Martin turned, and explained in Polish that the gentleman had come for a hammer and some nails—­that his horse had nearly lost a shoe.  Cartoner had simply forced him to become his ally, and had even indicated the line of conduct he was to pursue.

“Get a hammer—­one of you,” said Kosmaroff, over his shoulder, and Martin bit his lip with a sudden desire to speak—­to say more than was discreet.  He took his cue in some way from Cartoner, without knowing that wise men cease persuading the moment they have gained consent.  Never comment on your own victory.

Never had Cartoner’s silent habit stood him in such good stead as during the following moments, while a skilled workman replaced the lost shoe.  Never had he observed so skilled a silence, or left unsaid such dangerous words.  For Kosmaroff watched him as a cat may watch a bird.  Behind, were the barred gates, and in front, the semicircle of men, whose faces he could not see, while the full light glared through the open doorway upon his own countenance.  Two miles from Warsaw—­a dark autumn night, and eleven men to one.  He counted them, in a mechanical way, as persons in face of death nearly always do count, with a cold deliberation, their chances of life.  He played his miserable little cards with all the skill he possessed, and his knowledge of the racial characteristics of humanity served him.  For he acted slowly, and gave his enemies leisure to see that it would be a mistake to kill him.  They would see it in time; for they were not Frenchmen, nor of any other Celtic race, who would have killed him first and recognized their mistake afterwards.  They were Slavs—­of the most calculating race the world had produced—­a little slow in their calculations.  So he gave them time, just as Russia must have time; but she will reach the summit eventually, when her farsighted policy is fully evolved—­long, long after reader and writer are dust.

Cartoner gave the workman half a rouble, which was accepted with a muttered word of thanks, and then he turned towards the great doors, which were barred.  There was another pause, while the gate-keeper looked inquiringly at Kosmaroff.

“I am very much obliged to you,” said Cartoner to Martin, who went towards the gate as if to draw back the bolt.  But at a signal from Kosmaroff the gate-keeper sprang forward and opened the heavy doors.

Martin was nearest, and instinctively held the stirrup, while Cartoner climbed into the saddle.

“Saved your life!” he said, in a whisper.

“I know,” answered Cartoner, turning in his saddle to lift his hat to the men grouped behind him.  He looked over their heads into the open doorway, but could see nothing.  Nevertheless, he knew where were concealed the arms brought out into the North Sea by Captain Cable in the Minnie.

“More than I bargained for,” he muttered to himself, as he rode away from the iron-foundry by the river.  He put his horse to a trot and presently to a canter along the deserted, dusty road.  The animal was astonishingly fresh and went off at a good pace, so that the man sent by Kosmaroff to follow him was soon breathless and forced to give up the chase.