The idea of walking all through the summer night, as Ernst had advised him to do, did not seem bad to him at all.  As a scout at home, he had taken part in many a hike, and if few of them had been at night, he was still thoroughly accustomed to being out-of-doors, without even the shelter of a tent or a lean-to.  Nor was he afraid of losing his way, for as long as the stars shone above, as they did brilliantly now, he had a sure guide.

Fred wasn’t tired, for he had enraged Suvaroff, who had seemingly wanted him to be frightened, by sleeping during the journey to Virballen whenever he could.  It had been comfortable enough on the train; he had not been treated as a prisoner, but as a guest.  And he had, as a matter of fact, been aroused only an hour before the train had reached the frontier.

So he had been able to start out boldly and confidently.  In the country through which he was now tramping the nights are cool in summer, but the days are very hot.  So Fred had made up his mind, as soon as he understood that he had a good deal of walking before him, to do as much of his traveling as was possible by night, and to sleep during the day.  In East Prussia, as in some parts of Canada, the summer is short and hot; the winter long and cold.

There was nothing about the silent countryside, as he tramped along an excellent road, to make him think of war.  The fields about him seemed to be planted less with grain; they were very largely used for pasture, and he saw a good many horses.  He remembered now that this was the great horse breeding district of Germany.  Here there were great estates with many acres of rolling land on which great numbers of horses were bred.  It was here, he knew, that the German army, needing great numbers of horses every year, found its mounts.

“They’ll need more than ever now,” he thought to himself.  “If there’s really to be war, I suppose they’ll take every horse that’s able to work at all, whether it’s a good looking beast or not.  Poor horses!  They don’t have much chance, I guess.”

He thought of the Cossacks he had seen in Russia, wiry, small men, in the main, mounted on shaggy, strong, little horses, no bigger in reality than ponies.  He had heard of the prowess of the Cossacks, of course.  They had fought well in the past in a good many wars.  But somehow it seemed rather absurd to match them, with their undersized horses, against magnificent specimens of men and horseflesh such as the German cavalry.  He had passed a squadron of Uhlans, near Virballen, outlined against the sky.  They had been grim and business-like in appearance.  But then the Cossacks were that, too, though in an entirely different way.

“I wish I had someone along!” he thought, at last.