Small wonder that the ragged, filthy invader
could only smile and shake his head.
From under the table, calm and smiling urbanely[17], rose Dirkovitch,
who had been roused from healthful slumber by feet upon his body. By
the side of the man he rose, and the man shrieked and groveled at his
feet. It was a horrible sight, coming so swiftly upon the pride and
glory of the toast that had brought the strayed wits together.
Dirkovitch made no offer to raise him, but Little Mildred heaved him
up in an instant. It is not good that a gentleman who can answer to
the Queen's toast should lie at the feet of a subaltern of Cossacks.
The hasty action tore the wretch's upper clothing nearly to the waist,
and his body was seamed with dry black scars. There is only one weapon
in the world that cuts in parallel lines, and it is neither the cane
nor the cat. Dirkovitch saw the marks, and the pupils of his eyes
dilated--also, his face changed. He said something that sounded like
"Shto ve takete"; and the man, fawning, answered, "Chetyre."
"What's that?" said everybody together.
"His number. That is number four, you know." Dirkovitch spoke very
thickly.
"What has a Queen's officer to do with a qualified number?" said the
colonel, and there rose an unpleasant growl round the table.
"How can I tell?" said the affable Oriental, with a sweet smile. "He
is a--how you have it?--escape--runaway, from over there.
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