At the cross-ways, where the shorter runs at right angles into the larger Wilanow road, Kosmaroff found a man waiting for him, on horseback, under the shadow of the trees, which are larger here.  The horseman was riding slowly towards him from the town, and led a spare horse.  He was in a rough peasant’s overcoat of a dirty white cloth, drawn in at the waist, and split from heel to band, for use in the saddle.  They wear such coats still in Poland and Galicia.

Kosmaroff gave a little cough.  There is nothing so unmistakable as a man’s trick of coughing.  The horseman pulled up at once.

“You are punctual,” he said.  “I was nearly asleep in the saddle.”

And the voice was that of Prince Martin Bukaty.  He had another coat such as he was wearing thrown across the saddle in front of him, and he leaned forward to hand it down to Kosmaroff.

“You are not cold?” he asked.

“No; I feel as if I should never be cold again.”

“That is good.  Put on your coat quickly.  You must not catch a chill.  You must take care of yourself.”

“So must you,” answered Kosmaroff, with a little laugh.

Though one was dark and the other fair, there was a subtle resemblance between these two men which lay, perhaps, more in gesture and limb than in face.  There also existed between them a certain sympathy which the French call camaraderie, which was not the outcome of a long friendship.  Far back in the days of Poland’s greatness they must have had a common ancestor.  In the age of chivalry some dark, spare knight, with royal blood in his veins, had perhaps fallen in love with one of the fair Bukatys, whose women had always been beautiful, and their men always reckless.

Kosmaroff climbed into the saddle, and they stood side by side, waiting for the carts to come up.  Martin’s horse began to whinny at the sound of approaching hoofs, when its rider leaned forward in the saddle and struck it fiercely on the side of its great Roman nose, which sounded hollow, like a drum.

“I suppose you had little sleep last night,” said Kosmaroff when Martin yawned, with his face turned up to the sky.

“I had none.”

“Nor I,” said Kosmaroff.  “We may get some—­to-morrow.”

The carts now came up.  Each team had two drivers, one walking on either side.

“You know what to do,” said Martin to these in turn.  “Come to the iron-foundry, where you will find us waiting for you.  When you are laden you are to go straight back as quickly as you can by this same road to the military earthworks, where you will find our friends drawn up in line.  You are to turn to the left, down the road running towards the river on this side of the fortifications, and pass slowly down the line, dropping your load as directed by those who will meet you there.  If you are stopped on the road by the police or a patrol, who insist on asking what you have in your carts, you must be civil to them, and show them; and while they are looking into your carts you must kill them quietly with the knife.”