Many a strange meeting took place in that wretched hospital. In spite of the vigilance of the officials, it became a regular bureau of information concerning the happenings in the outside world. The news, indeed, that trickled through was many months old, but it was of a very definite character, and concerned matters of very special interest which the rigid censorship would never have admitted in any other way. For the letters to the Free Command were subject to severest scrutiny and most abominable mutilation, and reached them occasionally, when they reached them at all, in fragments which taxed their ingenuity sorely at times to make head or tail of. Among the abjects subjected to Pavlof's scrutiny that day was one whom he recognised, in spite of travel-wear and tangle, and a quick glance of surprise passed between them. Mikhail Barenin had been one of the circle in Odessa to which Hope Arskaïa and himself, and later Serge Palma, had belonged. Paul promptly consigned him to hospital as a suspicious case, and presently visited him there. "So you have come to join us, Mikhail Mikhailovitch?" he whispered, as he laid a professional hand on his patient's wrist. "And you, Paul Ivanuitch? How come you on the side of the oppressors?" "Force of circumstances. The doctor died of typhus. They were scared out of their lives, so they let me take his place till a new one comes. It enables me to serve my friends at times. But listen, Mikhail Mikhailovitch, and do not forget! I changed names on the road with Serge Palma, and here I am known by his name." "I will remember. You may wear it without fear of disturbance." "How? You have news? Tell me quick," and his heart was in his throat at thought of what this might possibly mean for him--and to Hope. "Serge Petrovitch--Palma--is dead. He was shot in an attempt to escape." Pavlof's face burned red as his released heart sent the hot blood whirling on its way. He ground his teeth to keep his face from twisting. He closed his eyes for a moment lest the light in them should blaze his secret abroad. "You are sure of this, Mikhail Mikhailovitch?" he asked, when his thumping heart gave him leave to speak. "Quite sure of the report. I was not there to see. But it was accepted as true before I left." "We will speak of it again"--as the Cossack sentry sauntered towards them. "I can keep you here for some days. The rest will do you good. Remember, I am Serge Palma." The other nodded and closed his eyes wearily. The comforts of a prison hospital were slight, but it was heaven compared with the pestiferous étapes and crowded kameras and the drudgery of the mines. Paul Pavlof had enough to occupy his mind that day, and as he lay on his mattress before the stove at night his thoughts tossed him to and fro and gave him little rest.