CHAPTER XIII
THE GRAND DUKE LORIS
I woke with a splitting headache to find myself lying in a berth in a sleeping car; the same car in which I had been travelling when the accident—or outrage—occurred; for the windows were smashed and some of the woodwork splintered.
I guessed that there were a good many of the injured on board, for above the rumble of the train, which was jogging along at a steady pace, I could hear the groans of the sufferers.
I put my hand up to my head, and found it swathed in wet bandages, warm to the touch, for the heat in the car was stifling.
A man shuffled along, and seeing that I was awake, went away, returning immediately with a glass of iced tea, which I drank with avidity. I noticed that both his hands were bandaged, and he carried his left arm in a sling.
“What more can I get the barin, now he is recovering?” he asked, in Russian, with sulky deference.
“Where are we going,—to Petersburg?” I asked.
“No. Back to Dunaburg; it will be many hours before the line is restored.”