It really was Rakoff, decked out with barbaric trappings of silver and bristling with weapons, but his manners had not changed with his profession, and as soon as he recognized her he bowed politely and asked if he could be of any help. "Can't you stop this massacre?" she begged. "Keep quiet, Michael; it's no good talking about the Red Cross." "It was the fault of the Serbians," Rakoff explained. "They insulted my men. But what are you doing here?" The violence of the drunken soldiers and comitadjis had soon worn itself out, and most of them were back again round the fire, drinking and singing as if nothing had happened. Sylvia perceived that Rakoff was sincerely anxious to make himself agreeable, and, treading on Michael's foot (he was in a fume of threats), she explained their position. Rakoff looked up at the carriage from which he had just descended. "The officers in command are drunk and insensible," he murmured. "I'm under an obligation to you. Do you want to stay in Bulgaria? Have you given your parole?" he asked Michael. "Give my parole to murderers and torturers?" shouted Michael. "Certainly not, and I never will." "My cousin has only just recovered from typhus," Sylvia reminded Rakoff. "The slaughter has upset him." In her anxiety to take advantage of the meeting she had cast aside her own horror and forgotten her own inclination to be hysterical. "He must understand that in the Balkans we do not regard violence as you do in Europe. He should remember that the Serbians would do the same and worse to Bulgarians." Rakoff spoke in a tone of injured sensibility, which would have been comic to Sylvia without the smell of burned flesh upon the wind, and without the foul blood-stains upon her own skirt. "Quite so. _À la guerre comme à la guerre_," she agreed. "What will you do for us?" "I'm really anxious to return your kindness at Nish," Rakoff said, gravely. "If you come with me and my men, we shall be riding southward, and you could perhaps find an opportunity to get over the Greek frontier. The officer commanding this train deserves to be punished for getting drunk. I'm not drunk, though I captured a French outpost a week ago and have some reason to celebrate my success. It was I who cut the line at Vrania. _Alors, c'est entendu? Vous venez avec moi?_" "_Vous êtes trop gentìl, monsieur._" "_Rìen du tout. Plaisir! Plaisir!_ Go back to your carriage now, and I'll send two of my men presently to show you the way out. What's that? The door is locked on the outside? Come with me, then." They walked back along the train, and entered their compartment from the other side, on which the door had been broken in. "You can't bring much luggage. Wrap up well. _Il fait très-froid._ Is your cousin strong enough to ride?" At this point Rakoff stumbled over the severed head on the floor, and struck a match. "What babies my men are!" he exclaimed, with a smile.