Steinmetz made no answer.  They drove on through the gathering gloom.  The sky was of a yellow gray, and the earth reflected the dismal hue of it.  Presently it began to snow, driving in a fine haze from the north.  The two men lapsed into silence.  Steinmetz, buried in his furs like a great, cumbrous bear, appeared to be half asleep.  They had had a long and wearisome day.  The horses had covered their forty miles and more from village to village, where the two men had only gathered discouragement and foreboding.  Some of the starostas were sullen; others openly scared.  None of them were glad to see Steinmetz.  Paul had never dared to betray his identity.  With the gendarmes—­the tchinovniks—­they had not deemed it wise to hold communication.

“Stop!” cried Steinmetz suddenly, and Paul pulled the horses on to their haunches.

“I thought you were asleep,” he said.

There was no one in sight.  They were driving along the new road now, the high-way Paul had constructed from Osterno to Tver.  The road itself was, of course, indistinguishable, but the telegraph posts marked its course.

Steinmetz tumbled heavily out of his furs and went toward the nearest telegraph post.

“Where is the wire?” he shouted.

Paul followed him in the sleigh.  Together they peered up into the darkness and the falling snow.  The posts were there, but the wire was gone.  A whole length of it had been removed.  They were cut off from civilization by one hundred and forty miles of untrodden snow.

Steinmetz clambered back into the sleigh and drew up the fur apron.  He gave a strange little laugh that had a ring of boyish excitement in it.  This man had not always been stout and placid.  He too had had his day, and those who knew him said that it had been a stirring one.

“That settles one question,” he said.

“Which question?” asked Paul.

He was driving as hard as the horses could lay hoof to ground, taken with a sudden misgiving and a great desire to reach Osterno before dark.

“The question of the ladies,” replied Steinmetz.  “It is too late for them to go now.”

The village, nestling beneath the grim protection of Osterno, was deserted and forlorn.  All the doors were closed, the meagre curtains drawn.  It was very cold.  There was a sense of relief in this great frost; for when Nature puts forth her strength men are usually cowed thereby.

At the castle all seemed to be in order.  The groom, in his great sheepskin coat, was waiting in the doorway.  The servants threw open the vast doors, and stood respectfully in the warm, brilliantly lighted hall while their master passed in.

“Where is the princess?” Steinmetz asked his valet, while he was removing the evidences of a long day in the open air.

“In her drawing-room, Excellency.”

“Then go and ask her if she will give me a cup of tea in a few minutes.”