The hollow in which they were working was square in shape, bounded on one side by the river, and on the other three sides by a bluff about fifteen feet high, the top of which was covered with dense, scrubby bushes. Being a little way down stream this hollow was beyond the scrutiny of the Cossacks or of the labor gang, and the two toilers were in range of only one pair of eyes, the property of the solitary Cossack. This individual was disposed to regard his position as somewhat of a sinecure. He had no fear that his captives would run away, for they were securely chained to their wheelbarrows. Nor did he imagine that they would quarrel, for with his own eyes he had seen the reconciliation between them. His duty was to keep them at work, and as this did not require his presence on the exact spot he varied the monotony of his employment by marching up and down that portion of the river shore which commanded a view of the hollow, and by gazing fiercely at Sandoff or Shamarin when they approached with a load of clods. The snow was now an inch thick on the ground, and as the afternoon waned it came down still more persistently, blowing to and fro in blinding flurries. The men could have conversed with safety, since the Cossack was beyond earshot, but neither felt in the mood for speech. The cold was so intense that their only refuge from it was in hard and incessant work. They had just returned from wheeling a load of clods to the river, and as they drove their picks into the hole they had excavated a ringing sound came to their ears. Glancing around, they saw the Cossack place his rifle against a rock and bend down toward the water, tin cup in hand, with the evident intention of procuring a drink. That instant a stone, thrown from above, struck Shamarin smartly on the arm. His sudden exclamation startled Sandoff, and both glanced up to see a face peering dimly over the edge of the bluff between the parted bushes. “Be cautious,” whispered a feminine voice of singular sweetness. “Keep your heads down and pretend to be working, but don’t lose a word I say.” Shamarin staggered and nearly dropped his pick. “My God!” he muttered hoarsely, “it is Vera—my sister!” “Yes, it is I, Vera,” came the reply from above. “Is your companion to be trusted? Quick!” Shamarin instantly regained his self possession. “Yes, he is all right,” he replied. “Go on. I am listening.” The Cossack was still bending over the water. It took him a long time to find a suitable drinking place. “Here, take this,” said the girl. She threw down a short thin package, which Shamarin deftly caught and hid in his bosom.