rs, which is only right!"

The men sat in a row facing the slow river. They were toil-worn and
stained; their clothing was in rags. But beneath their sandy hair more
than one pair of eyes gleamed from time to time with a sudden anger,
with an intelligence made for higher things than spade and oar. 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. He was that
dangerous product, a Pole born in Siberia. He had served in a Cossack
regiment. The son of convict No. 2704, he was the mere offspring of a
number--a thing not worth accounting. In his regiment no one noticed him
much, and none cared when he disappeared from it. And now here he was
back in Poland, with a Russian name for daily use and another name
hidden in his heart that had blazed all over Poland once. Here he was, a
raftsman plying between Cracow and Warsaw, those two hot-beds of Polish
patriotism--a mere piece of human driftwood on the river. He had made
the usual grand tour of Russia's deadliest enemies. He had been to
Siberia and Paris and London. He might have lived abroad, as he said, in
the sunshine; but he preferred Poland and its gray skies, manual labor,
and the bread that tastes of dampness. For he believed that a kingdom
which stood in the forefront for eight centuries cannot die. There are
others who cherish the same belief.

"This time," he went on, after a pause, "I have news for you. We are a
little nearer. It is our object to be ready, and then to wait patiently
until some event in Europe gives us our opportunity. Last time they
acted at the wrong moment. This time we shall not do that, but we shall
nevertheless act with decision when the moment arrives. We are a step
nearer to readiness, and we owe it to Prince Martin Bukaty again. He is
never slow to put his head in the noose, and laughs with the rope around
his neck. And he has succeeded again, for he has the luck. We have five
thousand rifles in Poland--"

He paused and looked down the line of grimy faces, noting that some
lighted up and others drooped. The fat little man with the beady eyes
blinked as he stared resolutely across the river.

"In Warsaw!" he added, significantly. "So, if there