ping form of the girl, with
a tender, protecting gesture. His eyes were alert. He had forgotten
himself; he had forgotten his violin; he had forgotten his art. He was
facing the sunlight grim and determined.

CHAPTER VII

The office of the Polkovnik was small and narrow, low, with ceiling and
walls hewn out of the rock. At one end was a window barred, looking
out upon a court; at the opposite end the door. On either side of the
door stood a soldier in Cossack uniform, huge fellows, sabred, with
their helmets belted under their chins, and their fierce, black eyes
staring straight ahead, scarcely blinking.

In the centre of the room was a table, and before the table an officer
seated, also in uniform, but his head was bare and his helmet lay on
the litter of papers at his elbow. He had a long, ugly face with a
swarthy complexion, and eyes that were sharp and cold like steel,
piercing as the point of a rapier and cruel. He was tossing the litter
of papers impatiently, examining one after another at intervals, then
pushing them back. He was evidently waiting, and as he waited he swore
to himself under his breath, glancing from time to time at the
Cossacks; but they stood stiff and immovable like marble, looking
neither to right nor to left. Presently the officer leaned forward and
touched a bell on the table.

"There is no use waiting any longer," he said curtly, "Bring them in."

The hammer of the bell was still tinkling when the door swung back
suddenly on its hinges and two people, a man and a woman, were half
led, half dragged into the room; the Cossacks prodding them on with the
blunt edge of their sabres.

"Brr--" said the officer sharply.

In a flash the Cossacks had leaped to their niches, their forms rigid
and motionless, only the tassels on their helmets quivering slightly to
show that they had stirred. The man and the woman were left beside the
table.

"Your names?" demanded the officer, "The woman first."

The girl drew herself up wearily; her face was wan in the morning
light, and her hair fell about her shoulders, dishevelled, a bright
golden mass, curling about her forehead and ears in little rings and
spirals like the tendrils of a vine. Her eyes were proud and she
looked the officer full in the face, her hands clenched. Her voice
rang full and scornful.

"My name is the Countess Kaya and I am the daughter of General
Mezkarpin. What have you to say to me?"

"We have a good d