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.

Warsaw is a gay and cheerful town, with fine streets and good shops,
with a cold, gray climate, and a history as grim as that of any city in
the world save Paris. Like most cities, Warsaw has its principal street,
and, like all things Polish, this street has a terrible name--the
Krakowski Przedmiescie. It is in this Krakowski Faubourg that the Hotel
de l'Europe stands, where history in its time has played a part, where
kings and princes have slept, where the Jew Hermani was murdered,
where the bodies of the first five victims of the Russian soldiery were
carried after the massacre and there photographed, and, finally, where
the great light from the West--Miss Julie P. Mangles--alighted one May
morning, looking a little di