At a signal from Voronetz, the four soldiers fell into position, two before Wilfrid and two behind, the lieutenant taking his place at the prisoner’s right hand.
“Draw sabres. March.”
Four swords flashed simultaneously from their scabbards; and, as the guard moved forward, Wilfrid mechanically moved forward with them, scarcely able to realise that he was a prisoner, so quickly had the event happened.
“Gospodin,” said Voronetz, “when the monkey plays the flute you should dance. You have acted foolishly.”
“Wisely; for I have maintained the dignity of an Englishman.”
“And put yourself into prison.”
“No more in prison than yourself, good Voronetz. Russia is a prison.”
“’Tis a pretty large one, then. Gospodin, if one is not prepared to obey the laws of Russia, one should keep out of Russia.”
“There’s something in that argument,” laughed Wilfrid. “Whither are you taking me?” he asked presently.