It was still night when Anton stepped over the threshold of the tavern. A thick cloud hung over the plain. A red glare on the horizon marked the district through which the travelers had to pass. The mist of night covered, with a gray veil, a dark mass on the ground. Anton went nearer, and found that it consisted of men, women, and children, cowering on the earth, pale, hungry, and emaciated. "They are from the village on the other side of the boundary," explained an old watchman, who stood wrapped in his cavalry cloak. "Their village was on fire; they had run into the forest, and during the night they had come down to the river, stretching out their hands, and crying piteously for bread. As they were mostly women and children, our captain allowed them to cross, and has had a few loaves cut up for them. They are half famished. After them came larger bodies, all crying 'Bread! bread!' and wringing their hands. We fired off a few pistol-shots over their heads, and soon scattered them." "Ha!" said Anton, "this is a poor prospect for us and our journey. But what will become of these unfortunate creatures?" "They are only border rascals," said the watchman, soothingly. "Half the year they smuggle and swill, the other half they starve. They are freezing a little just now." "Could one not have a caldron full of soup made for them?" inquired Anton, compassionately, putting his hand into his pocket. "Why soup?" replied the other, coldly; "a drink of brandy would please the whole fry better. Over there they all drink brandy, even the child at the breast; if you are inclined to spend something upon them in that way, I'll give it out, not forgetting a loyal old soldier at the same time." "I will request the landlord to have something warm got ready for them, and you will have the goodness to see that it is all right." And again Anton's hand went into his pocket, and the watchman promised to keep his warlike heart open to compassion. An hour later the travelers were rolling along in an open britzska. The merchant drove; Anton sat behind him, and looked eagerly out into the surrounding landscape, where, through darkness and mist, a few detached objects were just beginning to appear. When they had driven about two hundred yards, they heard a Polish call. The merchant stopped, and a single man cautiously approached. "Come up, my good friend," said the merchant; "sit here by me." The stranger politely took off his cap, and swung himself up to the driving-box. He turned out to be the chief krakuse of the day before--the man with the drooping mustache. "Keep an eye on him," said the merchant in English to Anton; "he shall serve us as a safe-conduct, and be paid for it too; but if he touches me, lay hold of him from behind."