is ears in a long,
low roar, like the breaking of surf upon shingle far away.

Cartoner led his horse to the high double door that gave access to the
iron-foundry. He turned the horse very exactly and carefully, so that
the animal's shoulder pressed against that half of the door which opened
first. Then he rang the bell, of which the chain swung gently in the
wind. It gave a solitary clang inside the deserted works. After a few
moments there was the sound of rusted bolts being slowly withdrawn, and
at the right moment Cartoner touched the horse with his whip, so that it
started forward against the door and thrust it open, despite the efforts
of the gate-keeper, who staggered back into the dimly lighted yard.

Cartoner looked quickly round him. All was darkness except an open
doorway, from which a shaft of light poured out, dimly illuminating
cranes and carts and piles of iron girders. The gate-keeper was
hurriedly bolting the gate. Cartoner led his horse towards the open
door, but before he reached it a number of men ran out and fell on
him like hounds upon a fox. He leaped back, abandoning his horse, and
striking the first-comer full in the chest with his fist. He charged
the next and knocked him over; but from the third he retreated, leaping
quickly to one side.

"Bukaty!" he cried; "don't you know me?"

"You, Cartoner!" replied Martin. He spread out his arms, and the men
behind him ran against them. He turned and said something to them in
Polish, which Cartoner did not catch. "You here!" he said. And there was
a ring in the gay, rather light voice, which the Englishman had never
heard there before. But he had heard it in other voices, and knew the
meaning of it. For his work had brought him into contact with refined
men in moments when their refinement only serves to harden that grimmer
side of human nature of which half humanity is in happy ignorance, which
deals in battle and sudden death.

"It is too risky," said some one, almost in Martin's ear, in Polish, but
Cartoner heard it. "We must kill him and be done with it."

There was an odd silence for a moment, only broken by the stealthy
feet of the gate-keeper coming forward to join the group. Then Cartoner
spoke, quietly and collectedly. His nerve was so steady that he had
taken time to reflect as to which tongue to make use of. For all had
disadvantages, but silence meant death.

"This near fore-shoe," he said in French, turning to his horse, "is
nearly o