Meanwhile Sandoff had bounded into the sledge, and was struggling over the straw, interlocked with Zamosc, who fought with the fury of a madman, believing that he had fallen into the hands of the Siberian assassins who frequently ply their calling along the post road. But he was no match for Sandoff—weakened as the latter was by privation—and soon he was helpless in the grasp of the convict. The horses were by this time quite subdued, and having no fear of a runaway Shamarin left them and ran back to help his companion. There was plenty of strong rope in the sledge, and Zamosc was soon tightly bound, hand and foot. Then his captors placed him in one corner, and proceeded to examine the interior of the sledge. It contained a small iron chest, two trunks, a hamper of provisions, two rifles with ammunition, and nine splendid fur robes. Sandoff opened one of the trunks. It held clothes—just what they wanted most. He and Shamarin quickly took off their prison garments, and substituted suits of dark material. The coats fitted fairly well, but the trousers were lamentably short—a defect which their high boots partially remedied. This exchange was made by the side of the road, out of Zamosc’s sight. Then Sandoff put on the huge fur cloak, which they had taken from Zamosc before binding him, and handed the Cossack coat and cap to his comrade, who found them a good fit. Shamarin took the discarded garments, wrapped them about a big stone, and dropped them into a black air hole in the Amur, a short distance from the bank. Up to this time Zamosc had been perfectly quiet, but now he gave voice to a loud cry. Sandoff entered the sledge and gagged him with a handkerchief, performing the operation with as little discomfort as possible to his prisoner, but with such skill that any outcry was out of the question. “I will have my interview with the fellow later,” he said to Shamarin. “As yet he does not recognize us. The first thing is to get away from this locality.” A short whistle brought Vera from her post. She was overjoyed at the success of Sandoff’s plan, and reported the road to the westward clear. Five minutes was spent in covering Zamosc up among the rugs in one end of the sledge, and Vera in the other. Then the hood was dropped over the rear end and buttoned down, and Sandoff mounted to the seat, drawing the collar of his fur coat high about his ears, and thrusting his hand into the inner pocket to make sure that Zamosc’s little packet of valuable documents was safe. Shamarin mounted beside him, looking every inch a Cossack with his green uniform, his rifle, and his black, matted beard. “Remember,” said Sandoff warningly, as he gathered the lines together and flicked the spirited horses with the whip, “remember that from this time on I am Inspector Zamosc!” Then the sledge bounded forward, rumbled across the bridge, and sped over the frozen road, toward the Pacific, Vladivostok—and freedom. CHAPTER VIII. COLONEL NORD OF RIGA.