“We are getting near,” he said, in little more than a whisper.  “What is the time?”

It was nearly eleven o’clock.  If they got past the frontier they would sweep through Thorn before mid-night.  The river narrows here, and goes at a great pace.  It is still of a vast width—­one of the largest rivers in Europe.

The mist was very thick here.

“Listen!” whispered Kosmaroff, suddenly.  And they heard the low, regular thud of oars.  It was the patrol-boat.

Almost immediately a voice, startlingly near, called upon them to halt.  They crouched low in the boat.  In a mist it is very difficult to locate sound.  They looked round in all directions.  The voice seemed to have come from above.  It was raised again, and seemed to be behind them this time.

“Stop, or we fire!” it said, in Russian.  Then followed a sharp whistle, which was answered by two or three others.  There were at least three boats close at hand, seeking to locate each other before they fired.

Immediately afterwards the firing began, and was taken up by the more distant boats.  A bullet splashed in the water close behind Kosmaroff’s oar, with a sharp spit like that of an angry cat.  Martin gave a suppressed laugh.  Kosmaroff only smiled.

Then two bullets struck the boat simultaneously, one on the stern-post, fired from behind, the other full on the side amidships, where Martin lay concealed.

Neither of the two men moved or made a sound.  Kosmaroff leaned forward and peered into the fog.  The patrol-boats were behind now, and the officers were calling to each other.

“What was it—­a boat or a floating tree?” they heard them ask each other.

Kosmaroff was staring ahead, but he saw Martin make a quick movement in the bottom of the boat.

“What is it?” he whispered.

“A bullet,” answered Martin.  “It came through the side of the boat, low down.  It struck me in the back—­the spine.  I cannot move my legs.  But I have stopped the water from coming in.  I have my finger in the hole the bullet made below the water-line.  I can hold on till we have passed through Thorn.”

He spoke in his natural voice, quite cheerfully.  They were not out of danger yet.  Kosmaroff could not quit the steering-oar.  He glanced at Martin, and then looked ahead again uneasily.

Martin was the first to speak.  He raised himself on his elbow, and with a jerk of the wrist threw something towards Kosmaroff.  It was an envelope, closed and doubled over.

“Put that in your pocket,” he said.  And Kosmaroff obeyed.

“You know Miss Cahere, who was at the Europe?” asked Martin, suddenly, after a pause.

Kosmaroff smiled the queer smile that twisted his face all to one side.

“Yes, I know her.”

“Give her that, or get it to her,” said Martin.

“But—­”

“Yes,” said Martin, answering the unasked question, “I am badly hit, unless you can do something for me after we are past Thorn.”