“Oh, but he would get to know me in time. My voice, my looks, my way of speaking. If he has ever seen me at all, he will know me. He may have my description—do not be trapped by him. The wolf knows the color of the hare he pursues.” “I told him how you looked——” “What!” cried Michael. “You told him how I looked and you expect him not to know me?” “How you looked twenty years ago, my father. And he did not know the difference.” “That was to blind your eyes to his purpose,” said Michael. “And I shall blind his,” said Katerin, with sudden resolution. “Wassili! Fetch me the cover of the pillow from the bed! And a knife—with a sharp edge!” Wassili, with a puzzled look upon his face, turned away to obey her. “And what is all this?” demanded Michael. “Am I to be wrapped like a mummy and put into a bundle? Am I to be carried about with a rope to my middle like a handle?” “I shall make sure that the stranger does not recognize you—leave it to me, and we shall outwit this stranger and come to safety.” “Then you had better take good pains with it,” said Michael, “for if he gives the glimmer of an eye that he so much as thinks I look like myself, I shall kill him!” “If that must be done, then it must,” admitted Katerin, as she cut the edges of the pillow and began ripping it into long strips. “But your face must be hidden from him, for he might see something in you that would remind him of you in the old days. We must take care against such betrayal.” “And what are these rags for?” demanded Michael. “A bandage about your face to conceal you further.” “Oh, p-fooh!” said Michael disgustedly. “What nonsense is this, that I should be wrapped up like a Turk? How the devil am I to talk or breathe or eat my soup? I’ll have none of it—I, who was a general of majesty!” “You have had a bullet through both cheeks,” said Katerin. “Come, please! Hold up your head—these cloths will only keep your teeth warm against the cold. That is my dear father—and remember, it is to save us. Better this chance than to sit here and wait till the Ataman sends Shimilin for us again. Come!” She held up a strip of the cloth. “Are you going to tie up my face as if I were an old beggar with boils?” demanded Michael. “Trust to me, my father. When the lion is stricken he must still roar, that his enemies will be misled. You have said that to me many times. Trust to my wits—and we shall see.” He puzzled over it for a minute, and then threw back his head in submission. “I shall not stand in the way of your safety,” he said. “I leave it in your hands. My heart is brave, but the years have put chains upon my body,” and he sighed wearily.