Behind, were the barred gates, and in front, the semicircle of men,
whose faces he could not see, while the full light glared through the
open doorway upon his own countenance. Two miles from Warsaw--a dark
autumn night, and eleven men to one. He counted them, in a mechanical
way, as persons in face of death nearly always do count, with a cold
deliberation, their chances of life. He played his miserable little
cards with all the skill he possessed, and his knowledge of the racial
characteristics of humanity served him. For he acted slowly, and gave
his enemies leisure to see that it would be a mistake to kill him. They
would see it in time; for they were not Frenchmen, nor of any other
Celtic race, who would have killed him first and recognized their
mistake afterwards. They were Slavs--of the most calculating race the
world had produced--a little slow in their calculations. So he gave
them time, just as Russia must have time; but she will reach the summit
eventually, when her farsighted policy is fully evolved--long, long
after reader and writer are dust.
Cartoner gave the workman half a rouble, which was accepted with a
muttered word of thanks, and then he turned towards the great doors,
which were barred.
Pages:
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162