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"We have to thank you, I hear, Colonel, for driving off that mob of revolutionaries," Haven observed. "But for you, I think they meant to sack the place, rob us of our supplies and drive us out into the snow."

"You owe me no thanks at all," Patinsky replied in grave and measured English. "We are on Polish soil. It was my duty. Besides, any friend or protégé of my late friend, Prince Ostrekoff, is welcome to any aid I can offer. I have enjoyed the Prince's hospitality more than once under this roof. You will permit me?"

He rose, unbuckled his sword, loosened his belt and reseated himself with a little murmur of relief. There was certainly nothing sinister, Haven decided, in the man's appearance. He was unusually pale for a soldier who, presumably, led an outdoor life, and his dark eyes were more the eyes of a poet than of a cavalry commander. His mouth was a trifle small and lacked strength, and but for his carefully trimmed, military moustache and a gash on one cheek, apparently only recently healed, his general appearance was almost feminine.