The farmer, who met them with a somewhat shame-faced countenance, offered no opposition to their wishes, and they were conducted to the guest-room, where the rugs from the carriage had been arranged so as to make a bed for Paschics on the floor.
“No bed for us to-night, Carlo,” said Cyril, catching the look of pleasure which his weary follower cast at the lowly couch. “First of all, while this primitive candle lasts, do you mark on my map the spot where your cousin the charcoal-burner lives, while I hunt for the chest of clothes. Ah, this must be it!”
But the result of a search in the chest was not wholly satisfactory. The sheepskin-lined kaftan of which Olga had spoken was there, and so were a pair of high boots and a fur cap, and also several gaily embroidered shirts and the short decorated jacket which is worn to display them; but there was not one complete suit to be found, much less two.
“Well, we must divide the things, and do what we can,” said Cyril.
“No, sir,” said Paschics, firmly; “you must disguise yourself as thoroughly as possible. You are far more necessary to—to Mrs Weston than I am, and in far more danger. I can alter my present appearance sufficiently to pass muster in my own clothes, and if we have an opportunity to-morrow I will buy a disguise in one of the towns we must traverse.”
Cyril yielded to the good sense of his follower, and proceeded to array himself in the Thracian garments, supplementing the deficiencies with his own; but, happily, the coat was so long, and the boots so high, as to make it most unlikely that he would be perceived to be wearing tweed trousers instead of the baggy knickerbockers proper to the costume. When his toilet was complete, he turned to Paschics for his approval, but met instead a look of absolute consternation.
“It is impossible, sir—quite impossible. You look no more like a Thracian peasant than—the Emperor of Scythia. You have the air of a blond Hercynian officer at a fancy dress ball. To pass through the country in that costume is simply to court disaster. You would be arrested as a Scythian spy by our own people if the conspirators had not seized you first.”
“We have plenty of time before us,” said Cyril, forbearingly, “and it is your business to use it in fitting me to the costume. Pull yourself together. You can do it if you try: I won’t believe that such a master in the art of disguise could be beaten in such a comparatively simple problem. Sit down and consider carefully what is wrong. Then we will see what can be done to remedy it.”
Paschics obeyed, and before long his face lighted up.
“You are right, sir. I had forgotten this,” and he produced something from his pocket. “You may remember that I once told you I always carried a wig and false beard about with me. They will work wonders.” He fastened on the beard, and arranged the wig on Cyril’s head, pulling forward the unkempt hair over his forehead, so as to shade his eyes. “Now for a few strokes of the brush,” and by means of a small bottle of pigment he altered the shape of the eyebrows, and added various lines and wrinkles to the face. “If you will be so good as to dip your hands in the mud of the road when we are outside the walls, sir, I think you will be quite unrecognisable.”