of stopping any longer than was necessary for changing horses, he was now only too ready to seek shelter where their yemschik had pulled up.
As Cyril rolled out of the sledge, staggering beneath the weight of his furs and reeling from the effect of cold in his half-frozen limbs, his eyes rested upon another sledge which stood, horseless, outside the log-built post-house.
"Another traveler on the road, eh?" he remarked to Greville as together they entered the house. "Wonder whether he’s bound north or south."
The traveler in question was seated on a rough bench by the brick stove, which occupied one side of the room and gave out so fierce a heat that the new arrivals were only too glad to throw off their heavy fur pelisses, gloves and head-gear.
While the post-house keeper and his wife hurriedly prepared a hot mess for the Englishmen, the latter had leisure to examine the stranger who sat beside the stove.
A glance was sufficient to denote a nationality south of the frontier had not Greville taken occasion to whisper the word "Mongol.”
"So I supposed,” said Cyril under breath. "Rum-looking customer, isn't he?"
The post-house keeper—a Russian moujik—gave a whimsical glance in the same direction as he placed before his guests the welcome meal, having despatched which Cyril announced his intention of proceeding while the daylight lasted.
But here an insurmountable difficulty arose; for the Mongol, it was discovered, had bespoken the only available horses, and their yemschik refused point blank to drive further without a relay.
There was nothing for it, therefore, but to arrange to pass the night where they were and arrange for an advance early next morning.
During the colloquy the Mongol huddled by the stove, showing no more interest in what was going forward than if he had been carved out of stone. Whether or not he understood it was impossible to guess, though Cyril fancied he detected a gleam of mirth flitting across the immobile yellow face at the plight in which the American Excellencies, so eager to proceed, were placed by the fact of this non-descript stranger having forestalled them.
In another moment he rose from his crouching position, shambled rather than walked across the apartment, and, entering his sledge, which was now horsed and ready, shaped a northward course up the frozen river.
Cyril and his companion watched him depart up the track they had just left. He engaged no yemschik, but drove himself, and that in a fashion betokening an intimate knowledge of Siberian post-horses.
"Hang the yellow-skinned interloper," was Cyril's comment on re-entering the post-house.
"Perhaps he'll get frozen to death for his trouble," was Greville's grim rejoinder.
Cyril shivered at the thought.
"I don't envy him his lonely ride in the gathering dusk," he replied; "night falls quicker in these latitudes than I imagined."
Accommodations at the lonely post-house beside the frozen river were limited to the advantage of a separate sleeping apartment tor the American travellers.
Their yemschik departed soon after nightfall to quarters provided by a relative in the village.
With him out of the place all connection with Krasnoiarsk and the outside world seemed severed, and a feeling of desolation ensued which the natural reserve of their host and his wife did not lend to dissipate; consequently the night was young when Cyril and his companion sought the boarded-on partition which was to serve them for a bed-chamber.
Wrapped in his furs, with an immense sleigh-rug for extra covering, Cyril was soon curled up on the bench. Not until he lay down did he realize how fatigued he was. Soon he dropped into a dreamless sleep, his last impression being that of his companion, who sat upon the largest of their kit bags—back against the wall and head already drowsily nodding. He intended rousing Greville, but sleep overcame him and he remembered nothing more until awakened by an unaccountable impression of something wrong.
Opening his eyes, a twinkling light moving hither and thither first attracted his attention. The light in question was so swallowed up by the pitchy darkness that at first he imagined he was dreaming. Then the sound of Greviile's unnatural breathing smote his ears, and the next instant his roving glance became riveted upon a face lit up by a flickering candle flame.
It was that of the Mongol they had seen crouched by the stove on first entering the post-house!
How had he got back, and what in fortune's name was he doing there?
As Cyril's eyes became more accustomed to the dark shadows in the room he noted with chilling dread that between the teeth of this midnight interloper a knife was gripped whose blade glittered in the candle light, and further that he was engaged in overhauling their baggage.
Why did not Greville stir?
Even as the question arose a suspicion that the nightcap of vodka he had drunk before turning in had been drugged entered his mind. Hardly realizing what he was doing, he stirred upon the improvised couch. The Mongol looked up, and their eyes met.
At the same moment the light was extinguished, but not before Cyril saw a yellow hand grasp the haft of that wicked-looking knife, and became conscious of a figure stealing upon him in the darkness.
In an instant, calling loudly upon Greville, he leaped to his feet and threw with all the force he could command upon his advancing foe the heavy rug which had covered him.
A muffled curse in an uncouth tongue told him his aim had been a true one, and Cyril, still standing upright, fumbled desperately with his feet for the revolver which had lain beneath his pillow.
His foot touched it.
Uttering a cry of delight, he stooped down; but hardly had his fingers closed upon the cold steel of the barrel, when a pair of sinewy arms enveloped him from behind and dragged him backwards.
(To be Continued.)
