Thors lay groaning under the scourge, and the Countess Lanovitch shut herself within her stone walls, shivering with fear, begging her daughter to return to Petersburg.

It was nearly dark when Karl Steinmetz and the Moscow doctor rode into the little village, to find the starosta, a simple Russian farmer, awaiting them outside the kabak.

Steinmetz knew the man, and immediately took command of the situation with that unquestioned sense of authority which in Russia places the barin on much the same footing as that taken by the Anglo-Indian in our eastern empire.

“Now, starosta,” he said, “we have only an hour to spend in Thors.  This is the Moscow doctor.  If you listen to what he tells you, you will soon have no sickness in the village.  The worst houses first—­and quickly.  You need not be afraid, but if you do not care to come in, you may stay outside.”

As they walked down the straggling village-street the Moscow doctor told the starosta in no measured terms, as was his wont, wherein lay the heart of the sickness.  Here, as in Osterno, dirt and neglect were at the base of all the trouble.  Here, as in the larger village, the houses were more like the abode of four-footed beasts than the dwellings of human beings.

The starosta prudently remained outside the first house to which he introduced the visitors.  Paul went fearlessly in, while Steinmetz stood in the door-way, holding open the door.

As he was standing there he perceived a flickering light approaching him.  The light was evidently that of an ordinary hand-lantern, and from the swinging motion it was easy to divine that it was being carried by some one who was walking quickly.

“Who is this?” asked Steinmetz.

“It is likely to be the Countess Catrina, Excellency.”

Steinmetz glanced back into the cottage, which was dark save for the light of a single petroleum lamp.  Paul’s huge form could be dimly distinguished bending over a heap of humanity and foul clothing in a corner.

“Does she visit the cottages?” asked Steinmetz sharply.

“She does, God be with her!  She has no fear.  She is an angel.  Without her we should all be dead.”

“She won’t visit this, if I can help it,” muttered Steinmetz.

The light flickered along the road toward them.  In the course of a few minutes it fell on the stricken cottage, on the starosta standing in the road, on Steinmetz in the door-way.

“Herr Steinmetz, is that you?” asked a voice, deep and musical, in the darkness.

“Zum Befehl,” answered Steinmetz, without moving.

Catrina came up to him.  She was clad in a long dark cloak, a dark hat, and wore no gloves.  She brought with her a clean aromatic odor of disinfectants.  She carried the lantern herself, while behind her walked a man-servant in livery, with a large basket in either hand.

“It is good of you,” she said, “to come to us in our need—­also to persuade the good doctor to come with you.”