He read once more the last words of Zebulon's postscript; they showed no little shrewdness on the writer's part. What if he could really secure aid for his country abroad? The temptation was too great. He took up the passport again and glanced at the signatures on its back. Among them was Rideghváry's. No, that man should never enjoy the triumph of hissing in his ear: "This is the last step to that height!" He burned Zebulon's letter, as well as the two he had just written to his wife and his mother, and, summoning his servant, bade him hasten to Nemesdomb and inform his mother of his flight to a foreign country; she should hear further particulars from him later. Then he completed his preparations for a hasty departure, wrote in the name "Algernon Smith" on the passport, put the paper in his pocket, called a carriage, and set out on his flight. The enemy's first outpost was successfully passed. The commanding officer examined his passport, found it correct, and affixed his signature. Ödön was free to go on. His second station was Gyapju, whence he wished to continue directly to Várad, and thence by way of Szigeth into Galicia. At Gyapju he was conducted to the commandant's quarters. Entering with an unconcerned air, he inquired to whom he should show his papers. There were several officers in the room, one of whom asked him to wait a few minutes until the commandant came in. Meanwhile an adjutant made the necessary examination of his passport and found it apparently all right; the one thing now required was the signature of the commanding officer. The entrance of the latter caused Ödön a violent start. The man before him was--Leonin Ramiroff, grown to manly proportions and wearing the stern, soldierly look of one entrusted with military responsibility. The adjutant called his attention to the paper awaiting his signature, assuring him that it was all in order. Leonin took up a pen, wrote his name, and then turned to hand the passport to Ödön. The latter felt his heart stop beating as he met that sharp, penetrating gaze. "You are not Mr. Algernon Smith," exclaimed the Russian officer in English, drawing himself up to his full height; "you are Ödön Baradlay." Ödön's heart sank within him. "And are you going to betray me?" he asked, likewise in English. "You are my prisoner." "This from you, Leonin Ramiroff, my bosom friend of old, my faithful comrade on a long winter journey when we were chased by wolves; you, the man who plunged into the icy river to save me at the risk of your own life?" "I was merely a young lieutenant in the guard then," replied Leonin coldly. "And now will you hand me over to my bitterest foes, to the derisive laughter of the conqueror, to a miserable death on the scaffold?" "I am now a colonel of lancers," was the other's only reply; and with that he tore the passport in two and threw it under the table. "Take the prisoner away and put him under guard."