CHAPTER I.
MAURICE GREY.
But the living and the lost—
For them our souls must weep;
For them we suffer a yearning pain
That will not let us sleep.
A change. From the shores of the gray British seas to those of the grayer Baltic—from the yellow sands and purple moors of Yorkshire to the wellnigh boundless forests and plains of Western Russia—thousands of miles of wood, lake and river, only diversified by some few castles and villages.
It was July, hot and radiant, but in the depths of those woods coolness is always attainable. By one of the broad silver lakes, under a group of birches that rose gracefully from its shores, a young man was resting through the noontide.
He appeared to be a hunter, for his horse was tethered to one of the trees and a brace of fine hounds were baying out their impatience at his side. But for these dumb companions he seemed to be alone, and yet all the accessories spoke of comfort. A kind of table had been extemporized at his feet, and on it a large meat-pasty, some bread and salt, a knife and fork and a flask of sherry were lying. He had not done much justice to the provisions; he was leaning back against the tree and looking out over the lake, a kind of disgust in his fine face. Suddenly, bethinking himself, he raised two fingers to his lips and gave a prolonged whistle.
It brought from the surrounding woods two stately-looking Russians, long-bearded and sedate. Their master pointed to the provisions before him—a gesture which was evidently understood without difficulty, for they carried away the food, retired respectfully to some distance, and soon made a great inroad into both pasty and bread, packing up what was left in a small haversack which one of them carried on his back. The other then approached his master and made a low bow.
"Time to mount?" said the young man, evidently English from his appearance and accent. "Ha! so much the better."
The horse was untethered, wiped down admiringly, and held in readiness by the bearded Russian, his companion in the mean time bringing out two stout little ponies from the trees. And in a few moments the small cavalcade was ranging the woods.