“You are an officer?”

Without being able to collect himself the Russian stared into his face.

“Let us be candid with each other,” he rejoined, after long reflection.  “You are also a soldier, sir?”

“I need not deny it in reply to a comrade.  My name is Captain Hermann Heideck of the Prussian General Staff.”

The Russian rose and made a correct bow.  “And my name is Prince Fedor Andreievitch Tchajawadse, Captain in the Preobraschensky regiment of the Guards.”

They then once more touched glasses:  “To ourselves as good comrades” rang their mutual toast.

“Comrade, I will tell you something,” said the Russian.  “General Ivanov is on the march towards the Indian frontier.  The Tsar has given up his theosophy; he intends to declare war upon England.”

Heideck would have wished to learn more, but the Prince had addressed himself to the good liquor somewhat more than his head could stand, and he began to sing indecent French chansons, only to pass of a sudden to melancholy Russian popular songs.  In his present condition it was impossible to think of continuing a sensible conversation with him further.

Heideck already found himself somewhat perplexed what to do with his intoxicated guest, when a new surprise was sprung upon him.  The door to the next room opened and a tall, handsome young fellow, of at most eighteen years, appeared on the threshold.

He was garbed in a sort of fantastic page’s dress, which in any other country but that of rainbow-hued picturesque India would have looked like that of a masquerader.  The blue gold-embroidered jacket was girded with a red silk scarf, and the loose red trousers disappeared at the knees in patent leather topboots, the elegant shape of which showed the contour of the smallest of feet.  Thick golden locks fell like waves almost down to the shoulders of the boyish youth.  The handsome oval face had the complexion of a blushing rose; the great, blue eyes, however, showed the energy of a strong will.

As soon as the Prince had set eyes on the young visitor, he stopped singing.

“Ah!  Georgi?” he stammered.

Without uttering a syllable, the page had advanced towards him, and had quickly raised the intoxicated man from the chair.  Prince Tchajawadse flung his arm round the boy’s shoulders, and without bidding his German comrade as much as “good night,” allowed himself to be led away.

Heideck did not doubt for a moment that this slender page was a girl in disguise.  The splendid build and the strange expression of untamed energy in the admirably regular features were the unmistakable characteristics of the Circassian type.  This so-called Georgi could be none other but a child of the Caucasian Mountains; and Tchajawadse also, as his name showed, was a scion of those old Caucasian dynastic houses which in days of yore had played a role in that mountain land, which Russia had so slowly, and with such difficulty, finally subjugated.