"Oh," the landlord said. "You are Poles. I thought you did not look quite like our men; but you speak Russian well for Poles. There is a regiment of your countrymen in the town now, and some of them come in sometimes for a glass of brandy. They like it better than vodka; curious, isn't it? Your true Russian thinks that there's nothing better than vodka." Rather disturbed at the intelligence that there was a Polish regiment in the town, the boys hastened through their meal, and determined to lay in a stock of bread and meat sufficient for some days' consumption, and to leave Odessa at once. Just as they had finished, however, the door opened, and a sergeant and two soldiers entered. "Ah, my friend," the landlord said to the former. "I am glad to see you. Are you come as usual for a glass of brandy? Real French stuff it is, I promise you, though for my part I like vodka. Here are two of your compatriots wounded; they have furlough to return home. Lucky fellows, say I. There are thousands at Sebastopol would be glad to change places with them, even at the cost of their wounds." The sergeant strode to the table at which the lads were sitting, and, drawing a chair up, held out his hands to them. "Good-day, comrades," he said in Polish. "So are you on your way home? Lucky fellows! I would give my stripes to be in your place, if only for a fortnight." Dick for a moment was stupefied, but Jack recalled to mind three sentences which the countess had taught him and which might, she said, prove of use to them, did they happen to come across any insurgent bands in Poland; for vague reports were current, in spite of the efforts of the authorities to repress them, that the Poles were seizing the opportunity of their oppressors being engaged in war, again to take up arms. The sentences were pass-words of a secret association of which the countess's father had been a member, and which were widely whispered among patriotic Poles. "The dawn will soon be at hand. We must get up in the morning. Poland will yet be free." The sergeant stared at them in astonishment, and answering in a low tone in some words which were, the boys guessed, the countersign to the pass, sat down by them. "But you are not Poles?" he said in a low voice in Russian. "Your language is strange. I could scarce understand you." "No," Jack said, in similar tones, "we are not Poles, nor Russians. We are English, and England has always been the friend of Poland." "That is so," the sergeant said heartily. "Landlord," he said, raising his voice, "a glass of vodka for each of my friends. I fear that my money will not run to brandy. And now," he said, when the landlord had returned to his place, "what are you doing here? Can I help you in any way?" "We are English officers who have escaped, and are making our way to Poland. We expect to find friends there. Do you know the intendant of the Countess Preskoff at--?"