big belt stood before a man of his own size—lornievitch, the commander of commanders, himself.

it was night. boylan had plunged into a new vat of power, and persuaded dabnitz to furnish an escort from judenbach, four miles to the east to the main headquarters of the galician army.

rows of sleepy stenographers in the outer room of a broad shepherd's house in a little hill village—a web of wires on the low ceiling, lanterns, candles, field 'phones and telegraph tickers, none altogether subsided; as much routine as in the management of a state—the center of this monster battle-line—to say nothing of the spectacular.

the two men now filled a small inner room. lornievitch spoke english—an english much to the caller's liking. perhaps it was the bond of bulk between them.

“well, and so you are boylan of the rhodes?—what is it, mr. boylan? we are very busy.”

“i have a young friend of the states” he began and talked for three minutes—talked until lornievitch squirmed and his aides hurried forward ready to assist.

“and what does kohlvihr say?”

“i had to speak to him through an interpreter. i could not get the answer i wanted. he has had a terrible day. the life of one american is too small for discussion there—”

“and you have come here to me. meanwhile, on the wire is the young man's case—a love affair with a revolutionist—and a sort of be-damned to the russian army. you are a strong man, doubtless a brave one—”

boylan was fighting for peter's life as he would not have fought for his own; and yet he warmed to the commander—fibers all through him warming—something of man-business about this office that made the headquarters at judenbach look sinister and den-like. it was just his hope in all likelihood.

“but mr. boylan,” lornievitch added, “what would you do in my case? there's big action, front, side, within. they have a case against the others—and he is one of them.”

“he may be one in a momentary infatuation—”

“nonsense, boylan—this is no time for girls!”

“i grant you that, sir. but he is not a revolutionist. i've slept and ridden with him night and day. his paper wouldn't pay for cigarettes to do other than tell the story from the army end. if he's gone loco, i'll take him home under my arm—”

“i say, boylan, what do you want of him this way? he's a newspaper competitor—”

“mowbray got to me. didn't try to, but he's there. took the field as if it had been his work always. he's a friend, clever, courageous, a gentleman always, clean cut, a laugh, a hand—and a boy over it all. i didn't know—until i found him in danger. i couldn't feel worse if i were his old woman—i am twice his age, damn near—”

“you're invincible, boylan. i'll tell you this: i feel better. that's worth something. things look black here in the valleys. something human i needed, in your coming. go back now. nothing will be done until the morning. we've had to shoot austrian spies all day. caught 'em red-handed. i feel red-handed, too. go back, and before to-morrow morning i'll get an order over to straighten him out from the others—before final action is taken. maybe i'll look him over myself. good night.... oh, i say, mr. boylan—”

“yes, general.”

“oh, it doesn't matter. i was just thinking i'd like to have one friend like young what's-his-name of the states has—”

“mowbray—mowbray—don't forget the name, general—”

“good-night.”

“good-night.”

boylan put his soul in it. he loved the russians. it was far this side of midnight, but he smelled the dawn.

back in his own quarters, as he yawned largely at the flickering shadows of the freshly-lit candle, he noted peter's saddle bags on the floor, and considered that it might be well to get them over to-night.