“How long have you had such weather?” inquired Werner. “It’s real spring.”
“It’s only the second day,” was the polite answer. “Before that we had mostly frosty weather.”
The dark carriages rolled over noiselessly one after another, took them in by twos, started off into the darkness—there where the lantern was shaking at the gate. The convoys like gray silhouettes surrounded each carriage; the horseshoes struck noisily against the ground, or plashed upon the melting snow.
When Werner bent down, about to climb into the carriage, the gendarme whispered to him:
“There is somebody else going along with you.”
Werner was surprised.
“Where? Where is he going? Oh, yes! Another one? Who is he?”
The gendarme was silent. Indeed, in a dark corner a small, motionless but living figure pressed close to the side of the carriage. By the reflection of the lantern Werner noticed the flash of an open eye. Seating himself, Werner pushed his foot against the other man’s knee.
“Excuse me, comrade.”
The man made no reply. It was only when the carriage started, that he suddenly asked in broken Russian, speaking with difficulty: