CONTENTS
PART ONE
CHAPTER
I.
SPRING IN THE TRAIN
II. THE SCHOOL-HOUSE
III. THE INVISIBLE BATTLE
IV. NIKITIN
V. FIRST MOVE TO THE ENEMY
VI. THE RETREAT
VII. ONE NIGHT
PART TWO
I. THE LOVERS
II. MARIE IVANOVNA
III. THE FOREST
IV. FOUR?
V. THE DOOR CLOSES BEHIND THEM
* * * * *
PART ONE
CHAPTER I
SPRING IN THE TRAIN
His was the first figure to catch my eye that evening in Petrograd; he stood under the dusky lamp in the vast gloomy Warsaw station, with exactly the expression that I was afterwards to know so well, impressed not only upon his face but also upon the awkwardness of his arms that hung stiffly at his side, upon the baggy looseness of his trousers at the knees, the unfastened straps of his long black military boots. His face, with its mild blue eyes, straggly fair moustache, expressed anxiety and pride, timidity and happiness, apprehension and confidence. He was in that first moment of my sight of him as helpless, as unpractical, and as anxious to please as any lost dog in the world--and he was also as proud as Lucifer. I knew him at once for an Englishman; his Russian uniform only accented the cathedral-town, small public-school atmosphere of his appearance. He was exactly what I had expected. He was not, however, alone, and that surprised me. By his side stood a girl, obviously Russian, wearing her Sister's uniform with excitement and eager anticipation, her eyes turning restlessly from one part of the platform to another, listening with an impatient smile to the remarks of her companion.
From where I stood I could hear his clumsy, hesitating Russian and her swift, preoccupied replies. I came up to them.
"Mr. Trenchard?" I asked.
......
PART ONE
CHAPTER
I.
SPRING IN THE TRAIN
II. THE SCHOOL-HOUSE
III. THE INVISIBLE BATTLE
IV. NIKITIN
V. FIRST MOVE TO THE ENEMY
VI. THE RETREAT
VII. ONE NIGHT
PART TWO
I. THE LOVERS
II. MARIE IVANOVNA
III. THE FOREST
IV. FOUR?
V. THE DOOR CLOSES BEHIND THEM
* * * * *
PART ONE
CHAPTER I
SPRING IN THE TRAIN
His was the first figure to catch my eye that evening in Petrograd; he stood under the dusky lamp in the vast gloomy Warsaw station, with exactly the expression that I was afterwards to know so well, impressed not only upon his face but also upon the awkwardness of his arms that hung stiffly at his side, upon the baggy looseness of his trousers at the knees, the unfastened straps of his long black military boots. His face, with its mild blue eyes, straggly fair moustache, expressed anxiety and pride, timidity and happiness, apprehension and confidence. He was in that first moment of my sight of him as helpless, as unpractical, and as anxious to please as any lost dog in the world--and he was also as proud as Lucifer. I knew him at once for an Englishman; his Russian uniform only accented the cathedral-town, small public-school atmosphere of his appearance. He was exactly what I had expected. He was not, however, alone, and that surprised me. By his side stood a girl, obviously Russian, wearing her Sister's uniform with excitement and eager anticipation, her eyes turning restlessly from one part of the platform to another, listening with an impatient smile to the remarks of her companion.
From where I stood I could hear his clumsy, hesitating Russian and her swift, preoccupied replies. I came up to them.
"Mr. Trenchard?" I asked.
......
