It was a lovely face with dark eyes that brought back to Vladimir the sound of silver laughter, of troika bells, and the sight of gilt domes, the blue sky and snow-covered streets of Moscow.
“Most of us went to Paris, but I chose Pomerania,” the girl explained easily. “And now sleep. Tomorrow we’ll talk.”
But the next day, the girl didn’t stop to talk, despite her promise. She placed Vladimir’s food on a stool near his bed and left, smiling her lip smile, as she slipped her feet into the wooden shoes at the door.
When he finished his food, he felt so much stronger that he arose and dressed. He found his clothes neatly folded on a shelf. Cautiously he stretched arms and legs and twisted his neck about. Miracle of miracles, he was all sound and unhurt. A deep, grateful sigh burst forth unbidden from his heart but died on his lips as that lost look which had shrouded his eyes in the fog crept back.
“What is going to happen to me?” he cried out in agony. “I’m afraid—again. Why couldn’t I die when I crashed?”
His eyes suddenly caught the glint of a razor blade on the floor. Why, it was his own razor blade, evidently dropped from his pocket when he had dressed. His teeth bit into his indrawn lips as he reached for it. He would show them if he was afraid!
There was a sudden knock at the door, and the peasant girl entered.
“What!” she cried. “Up and dressed! Then you can have supper with us below. You’d better go down now. Food’s on the table.”
The razor slid from Vladimir’s fingers and buried itself in the bed.
The man felt curiously ashamed of himself. Had she seen the razor?