hither; while I believe I am known in most of
the chief garages in the capitals.

Yes, mine was a strange life, full of romance, of constant change, of
excitement--sometimes of peril.

The latter was quickly apparent when last winter, after two days of hard
travelling over those endless frozen roads and through the dark forests
of Eastern Poland, I pulled up before a small inn on the outskirts of
the dismal-looking town of Ostrog. The place, with its roofs covered
with freshly fallen snow, lay upon the slight slope of a low hill,
beneath which wound the Wilija Goryn, now frozen so hard that the bridge
was hardly ever used. It was January, and that month in Poland is always
a cold one.

I had come up from Budapest to Tarnopol, crossed the frontier at the
little village of Kolodno, and thence driven the "forty" along the
valleys into Volynien, a long, weary, dispiriting run, on and on, until
the monotony of the scenery maddened me. Cramped and cold I was,
notwithstanding the big Russian fur shuba I wore, the fur cap with
flaps, fur gloves, and fur rug. The country inns in which I had spent
the past two nights had been filthy places, where the stoves had been
surrounded by evil-smelling peasantry, where the food was uneatable, and
where a wooden bench had served me as a bed.

I was on my way to meet Bindo, who was to be the guest of a Russian
countess in Ostrog. Whenever I mentioned my destination, the post-house
keepers held up their hands. The Red Rooster was crowing in Ostrog, they
said significantly.

It was true. Russia was under the Terror, and in no place in the whole
empire were the revolutionists so determined as in the town whither I
was bound.

As I stood up and descended unsteadily from the car my eyes fell upon
something upon the snow near the door of the inn. There was blood. It
told its own tale.

From the white town across the frozen river I heard revolver shots,
followed by a loud explosion that shook the whole place.

Inside the long, low common room of the inn, with its high brick stove,
against which half a dozen frightened-looking men and women were
huddled, I asked for the proprietor, whereupon an elderly man with
shaggy hair and beard came forth, pulling his forelock.

"I want to stay here," I said.

"Yes, your Excellency," was the old fellow's reply in Polish, regarding
the car in surprise. "Whatever accommodation my poor inn can afford is
at your service;" and he at once shouted orders