“Dear Friend and Comrade,—Although it is still painful for me to write, I cannot deny myself the pleasure of being the first to congratulate you on receiving the Order of St. Vladimir. A friend in the War Office has just informed me that the announcement has appeared in the Gazette. I hope that this decoration, which you so fully earned by your services at the occupation of Simla, will cause you some satisfaction. You are aware that the Vladimir can only be bestowed on Russians or foreigners in the service of Russia, and thus you will be one of the few German officers whose breast is adorned with this mark of distinction so highly prized in this country.

“You will be surprised that my congratulations are sent from St. Petersburg; no doubt you thought of me as still in sunny India, the theatre of our mutual adventures in the war. I should certainly have remained there till the end of the campaign, had not an English bullet temporarily put an end to my military activity—all too soon for my ambition, as you can imagine. Uninjured in two great battles and a number of trifling skirmishes, I was unhappily destined to be incapacitated in quite an unimportant and inglorious encounter. Had I not been saved by an heroic woman, you would have heard no more of your old friend Tchajawadse, except that he was one of those who had remained on the field of honour.

“Can you guess the name of this woman, comrade? I do not think you can have entirely forgotten my supposed page Georgi, and I am telling you nothing new to-day in lifting the veil of the secrecy, with which for obvious reasons I was obliged to shroud his relations to me in India. Georgi was a girl, and for years she has been dearer to me than anyone else. She was of humble birth, and possessed little of what we call culture. But, nevertheless, she was to me the dearest creature that I have ever met on my wanderings through two continents; a wonderful compound of savagery and goodness of heart, of ungovernable pride and unselfish, devoted affection—a child and a heroine. She had given herself to me, and followed me on my journeys from pure inclination, not for the sake of any advantage. It had been her own wish to play the part of a servant. I do not, however, mean to say that she never made use of the power she possessed over me, for she was proud, and knew how to govern.

“Once, at the beginning of our Indian journey, extremely irritated by her obstinate pride, I raised my hand against her. One look from her brought me to my senses before the punishment followed. Afterwards, when my blood had long cooled, she said to me, her eyes still blazing with anger, ‘If you had really struck me I should have left you at once, and no entreaties would ever have induced me to return to you.’ I laughed at her words, but from that time exercised more control over myself. We lived in perfect harmony till the day when Georgi saved your life in Lahore, my valued comrade. It was she who brought me the terrible news that you were being led away to death. I had never seen the girl so fearfully excited before. Her eyes glistened and her whole frame trembled. It seemed as if she would have driven me forward with the lash, that I might not be too late. I myself was too anxious to worry my head much about the girl’s singular excitement. But after you were happily saved, when you were concealed in my tent, and I looked for Georgi to tell her of the result of my intervention, she fell into such a paroxysm of joy that my jealous suspicions were aroused. Carried away by excitement I flung an insult at her, and then, when she answered me defiantly—to her misfortune and mine I had my riding-whip in my hand—I committed a hateful act, which I would rather have recalled than any of my other numerous follies. She received the blow in silence. The next moment she had disappeared, and I waited in vain for her return. Till we left Simla I had her searched for everywhere, but no trace of her could be found. I myself then gave her up for lost. After our return to Lahore, when we were marching on to Delhi, I occasionally heard of a girl wearing Indian dress who had appeared in the neighbourhood of our troop and resembled my lost page Georgi. But as soon as I made inquiries after this girl it seemed as if the earth had swallowed her up, and under the rapidly changing impressions of the war her image gradually faded from my mind.

“During a reconnaissance near Lucknow, which I had undertaken with my regimental staff and a small escort, my own carelessness led us into an ambuscade set by the English, which cost most of my companions their lives. At the beginning of the encounter a shot in the back had unhorsed me. I was taken for dead, and those few of my companions who were able to save themselves by flight had no time to take the fallen with them. After lying for a long time unconscious, I saw, on awaking, a number of armed Indians plundering the dead and wounded. One of the brown devils approached me. When he saw me lifting myself up to grasp my revolver, he rushed upon me brandishing his sword. I parried the first thrust at my head with my right arm. Defenceless as I was, I was already prepared for the worst. But at the moment, when the rascal was lifting up his arm for another thrust, he reeled backwards and collapsed without uttering a sound. It was Georgi, who had saved my life by a well-directed shot.

“She had accompanied the dragoons sent from our camp to recover the dead and wounded, and had got considerably in advance of the horsemen. Hence it had been possible for her to save me.

“I was too weak to ask her many questions, and my memory is a blank as to the few moments of this meeting.

“For a week I lay between life and death. Then my iron constitution triumphed. You can imagine, my dearest friend, how great my desire was to see Georgi again. But she was no longer in the camp, and no one could tell me where she was. She disappeared again as suddenly as she had appeared on that day. This time I must make up my mind to the conviction that I have lost her for ever. While on my sick bed I received a command to repair to St. Petersburg. At the same time I was highly flattered to learn that I had been promoted, and as soon as my condition permitted it, I started on my journey.

“Pardon me, dear friend, for lingering so long over a personal matter, which, after all, can have very little interest for you.

“You are as well informed as myself of the manifold changes of this war, which has already destroyed the value of untold millions, and has cost hundreds of thousands of promising human lives. I could almost envy you for being still spared to be an eyewitness of the great events, while I am condemned to the role of an inactive spectator. But I do not believe the struggle will last much longer. The sacrifices which it imposes on the people are too great to be endured many months longer. Everything is pressing to a speedy and decisive result, and I have no doubt what that result will be. For although the defeats and losses sustained by the English are partly compensated by occasional successes, one great naval victory of the allies would finally decide the issue against Great Britain. Hitherto, both sides have hesitated to bring about this decisive result, but all here are convinced that the next few weeks will at last bring those great events on the water, so long and so eagerly expected.

“To my surprise, I see that our treaty of peace with Japan is still the subject of hostile criticism in the foreign Press. Certainly, in the second phase of the campaign, the fortune of war had turned in our favour, but the struggle for India was so important for Russia that she was unwilling to divide her forces any longer. Hence we were able to build a golden bridge for Japan, and hence the peace of Nagasaki. The German Imperial Chancellor is highly popular in Russia also, owing to the part he took in the conclusion of the peace.

“Have you had the opportunity of approaching the Imperial Chancellor? This Baron Grubenhagen must be a man of strong personality.

“I am sending this letter to you by way of Berlin, for I do not know where you are at this moment. I hope it will reach you, and that you will occasionally find time to gladden your old friend Tchajawadse by letting him know that you are still alive.”

Heideck had glanced rapidly through the Prince’s letter, written in French, which he had found waiting for him after his return from Antwerp. Not even the news of the honourable distinction conferred by the bestowal of the Russian order had been able to evoke a sign of joy on his grave countenance. The amiable Russian Prince and his beautiful page were to him like figures belonging to a remote past, that lay an endless distance behind him. The events of the last twenty-four hours had shaken him so violently that what might perhaps a few days before have aroused his keenest interest now seemed a matter of indifference and no concern of his.

At this moment the orderly announced a man in sailor’s dress, and Heideck knew that it could only be Brandelaar. The skipper had already given the information which he had brought from Dover to the officer on duty who had taken Heideck’s place. If they were not exactly military secrets which by that means became known to the German military authorities, some items of the various information might prove of importance as affecting the Prince-Admiral’s arrangements.

Heideck assumed that Brandelaar had now come for his promised reward. But as the skipper, after receiving the money, kept turning his hat between his fingers, like a man who does not like to perform a painful errand or make a disagreeable request, Heideck asked in astonishment: “Have you anything else to say to me, Brandelaar?”

Only after considerable hesitation he replied, “Yes, Herr major, I was to bring you a greeting—you will know who sent it.”

“I think I can guess. You have seen the lady again since yesterday evening?”

“The lady came to me last night at the inn and demanded to be taken back to Dover at once. But I thought you would not like it.”

“So then you refused?”

Brandelaar continued to stare in front of him at the floor.

“The lady would go—in spite of the bad weather. And she would not be satisfied till I had persuaded my friend Van dem Bosch to take her in his cutter to Dover?”

“This was last night?”

“Yes—last night.”

“And what more?” persisted Heideck.

“He came back at noon to-day. They had a misfortune on the way.”

Heideck’s frame shook convulsively. A fearful suspicion occurred to him. He needed all his strength of will to control himself.

“And the lady?”

“Herr major, it was the lady who met with an accident. She fell overboard on the journey.”

Heideck clasped the back of the chair before him with both hands. Every drop of blood had left his face.

“Fell—overboard? Good God, man—and she was not saved?”

Brandelaar shook his hand.

“No, Herr major! She would stay on deck in spite of the storm, though Van dem Bosch kept asking her to go below. When a violent squall broke the halyard, she was knocked overboard by the gaff. As the sea was running high, there was no chance of saving her.”

Heideck had covered his face with his hand. A dull groan burst from his violently heaving breast and a voice within him exclaimed—

“The guilt is yours. She sought death of her own accord, and it was you who drove her to it!”

His voice sounded dry and harsh when he turned to the skipper and said—

“I thank you for your information, Brandelaar. Now leave me alone.”