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Updated: June 8, 2025
The sand-workers were still laboring, though navigation was, of course, at a stand-still. Netty never saw Kosmaroff, however, who had gone as suddenly as he came had gone out of her life as abruptly as he burst into it, leaving only the memory of that high-water mark of emotion to which he had raised her. Leaving also that blankest of all blanks in the feminine heart, an unsatisfied curiosity.
Martin did so, avoiding the body of the sentry, which lay stretched across the foot-path. The wall was eighteen feet high. "Stand in your stirrups," said Kosmaroff, "and hold one arm up rigid against the wall." He was already standing on the broad back of the charger, steadying himself by a firm grip of Martin's collar.
Mangles, perceiving the situation, was coming forward with his hand in his pocket, when Kosmaroff took off his cap and hurried away. "No," said Netty, laying her hand on Mr. Mangle's arm, "do not give him anything. He was rather a superior man, and spoke a little English."
So, before telling his news, Kosmaroff sat down and ate, while Wanda waited on him, and Prince Bukaty poured out wine for this rough man in the homespun clothing and heavy boots of the Vistula raftsman, who yet had the manner of a gentleman and that quiet air of self-possession in all societies which is not to be learned in schools nor yet acquired at any academy.
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."
But the cheap clothing could not hide that ease of movement which bespeaks a long descent, or conceal the slim strength of limb which is begotten of the fine, clean, hard bone of a fighting race. The captain looked round, and sought his pocket-handkerchief, with which to dust the proffered seat, mindful of his "suit." "Do you speak German, captain?" inquired Kosmaroff.
"You might tell these men," he said, in French, "of my mishap; perhaps one of them can put it right, and I can get along home. I am desperately hungry. The journey had been so slow from Wilanow." He had already perceived that Kosmaroff understood both English and French, and that it was of him that Martin was afraid. He spoke slowly, so as to give Martin time to pull himself together.
As they sat there they were like the notes of a piano, and Kosmaroff played the instrument with a sure touch that brought the fullest vibration out of each chord. He was a born leader; an organizer not untouched perchance by that light of genius which enables some to organize the souls of men. Nor was he only a man of words, as so many patriots are.
"Another opportunity would be a social upheaval," said the Russian, drumming on the table with his slim fingers. "The time has not come for that yet. A third alternative is a mishap to a crowned head and that we can offer to you." Kosmaroff moved impatiently. "Is that all?" he exclaimed. "I have heard that talk for the last ten years. Have you brought me across Europe to talk of that?"
Kosmaroff had walked some distance behind Prince Martin in the streets. Martin unlocked the gate of the garden and passed in, leaving the gate open with the key in the lock. In a minute Kosmaroff followed, locked the gate after him, and gave the key back to its owner on the steps of the garden door of the house, where Martin was awaiting him, latch-key in hand.
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