“Wonderful!” exclaimed Shamarin. “Truly wonderful! But it can be carried out—the chances are all in our favor. I am with you, Sandoff, body and soul. And what a glorious way to turn the tables on that traitorous Zamosc.” Vera tried to speak, but, woman-like, broke into tears, and silently clasped Sandoff’s hand. Judging from the length of time that had passed since sunset, it was now very close to midnight. By Sandoff’s directions the baggage was taken off the hand sled, and the latter was buried deep under the soft snow, in a hole made by cutting the crust with the axe. Then the fugitives struck off at a brisk pace through the forest. They turned aside before reaching the post station, and finally, when the settlement was beyond sight, they struck boldly out to the great Siberian road, and followed it to the eastward. No living or moving object was in sight. On the left lay the frozen Amur, and on the right the sloping foothills. Straight away before them stretched the white frozen road marked by a vanishing line of low telegraph poles. After walking on for two miles they came to just such a spot as Sandoff hoped to find. A rocky ridge jutted almost to the river, and the road made a sharp turn around it. The view was thus cut off in one direction, while in the other the road was open and straight for several miles. Just beyond the rocky spur a small stream, now ice bound, came down to the river and passed under a low wooden bridge. Beneath this the fugitives discovered a dry, snug spot among the rocks. Nothing could have better suited Sandoff’s plan. “Wrap yourselves up now and go to sleep,” he said to his companions. “I intend to go on guard at once. I am not weary, and I want time for thought and reflection. I will give you early warning when the decisive moment approaches.” Shamarin demurred a little, wishing to share his friend’s vigil, but soon acquiesced in the latter’s decision, and he and his sister disappeared under the bridge. Sandoff shouldered his rifle and paced rapidly up and down the strip of road that led from the bridge to the turning place at the point of rocks, from whence he could see without obstruction far back toward the post station. The silence was unbroken. Minutes passed into hours, and hours dragged by until Sandoff was convinced that it was past three o’clock in the morning. He had been standing for some time at the point of rocks, gazing earnestly to the westward, with a deadly fear creeping into his heart—a fear that something had occurred to spoil the plan on which he and his companions placed such high hopes. Suddenly a dim black speck appeared in the distance. It grew blacker and larger, and came rapidly nearer. It was a sledge beyond doubt, the sledge of Serge Zamosc. Now a tinkle of bells was heard, and a muffled clatter of hoofs.