“You are not cold?” he asked.
“No; I feel as if I should never be cold again.”
“That is good. Put on your coat quickly. You must not catch a chill. You must take care of yourself.”
“So must you,” answered Kosmaroff, with a little laugh.
Though one was dark and the other fair, there was a subtle resemblance between these two men which lay, perhaps, more in gesture and limb than in face. There also existed between them a certain sympathy which the French call camaraderie, which was not the outcome of a long friendship. Far back in the days of Poland's greatness they must have had a common ancestor. In the age of chivalry some dark, spare knight, with royal blood in his veins, had perhaps fallen in love with one of the fair Bukatys, whose women had always been beautiful, and their men always reckless.
Kosmaroff climbed into the saddle, and they stood side by side, waiting for the carts to come up. Martin's horse began to whinny at the sound of approaching hoofs, when its rider leaned forward in the saddle and struck it fiercely on the side of its great Roman nose, which sounded hollow, like a drum.
“I suppose you had little sleep last night,” said Kosmaroff when Martin yawned, with his face turned up to the sky.
“I had none.”
“Nor I,” said Kosmaroff. “We may get some—to-morrow.”
The carts now came up. Each team had two drivers, one walking on either side.