He had been, it was said, more than usually devoted to his profession, even to the point of sacrificing friendships which, from a social and possibly from an ambitious point of view, could not have failed to be useful to him.  Martin Bukaty was not the first man whom he had kept at arm’s-length.  But in this instance the treatment had not been markedly successful, and Cartoner was wondering now why the prince had been so difficult to offend.  He had refused the friendship, and the effect had only been to bring the friend closer.  Cartoner sat at the open window until the sun rose and the fields were dotted here and there with the figures of the red-clad peasant women working at the crops.  At seven o’clock he was still sitting there, and soon after Prince Martin Bukaty, after knocking, drew back the sliding door and came into the compartment, closing the door behind him.

“I have been thinking about it,” he said, in his quick way, “and it won’t do, you know—­it won’t do.  You cannot appear in Warsaw as our friend.  It would never do for us to show special attention to you.  Anywhere else in the world, you understand, I am your friend, but not in Warsaw.”

“Yes,” said Cartoner, “I understand.”

He rose as he spoke, for Prince Martin was holding out his hand.

“Good-bye,” he said, in his quiet way, and they shook hands as the train glided into Warsaw Station.

In the doorway Martin turned and looked back over his shoulder.

“All the same, I don’t understand why Wanda did not mention your name to me.  She might have foreseen that we should meet.  She is quick enough, as a rule, and has already saved my father and me half a dozen times.”

He waited for an answer, and at length Cartoner spoke.

“She did not know that I was coming,” he said.

VIII

IN A REMOTE CITY

The Vistula is the backbone of Poland, and, from its source in the Carpathians to its mouth at Dantzic, runs the whole length of that which for three hundred years was the leading power of eastern Europe.  At Cracow—­the tomb of many kings—­it passes half round the citadel, a shallow, sluggish river; and from the ancient capital of Poland to the present capital—­Warsaw—­it finds its way across the great plain, amid the cultivated fields, through the quiet villages of Galicia and Masovia.

Warsaw is built upon two sides of the river, the ancient town looking from a height across the broad stream to the suburb of Praga.  In Praga—­a hundred years ago—­the Russians, under Suvaroff, slew thirteen thousand Poles; in the river between Praga and the citadel two thousand were drowned.  Less than forty years ago a crowd of Poles assembled in the square in front of the castle to protest against the tyranny of their conquerors.  They were unarmed, and when the Russian soldiery fired upon them they stood and cheered, and refused to disperse.  Again, in cold blood, the troops fired, and the Warsaw massacre continued for three hours in the streets.