He picked up the head and threw it out on the track. Then he told Sylvia and Michael to prepare for their escape, and left them. "What do you think of my esthetic Bulgarian?" she asked. "It's extraordinary how certain personalities have the power to twist one's standards," Michael answered, emphatically. "A few minutes ago I was sick with horror--the whole world seemed to be tumbling to pieces before human bestiality--and now, before the blood is dry on the railway sleepers, I've accepted it as a fact, and--Sylvia--do you know what I was thinking the last minute or two? I'm in a way appalled by my own callousness in being able to smile--but I really was thinking with amusement what a pity it was we couldn't hand over a few noisy stay-at-home Englishmen to the sensitive Rakoff." "Michael," Sylvia demanded, anxiously, "do you think you are strong enough to ride? I'm not sure how far we are from the Greek frontier, but it's sure to mean at least a week in the saddle. It seems madness for you to attempt it." "My dear, I'm not going to stay in this accursed train." "I've a letter of introduction for a clerk in Cavalla," Sylvia reminded him, with a smile. "Let's hope he invites us to lunch when we present it," Michael laughed. The tension of waiting for the escape required this kind of feeble joking; any break in the conversation gave them time to think of the corpses scattered about in the darkness, which with the slow death of the fire was reconquering its territory. They followed Rakoff's advice and heaped extra clothes upon themselves, filling the pockets with victuals. Sylvia borrowed a cap from Michael and tied the golden shawl round her head; Michael did the same with an old college scarf. Then he tore the Red Cross brassard from his sleeve: "I haven't the impudence to wear that during our pilgrimage with this gang of murderers. I've tucked away what paper money I have in my boots, and I've got twenty sovereigns sewn in my cholera belt." Two smiling _comitadjis_ appeared from the corridor and beckoned the prisoners to follow them to where, on the other side of the train, ponies were waiting; within five minutes, the wind blowing icy cold upon their cheeks, the smell of damp earth and saddles and vinous breath, the ragged starshine high overhead, the willing motion of the horses, all combined to obliterate everything except drowsy intimations of adventure. Rakoff was not visible in the cavalcade, but Sylvia supposed that he was somewhere in front. After riding for three hours a halt was called at a deserted farm-house, and in the big living-room he was there to receive his guests with pointed courtesy. "You are at home here," he observed, with a laugh. "This farm belonged to an Englishman before the war with Greece and Serbia. He was a great friend of Bulgaria; the Serbians knew it and left very little when their army passed through. We shall sleep here to-night. Are you hungry?"