talking to his companions, and pointing. Now the Cossacks are coming out of the military post—a dozen of them. People are running from their houses to see what is the matter.”

An interval of silence and suspense, during which the sledge moved rapidly down the street.

“Now the officer has gone back,” continued Vera in a tone of relief, “and the Cossacks are moving away too. Only a few peasants are in sight.”

A moment later the sledge passed into a hollow that concealed the town from view, and when it reached the crest of the next ridge a single Cossack could be seen standing before the military post. As the village receded in the distance the fugitives began to feel more easy.

“I was greatly alarmed for a few seconds,” admitted Sandoff. “The officer evidently expected us to stop, though I have no idea why. It is possible that trouble will come out of this affair yet. If I thought so I would suggest that we abandon the sledge and take to the forest with the horses.”

“Try him,” suggested Shamarin with a backward jerk of his arm. “He’ll know all about it.”

Sandoff was favorably impressed with this idea. Handing the lines to his companion, he dropped into the sledge, hauled Zamosc out of the rugs, and took the gag from his mouth.

“You heard our conversation at Riga a few moments ago,” he said sternly. “Don’t try to deny it,” for Zamosc had suddenly assumed an expression of guileless amazement.

“And suppose I did hear it,” he retorted defiantly, “what then?”

“Simply this,” replied Sandoff. “I wish to know, and I intend to know, what it means. It will be to your interest to answer me, for if I find hereafter that we are in danger of recapture I will shoot you without mercy, whereas if we get safely to the coast you will be liberated.”

This plain statement seemed to have an effect on Zamosc.

“Since you take advantage of my helplessness I will tell you,” he said reluctantly. “For more than a year past Colonel Nord, the military commandant at Riga, has been beseeching the authorities at St. Petersburg for a new barracks, and shortly before I began my journey he was notified that I was coming and that I would make an inspection of the building and report on its condition. I hope you are satisfied now.”

He bore Sandoff’s keen glance without flinching. Either he was telling the truth, or he was an adept in the art of lying.

“That certainly seems plausible,” said Sandoff, as he regagged the captive and put him back among the rugs. “Circumstances seem to bear out his story. When I get to the next station I will telegraph back to Colonel Nord that I was compelled to—no, I won’t either. I’ll let matters go as they are. The colonel will be furious with rage, and will open communication with St. Petersburg at once, but by the time he gets any definite answer we shall be out of reach.”

Faster and faster sped the sledge. Mountains and hills, forests and ravines loomed up ahead, shot swiftly by, and faded into the distance. At last far off on the plain a speck appeared, and soon the speck was transformed into a tiny Siberian village—a post house, a military station, a telegraph office, and a few lonely cabins—not more than five or six.

The sun was just sinking into a crimson bed of clouds when the faithful horses entered the little street on a gallop. An instant later they were pulled back on their haunches with foaming nostrils and steaming flanks, as a gate swung suddenly across the road checking further progress. It was directly in front of the little box-like military post that this occurred, and as Sandoff broke into an angry exclamation at the audacity of the deed, an officer came out into the road.

“What do you mean by this?” cried Sandoff angrily.

The man bowed almost to the ground. “Pardon, a thousand pardons, your excellency!” he entreated. “There was no other way—you were going so fast. The noise of the bells would have prevented you from hearing my voice.”

“And now what do you want—my passport?” demanded Sandoff roughly.

“No! No! Your excellency, I beg you not. It is a matter of a different nature. You are the honorable Inspector Serge Zamosc—I am not mistaken on that?”

“Yes, I am he. Go on.”

“Well, your excellency, I have a telegram from Colonel Nord at Riga. He wishes you to remain here until he comes. He has already started.”

“The devil you have!” exclaimed Sandoff blankly. “Well, my good fellow, I am sorry I can’t oblige the colonel. I am in haste to get to Vladivostok, and I really can’t afford to lose so much as an hour. Tell the colonel that a man will come on from Vladivostok in a day or so to look into that little matter of the barracks.”

“I—I am sorry, your excellency,” stammered the officer, “but Colonel Nord will take no denial. He insists that you wait here, and I dare not allow you to proceed.”

It was clear that Inspector Serge Zamosc might be a great man at home in Russia, but here in Eastern Siberia Colonel Nord was a greater.

“Well,” said Sandoff, as he realized the situation and choked down his anger, “I suppose you are only doing your duty. Since Colonel Nord is so importunate I will await his arrival. How soon do you think that will be?”

“In two hours at the most,” replied the officer, “probably less. Until then let me offer you the use of my guard house.”

“Thank you,” replied Sandoff shortly, “I will go to the post station and get supper and order a relay of fresh horses. Colonel Nord will find me there.”

He slowly turned the sledge around and drove into the court yard of the station, which was but a few yards away. The starosta came out to meet the new arrival, rubbing his hands in gleeful anticipation of legitimate robbery.

“You will remain over night, your honor?”

“No,” said Sandoff, “but I want a fresh relay of horses and some refreshment. Attend to these tired beasts first, and when supper is ready let us know. Meanwhile we will remain here.”

The starosta’s cheerful expression faded away, but without more words he unharnessed the horses and led them off to the stable. Sandoff climbed to the ground, followed by Shamarin, and the latter assisted Vera to dismount.

“Well,” said Sandoff, “what do you think of the situation?”

“Unfavorable!” replied Shamarin.

“I don’t agree with you,” exclaimed Vera quickly. “It is vexatious—that is all. If this obstinate Colonel Nord will not be pacified, Victor”—these two had long since dropped all formality of speech—“we’ll have to return to Riga and inspect his barracks—that is, if the colonel’s visit relates to this matter.”

She spoke in a peculiar tone that piqued Sandoff’s curiosity.

“What do you mean?” he asked quickly.

Vera placed her finger to her lips, and glanced toward the sledge.

“I will talk to you later on,” she whispered.

Shamarin did not observe this little bit of byplay. His eyes had been fixed on the ground, and now he looked up and said uneasily, “It would be better to escape if possible. One can’t predict what may come of this visit.”

“I rather agree with you,” replied Sandoff. He walked to the courtyard gate, looked out for a moment, and then came slowly back.

“Escape is impossible,” he said. “Two Cossacks are standing at the western end of the street, and the gate before the military post is still closed and guarded.”

The starosta now appeared with the news that supper was waiting, so Sandoff and Vera entered the house, leaving Shamarin with the sledge, and promising to send him out some food.

Vera and her companion felt little desire to eat as they sat down at opposite sides of the table. The post room was quite empty, and they could talk without being overheard.

“Vera, what do you wish to tell me?” asked Sandoff, as he poured a cup of tea from the samovar.

“Nothing,” she replied. “At least, nothing definite. I have only a vague suspicion.”

“Of what?”

“Of the contents of that iron chest. I believe that Serge Zamosc invented the story he told us about Colonel Nord, and I believe that the chest, if opened, would enlighten us somewhat. I can’t tell you why I think so, unless it is because Zamosc has been smiling to himself all day long and turning his eyes in the direction of the chest, when he thought he was unobserved.”

Sandoff did not reply for a moment. He ate a few mouthfuls of food, and then rose from the table.

“Your suggestion is worth acting upon,” he said. “I intend to get that chest open—by force if necessary, though I will make another short search for the key.”

They passed out into the courtyard, the gate of which was already closed for the night. Sandoff climbed into the sledge—to Shamarin’s surprise—and hauling Zamosc to an upright position began a thorough search of his clothing. It proved unsuccessful, and Sandoff was about to desist when a sudden inspiration struck him. Dropping Zamosc on his back he drew off his right boot. When Sandoff shook it something rattled, and placing his hand inside he drew out a small iron key.

“At last!” he exclaimed. “Why did I not think of that before?”

“Hold on,” said Shamarin. “I will tell the starosta that we have lost something in the straw, and will borrow a lighted lantern from him.”

He went off in haste, and meanwhile Sandoff put his captive back among the rugs and covered him up completely.

Shamarin returned in a moment, bringing the lantern, and handed it to Sandoff. The latter drew the side and rear curtains of the sledge tightly down and placed the lantern on one of the trunks, while Vera dragged the iron chest from its place of concealment in the straw.

The key fitted the lock, and with a trembling hand Sandoff raised the lid.

A simultaneous cry of amazement issued from his and Vera’s lips. The chest was more than half full of bank notes and stacks of gold coin. On the top of them lay a folded paper. Sandoff was as pale as ashes as he lifted this and glanced at its contents.

“That scoundrel Zamosc has deceived us,” he cried hoarsely. “But for you, Vera, we should be lost. This paper explains it all. The government took advantage of Serge Zamosc’s journey of prison inspection to appoint him paymaster and send him on to Vladivostok with the annual salaries of the East Siberian officials. Here is the list of names. It commences with Colonel Nord, at Riga, 5,000 rubles, and, with the exception of two points along the way, the others are in Vladivostok. No wonder that the colonel is anxious to see me. He must have been apprised of Zamosc’s visit beforehand. When he arrives I will pay him the money, make suitable apologies, and then we will resume our journey. Help me to carry this money into the post room. That will be the proper place for the interview with the colonel.”

The two men conveyed the chest into the house between them, groaning not a little under its ponderous weight, and then, leaving Vera to take charge of it, Shamarin returned to the sledge, while Sandoff hunted up the starosta and ordered glasses and a bottle of wine to be taken into the post room.

“I expect a visitor in a short time,” he said, “and as I may be delayed with him longer than I expect I want you to put fresh horses into my sledge at once. What do I owe you for your services?”

The starosta named an exorbitant figure, but Sandoff paid it without demur, and then waited in the courtyard until the three spirited horses were harnessed.

He now went back into the post room, and sent Vera out to the sledge, with instructions to draw the covering tightly and remain inside. Then he paced up and down the room for probably half an hour, glancing through the window from time to time into the courtyard.

All at once a ringing clatter of hoofs was heard that came nearer with every second, and a moment later the sound of voices and a loud call for the starosta apprised Sandoff that the horsemen had entered the yard. He glanced cautiously through the window, and could dimly make out five mounted figures—Colonel Nord and his escort, beyond a doubt.

Leaving the window after the first hasty glance, Sandoff threw up the lid of the chest, placed the paper on the table before him, lit a cigar, and seated himself comfortably in a chair. He had hardly done so when the door was thrown open, and the starosta entered, followed by a large red faced man in full uniform.

“Colonel Nord, your excellency,” he stammered, backing out of the room and closing the door.

The colonel was unmistakably surprised at sight of Sandoff. He hesitated a moment, and then, catching sight of the chest of money, bowed in a formal manner.

Sandoff held out his hand.

“I am glad to see you, Colonel Nord. I owe you an apology for my seemingly strange conduct this morning, and beg you will accept my explanation——”

The colonel’s brow grew dark, and he glared at Sandoff under his bushy eyebrows.

“Sir, I wish to see Inspector Zamosc,” he thundered. “You are not the man!”

For an instant Sandoff could only stare at his visitor in hopeless confusion. Here was a contingency that had never entered his head.

“What does this mean?” continued the colonel fiercely. “Is the inspector afraid to meet me in person? Does he forget having made my acquaintance in Petersburg last summer, that he attempts to palm off a substitute upon me? I refuse to treat with you. I will not touch a cent of that money, unless Inspector Zamosc counts it out with his own hand. Where is he? I demand to see him.”

The irate colonel started for the door, and would have rushed out to the sledge had not Sandoff checked him in time.

“Stop just a moment, Colonel Nord, and hear my explanation,” he entreated. “It is true that I am not Inspector Zamosc—I am merely his assistant. It was through a sad error that the inspector drove through Riga this morning without stopping. He has now begged me to see you in his stead and plead sickness as an excuse for his absence. He is out in the sledge, but if you insist upon seeing him I will summon him.”

“Yes, I do insist upon seeing him,” the colonel replied with a grim smile. “There are various private matters that must be discussed. Tell the inspector that he needn’t be afraid of me,” he added with a short chuckle.

“I will deliver your message,” replied Sandoff calmly. “Kindly excuse me while I go to summon the inspector. You will find cigars and wine on the table.”

“I had better accompany you,” said Colonel Nord jocosely. “The inspector might take fright and run away. When he sees that I am not in a violent rage he will be reassured.”

As he spoke he preceded his companion to the door. For a moment Sandoff thought all was lost, but a idea occurred to him just in time.

“Beg pardon, colonel!” he exclaimed. “But all that money—would it be safe to leave it here alone?”

“Ah, no, quite right!” muttered the colonel, glancing greedily at the chest. “I will remain here. Be quick, though, for I must return to Riga as soon as possible.”

Sandoff left the room with a firm step and composed bearing, but nevertheless his brain was fairly bursting with the intensity of his thoughts. He had but one idea—the necessity of making an immediate and desperate dash for liberty.

The game was up. Just inside the door stood the four Cossacks who formed Colonel Nord’s escort. They were laughing and talking boisterously, and Sandoff noted with satisfaction that the starosta had taken away their horses—probably to be fed and watered. Here was one danger out of the way. The sledge stood where he had left it, facing the road, and the gates were wide open, the starosta having neglected to close them after Colonel Nord’s entry. Another favorable circumstance!

Sandoff calmly untied the strap that held the horses to the gate post. Then he turned and slowly mounted the seat beside Shamarin. Even in the dim light the marble pallor of his face was visible, and his companions were quick to scent danger.

“Something has happened,” said Vera. “What is it, Victor?”

“Hush!” said Sandoff in a voice that they hardly recognized. “Not so loud! All is lost and discovery is inevitable. Prepare the firearms for use. All depends now on getting clear of the village.”

He gathered up the lines and Shamarin touched the horses with the whip. They trotted out of the yard, the circlet of bells making merry music over their heads, and turned up the street on a gallop.

“Those accursed bells!” muttered Sandoff. “Why did I not take them off?”

Then he fiercely jerked the horses to a standstill as the military post loomed in view, with the barred gate stretching from side to side across the road.

The officer who had stopped them before came out with a lantern.

“Open the gate,” demanded Sandoff. “I am in haste, and must make up for lost time.”

The man hesitated. “Have you seen Colonel Nord already, your excellency? He came but a moment or two ago.”

“Certainly, you blockhead!” roared Sandoff, losing control of himself. “Else why should I be here? Open that gate instantly!”

The officer was cowed by this determined attitude, and moved forward with the evident intention of obeying; but before he could take three steps a door was heard to slam violently, and from the post yard came a volley of shouts and curses, delivered in Colonel Nord’s high pitched voice. Then followed answering cries, and a quick running of feet over the frozen snow.

The officer halted, and looked keenly at the occupants of the sledge. Then he called “Guard! guard!” in a shrill voice.

“Hold firm,” whispered Shamarin. “There’s only one way—I’ll do it—stand by me.”

With a leap he was on the ground, and running toward the gate, where stood a single Cossack. As he passed the officer the latter whipped out his sword, and started in pursuit. Sandoff caught the gleam of steel, and, leaning from the seat, whip in hand, he dealt the fellow so terrific a blow on the arm that he dropped the weapon and howled with pain. Shamarin reached the gate and was confronted by the burly soldier before it, rifle in hand. There was no time for parleying. Shamarin dodged under the Cossack’s rifle and flung the fellow to one side of the road, where he lay stunned in the snow and ice. Then he dashed furiously at the gate—which was fortunately not locked—and by a single blow knocked it half way back on its hinges.

It was now Sandoff’s turn. Swinging his whip overhead, he brought it down smartly on the horses. The spirited brutes plunged madly forward, and he urged them with hoarse shouts to still greater speed. As they dashed through the gateway, Shamarin regained his seat by a flying leap.

The whole affair had consumed but a few seconds. Before the Cossacks could realize the audacity of the deed, the sledge and its occupants were whizzing away into the night at a rate of speed that had seldom been equaled on the great Siberian road.

The officer picked up his sword with his uninjured arm, and swore and yelled alternately until he was hoarse. The vanquished Cossack rose to his feet, and idiotically jerked the gate shut with a bang. The others ran for their horses and mounted in hot haste—and in the midst of all the confusion up clattered Colonel Nord and his escort, bawling at the top of their voices.

“Idiot! Blockhead!” the colonel roared at the terrified officer. “You will pay dearly for this! Why did you let those scoundrels through? Open that gate at once—send after me all the men you have—telegraph to the next station. Do you hear me?”

Then, as the gate swung back, the irate colonel and his squad of armed Cossacks—now increased to nine—galloped madly through, and went pounding along the frosty road in hot chase of the fugitive sledge.

CHAPTER IX.
MAURICE DUPONT.

As the twinkling lights of the little settlement receded in the distance, and the stretch of road intervening still remained free from pursuers, Sandoff and his companions felt their spirits rise, darkly as the future loomed ahead. Shamarin helped Vera to prepare and load all the guns. This done, he furled the rear hood, and stationed himself so that he could see back along the course over which they had come. The horses continued to gallop at a tremendous pace, but when two or three miles had been traversed the pursuers hove in sight, and Shamarin soon reported the alarming fact that they were gaining.

“They will continue to gain, of course,” said Sandoff. “It can’t be otherwise. We must fight them off.”

He backed the two trunks and a pile of rugs against the seat, for protection to himself while driving, and instructed Vera and Shamarin to keep low in the bottom of the sledge, which had a depth of at least two feet.

By this time the Cossacks were close enough to be counted, and close enough for something else, too, for a shower of bullets suddenly whistled about the sledge. Shamarin retorted with two cleverly aimed shots, and disabled one of the enemy. This occasioned a slight delay, after which the Cossacks came on more rapidly than ever. It was evident that a resumption of firing would do speedy harm to the fugitives or their horses. Taking advantage of a smooth bit of road where the sledge made little noise, Shamarin leaned from the end and shouted with all his might:

“We have a captive here—Inspector Zamosc. We are going to place him in range, and if you shoot again you will surely kill him.”

Colonel Nord’s reply to this was a volley of oaths, but the firing was not resumed, in spite of the fact that occasional shots from the sledge held the Cossacks at bay.

None realized the critical nature of the situation better than Sandoff. Nearly half the distance to the next station had been covered, and at any moment Cossacks might be met coming from the opposite direction. He decided on a daring and uncertain plan—nothing less than to abandon the post road and strike across country toward the coast. Although Vladivostok was yet some sixty miles away, it was barely two thirds of that distance to the nearest point on the Sea of Japan.

The desired opportunity speedily came—none too soon, however, for the Cossacks were beginning to spread out with a view of getting ahead of the sledge or of shooting down the horses.

To the right of the post road lay wooded hills, and on the left, toward the sea coast, was a stretch of undulating country very little timbered. Sandoff abruptly turned the horses in this direction, and applied the whip with merciless severity. The sledge attained a speed that was truly terrific. It skimmed over the frozen ground, swaying dizzily from side to side, and leaping high in air as it struck hillocks or scattered stones.

The Cossacks made a desperate effort to overtake the fugitives, but the four who had come on from Riga with Colonel Nord began to fall behind, their horses being exhausted. The colonel himself had evidently procured a fresh steed at the post station, for he pushed on with the other three Cossacks.

For half an hour this wild race continued. The ground increased in ruggedness. The undulating swells of land grew higher, and the hollows between them consequently deeper. As the horses galloped with steaming nostrils up one of these long slopes and dragged the sledge lightly over the crest, Sandoff uttered a cry of dismay. Down in the next valley wound a stream a hundred yards or more in width. It was ice bound, but the glassy covering looked smooth and treacherous, and was dotted with air holes.

“They have us now!” exclaimed Shamarin. “The game’s up!”

Sandoff gritted his teeth and took a firmer hold of the lines.

“There is a chance yet,” he cried hoarsely to his companions. “Drowning is better than recapture.” Then he lashed the horses more furiously than ever, and the sledge went down the frozen descent like a meteor, and whizzed out on the sheet of ice. Had the horses been moving less rapidly they must have broken through at once, but their very speed carried them on over the treacherous surface. The frail ice behind the sledge creaked and groaned and broke, and the angry and amazed Cossacks, who were close in pursuit, found their progress cut off by a watery gulf.

On went the sledge, Sandoff all the while urging the noble beasts by whip and voice, but when the shore was only half a dozen yards away the ice gave way with a terrific crash.

Sandoff plunged into the icy water waist deep, and, taking Vera in his arms, conveyed her in safety to the bank. Shamarin followed him with an armful of rifles and ammunition. Then Sandoff returned to the horses, knife in hand, and regardless of the bullets that pattered about him, he severed two of the animals from their fastenings, and after much kicking and plunging they gained a foothold on the firm ice. The third horse was struck in the head by a bullet, just as Shamarin—who had hurried back to aid his companion—was cutting it loose, and with a shrill neigh it rolled over into the water.

“Mount as once,” cried Sandoff, as he led the horses out on the shore. “Vera can ride with you or me—it matters not which.”

“And Zamosc! Shall I shoot him before I go?”

“No, leave him to his fate.”

“But,” said Vera, placing her hand softly on Sandoff’s arm, “the sledge is sinking, and he is helpless. Give him a chance for his life.”

“The villain doesn’t deserve it,” replied Sandoff shortly, but meeting an appealing glance from Vera’s eyes he turned and waded back to the sledge. Leaning over the seat he pulled Zamosc to an upright position, and took the gag from his mouth.

“If you value your life you had better tell your friends to cease firing,” he said.

Zamosc lost no time in making good use of his voice, and he was shouting lustily for help when Sandoff regained the shore. By the aid of a huge bowlder Shamarin mounted one of the horses. As it happened to be the smaller of the two, Sandoff mounted the other, and helped Vera up behind him. A moment later the fugitives vanished over the crest of the next ridge.

A succession of thick forests and rockstrewn ravines made progress slow and painful. Day came, revealing a barren and desolate country stretching as far as the eye could reach. In front of the fugitives towered a range of lofty mountains. After three or four hours of difficult riding they reached the foothills, themselves and their horses thoroughly exhausted. Here the latter were abandoned, and the ascent was begun on foot. A long and wearisome climb brought the refugees to the top, and here their eyes were gladdened by the sight they had longed to see. The mountain and the wooded hills at its base sloped gently to the eastward for half a dozen miles, and beyond were the fair blue waters of the Japan Sea, fading away into the horizon. Near the shore lay two black objects—steamers without doubt.

It was late in the afternoon when the fugitives drew near the sea. One slight ridge crowned with pine trees lay between them and the desired goal. They crept through the valley with slow and cautious steps, fearing either to meet Cossacks who had come up the coast from Vladivostok, apprised of the situation by telegraph, or to be overtaken by Colonel Nord and his party, who for all they knew might have been following them since the previous night.

“The first thing is to get a good look at those vessels lying off the shore and discover their nationality,” said Sandoff.

At that moment a rifle shot rang sharply on the air, and was followed by a second report and a ferocious yell that came from no human throat.

“Some wild beast!” muttered Sandoff, and as he spoke a man’s voice cried, “Help! Help!”

The tragedy—for such it seemed to be—was taking place but a few yards distant.

Rifle in hand, Sandoff ran forward for a dozen yards or more and peered through the thick foliage into a circular open glade. In the center of this rose a rounded bowlder six or eight feet high, and perched on the top was a young man, striking blow after blow with a clubbed rifle at a great wounded tiger cat who was making frantic efforts to get at him.

At sight of the stranger Sandoff uttered a cry of surprise. “Can it be he?” he said aloud. “Yes, it surely is. What can he be doing——”

He did not finish the sentence, for at that instant the tiger cat sprang fairly to the top of the bowlder, and seized the unfortunate man by the ankle. It was no time for hesitation. Sandoff boldly advanced from the bushes, and, taking aim at the tiger cat’s head, fired. The brute rolled backward in his death struggle, while the rescued man half fell, half jumped, from the rock, and limped toward Sandoff with amazement and gratitude visible on his face.

“I owe you my life,” he said huskily. “That was a good shot of yours. I fired twice at the brute, but failed to kill him, and my steward, who was with me, ran off. The coward won’t stop now until he gets to the yacht.”

“The yacht!” cried Sandoff hoarsely. “Is your yacht here? But don’t you know me, Maurice Dupont?—No, of course you don’t. I am Victor Sandoff.”

“Victor Sandoff!” The other repeated the words in an amazed tone. “Can it really be you? How came you here? You, who were sent to Siberia. I heard about it—it was unjust, tyrannical!”

Both were silent for an instant, thinking of the time when they had last met in one of the aristocratic clubs of St. Petersburg.

“Tell me,” said Dupont, “what does this mean?”

Briefly Sandoff recounted the story of his escape, and when he paused, pale and agitated, Maurice Dupont took both his hands in his and held them there.

“Your troubles are over, my old friend,” he said, with tears in his eyes. “Tonight, as soon as it is dark, come down to the shore. You will find a boat there with one of my men in it, and once safely on my yacht I defy the Czar himself to take you off. You must be careful, though, for a Russian corvette is lying at anchor near me, watching for a couple of poor devils who escaped in a boat from the convict island of Saghalien last week. In fact, one of the Russian officers came out with me today. He is somewhere at hand now, with a couple of my men. You see I have been wintering in Vladivostok, and came up here a day or two ago for a little sport before starting for la belle France—but stop! I hear footsteps. Keep yourself and your companions well hidden, Sandoff, and as soon as it is dark make your way to the beach. You will find the boat opposite my yacht, which you can identify by the red lantern in the bow. Quick! They are coming.”

The Frenchman strolled leisurely across the glade while Sandoff darted into the bushes and made his way back to Shamarin and Vera with his burden of joyful news.

Through the remainder of that short afternoon the fugitives lay concealed among the rocks on the summit of the ridge, and when darkness came they crept cautiously down to the edge of the bay. Less than a mile from shore lay the steam yacht Grenelle, easily distinguished by the red light that swung from its bow.

“If your friend fails to keep his word, we are lost,” said Shamarin. “He may hesitate to assume such a risk——”

“He won’t hesitate and he won’t fail,” interrupted Sandoff with decision. “There! What is that now?”

“A boat!” cried Vera joyously, and so indeed it was. It lay upon the beach, and as the fugitives drew near a man advanced to meet them—a middle aged bearded sailor, wearing the blue and white uniform of the Grenelle. He bowed politely to Sandoff and said, “The boat is waiting, monsieur. I fear we shall have a rough passage, for the surf is heavy and the wind is rising.”

“Then the sooner we start the better,” said Sandoff, answering the sailor in his own tongue.

The boat was small, and without difficulty it was dragged down to the edge of the surf with Vera seated in the stern. The three men pushed the craft out through the surf. Then they sprang in, and Sandoff and the sailor fell to the oars, Vera and her brother meanwhile bailing out the water that had been flung over the sides.

“Pull with all your strength, my friend,” said Sandoff. “It will be no easy matter to gain the yacht.”

The wind was blowing toward the shore. Each moment it seemed to increase in violence, and the sea to grow more turbulent. After a period of steady rowing Sandoff noted with alarm that the boat was being carried in the direction of the Russian corvette. Again and again it was headed for the crimson wake of the lantern, and each time the waves buffeted it persistently out of its course. Shamarin relieved Sandoff at the oar, but with no better result. The situation was becoming alarming. The sky was overcast with dark, murky clouds, and the waves tossed the frail craft about at will.

Suddenly a ruddy blaze was seen on the beach. Then a rocket with a luminous blue wake whizzed high in the air, and before the fugitives could recover from their surprise a similar signal was sent up from the deck of the corvette.

“We have been tracked to the shore,” cried Sandoff. “The Cossacks must have come up from Vladivostok, and now they are signaling to the corvette either to be on the lookout or to send a boat in.”

“Most likely the latter,” said Shamarin. “Look! Lights are moving on deck, and I can hear the rattling of chains.”

The possibility of recapture when safety was so near at hand dismayed the fugitives. The boat was in a dangerous position, being directly between the corvette and the shore.

“We may be saved yet,” cried Sandoff hoarsely. “Pull straight for the yacht—pull as you never pulled in your lives. It is our last chance.”

The men tugged desperately at the oars, and to such purpose that the boat made visible headway toward the Grenelle. A shout for help might have brought another boat to the rescue, but as it could have been heard with equal distinctness on board the corvette this expedient was out of the question.

Another mishap was close at hand. As the sailor pulled desperately at his oar, it split with a sharp crack. In the momentary confusion that followed, the boat swung broadside to the waves, and a fierce blast of wind coming up at that instant, over it went in the twinkling of an eye.

Sandoff, being on the leeward side, shot out and downward, going clear under the icy water and coming to the surface a few seconds later, to find the capsized boat half a dozen feet from him. To the bow clung Shamarin, submerged to the breast, while the sailor had managed to crawl upon the stern. Vera was not to be seen, and as Sandoff made this terrible discovery his heart seemed to stand still and his chilled limbs to lose their power.

“Victor! Victor! Help me!”

His name was called in feeble accents, and he saw a head and an arm floating in the waves between him and the boat.

All else was instantly forgotten. With three powerful strokes he reached the spot, and placed one arm tightly about the girl’s waist, while with the other he beat the water furiously.

“I will save you, I will save you, Vera—my darling!” he whispered hoarsely. The words came unbidden from his very soul. This moment of common peril had wrung from his lips the confession of a passion that he had cherished in secret for months.

The wind forced the boat down toward him, and throwing up his arm he caught the keel and clung there, pressing his precious burden close to his side. Slowly the space between the yacht and the boat widened. They were drifting nearer and nearer to the long, black hull of the Russian corvette.

“Better to die now than go back to the mines—back to torture and a living death,” whispered Shamarin across the boat. “Good by, Sandoff. I can’t hold on much longer.”

Sandoff could not reply. His own strength was failing, and a deadly numbness was stealing his senses away. The heroic sailor remained mute, faithful to his trust, though a single cry would have brought rescuers to the spot.

Suddenly the quick, sharp rattle of oars was heard. The sound came nearer and nearer, and finally a dim object passed close to the drifting boat. It was the gig from the corvette, speeding toward the shore.

As the dreaded object disappeared in the gloom, Sandoff still held to the keel, though his arm seemed to be tearing from the socket. With the other arm he fiercely drew Vera to his breast until her cheek was almost touching his.

“I love you, I love you!” he cried passionately. “I tell you now, Vera, in the presence of death. Would that God had seen fit to spare us for another and a better life in a land without tyranny and oppression! But regrets are vain. It is sweeter to die this way together than to be torn apart and dragged back to the horrors of Siberia.”

His eyes met hers, and he read in their swift, mute glance the echo of his own words.

With one hand she drew his head down. “Victor,” she whispered, “you have made death sweet. Its bitterness is gone.” Then their lips met, and as the waves thundered around them Sandoff felt his hand slipping from the boat.

A low cry from the sailor roused him, and unconsciously his fingers tightened anew on the keel. The spot where Shamarin had been was empty—the brave fellow had gone down. For him there was an end of toil and suffering.

Again that low cry! The seaman was kneeling on the capsized craft, staring ahead through the gloom. “A boat! a boat!” he cried hoarsely.

“He is mad,” thought Sandoff. “He sees no boat,” but even as he strained Vera to his breast and felt the icy waters rising higher around him, a dark object shot forward over the waves, and a voice cried, “Sandoff! Sandoff!”

The next instant he and his burden were snatched from the icy waters, and then remembrance left him.

When his senses returned, he was lying, warm and comfortable, in a snug berth on board the Grenelle. As in a dream he saw kind faces about him and heard Maurice Dupont’s voice:

“Sandoff, my dear fellow, you are safe now. The yacht is already under way. We are bound for France. It was providence that guided us when we started out to search for you in the other boat. We arrived just in time—but too late to save your companion. The brave fellow had gone down.”

Sandoff made an effort to rise. “Vera, where is she?” he asked.

“Safe, my dear fellow, safe and well. You will see her tomorrow.”

Sandoff smiled and his eyes closed. He was sleeping peacefully.

---

Toward the end of the following June the Grenelle entered the harbor of Marseilles, and Sandoff and Vera journeyed by rail to Paris, accompanied by Maurice Dupont.

But little more remains to be told. Vera and Sandoff were married in Paris, where both had friends, and the honeymoon was spent in Maurice Dupont’s villa at Asnieres. They will never return to Russia, nor have they any desire to do so. They live happily in their adopted country, but if they are spared to the extreme limit of old age they can never forget the terrible adventures they shared together when escaping from the mines of Kara, or that memorable night off the Siberian coast when poor Felix Shamarin lost his life in the sea he toiled so hard to reach.