We left our horses at a kabak and walked through the squalid streets to the equally squalid railway depot where we parted, almost in silence.
“God be with you,” Mishka growled huskily. His face looked more grim than ever under the poor light of a street-lamp near, and he held my hands in a grip whose marks I bore for a week after.
He strode heavily away, never once looking back, and I turned into the depot, where I found the entrance, the ticket office, and the platform guarded by surly, unkempt soldiers with fixed bayonets. I lost count of the times I had to produce my passport; and turned a deaf ear to the insults lavished upon me by most of my interlocutors. I thought I had better resume my pretended ignorance of Russian and trust to German to carry me through, as it did. I was allowed to board one of the cars at last; they were filthy, lighted only by a candle here and there, and crowded with refugees of all classes. I was lucky to get in at all, and, though all the cars were soon crammed to their utmost capacity, it was an hour or more before the train started. Then it crawled and jolted through the darkness at a pace that I reckoned would land us at Alexandrovo somewhere about noon next day,—if we ever got there at all.
But the indescribable discomforts of that long night journey at least prevented anything in the way of coherent thought. I look back on it now as a blank interval; a curtain dropped at the end of a long and lurid act in the drama of life.
At Alexandrovo more soldiers, more hustling, more interrogations; then the barrier, and beyond,—freedom!
I’ve a hazy notion that I arrived at a big, well-lighted station, and was taken possession of by some one who hustled me into a cab; but the next thing I remember clearly was waking and finding myself in bed,—a nice clean bed, with a huge down pillow affair on top,—in a big well-furnished room. That down affair—I couldn’t remember the name of it for the moment—and the whole aspect of the room showed that I was in a German hotel; though how I got there I really couldn’t remember. I rang the bell; my hand felt so heavy that I could scarcely lift it as far, and it looked curiously thin, with blue marks, like faint bruises on it, and the veins stood out.
A plump, comfortable looking woman, in a nurse’s uniform, bustled in; and beamed at me quite affectionately.
“Now, this is better! Yes, I said it would be so!” she exclaimed in German. “You feel quite yourself again, but weak,—yes, that is only to be expected—”
“Will you be so good as to tell me where I am?” I asked, as politely as I knew how; staring at her, and wondering if I’d ever seen her before.
“Oh, you men! No sooner do you find your tongue and your senses than you begin to ask questions! And yet you say it is women who are the talkers!” she answered, with a kind of ponderous archness. “You are at the Hotel Reichshof to be sure; and being well taken care of. The head?” she touched my forehead with her firm, cool fingers. “It hurts no more? Ah, it has healed beautifully; I did well to remove the strappings yesterday. There will be a scar, yes, but that cannot be helped. And now you are hungry? Ah, we will soon set that right! It is as I said, though even the doctor would not believe me. The wounds are nothing,—so to speak; the exhaustion was the mischief. You came through from Russia? What times they are having there! You were fortunate to get through at all. Yes, you are a very fortunate man, and an excellent patient; therefore you shall have some breakfast!”