“What did he say?” Hindwood questioned.
She was prepared to reply, when the stranger stayed her with a gesture. “I was apologizing in Russian for having returned.”
Hindwood glanced at the ragged edge of the cliff and shrugged his shoulders. “An apology's scarcely necessary. You're to be congratulated. You seem to have recognized this lady. Who are you?”
The stranger drew himself erect. A grim smile played about his mouth. “Ivan Varensky, at your service.”
II
Hindwood stared at him with a frown. He was contrasting this Ivan Varensky with the leader of men whose deeds of three years ago had so deeply stirred him. One picture stood out ineffaceably. It was of a sea of panic-stricken soldiers, patriotism forgotten, arms flung away, in wild retreat, and of Ivan Varensky driving forward alone, as though he, by his single courage, could turn back the enemy. And this was the man—the white knight of Russia, the scape-goat, the magician of words! Had he met him three years ago, he would have knelt to him. Now all he could do was to frown.
It was necessary to say something. He spoke gruffly. “You've chosen an odd method of returning. We had news you were dead.”