It was a starlit night, with not a
breath of air, and no moon would illuminate their whereabouts.
Paul dressed with the greatest care; never had he been more particular over
his toilet. Tompson found him _exigeant!_
He had broadened and filled out in the past year, and his fair face was
tanned, and blooming with health and excitement.
"The best-looking young devil a woman's eye could light on!" Mark Grigsby
said, as he and Sir Charles watched him descend the gangway to the boat,
when the impatiently awaited signal had been given.
"God keep him safe, Grig," was all Sir Charles could mutter, with a grunt
in his throat.
The maddest excitement was racing through Paul, as he held the tiller-ropes
and made straight for the light. And once he felt in his pocket to assure
himself he had not forgotten Dmitry's pistol, which he had cleaned and
loaded himself that afternoon.
He knew this adventure might be a dangerous one, simple as it looked
superficially, and now he was an expert revolver shot, thanks to constant
practice.
The light proved to be in a little sheltered cove, with a small
landing-stage. And--yes--the man who held it was the Kalmuck, Vasili.
"Welcome, welcome to the _Siyatelstvo_," he whispered, as he kissed Paul's
hand. And then in perfect silence they began to ascend a path.
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