The Sowers | Page 4

the active form of doing wrong. He had an enormous faith in Karl
Steinmetz, and, indeed, no man knew Russia better than this

cosmopolitan adventurer. Steinmetz it was who pricked forward with
all speed, wearing his hardy little horse to a drooping semblance of its
former self. Steinmetz it was who had recommended quitting the
travelling carriage and taking to the saddle, although his own bulk led
him to prefer the slower and more comfortable method of covering
space. It would almost seem that he doubted his own ascendency over
his companion and master, which semblance was further increased by a
subtle ring of anxiety in his voice while he argued. It is possible that
Karl Steinmetz suspected the late Princess Natásha of having
transmitted to her son a small hereditary portion of that Slavonic
exaltation and recklessness of consequence which he deplored.
"Then you turn back at Tver?" enquired Paul, at length breaking a long
silence.
"Yes; I must not leave Osterno just now. Perhaps later, when the winter
has come, I will follow. Russia is quiet during the winter, very quiet.
Ha, ha!"
He shrugged his shoulders and shivered. But the shiver was interrupted.
He raised himself in his saddle and peered forward into the gathering
darkness.
"What is that," he asked sharply, "on the road in front?"
Paul had already seen it.
"It looks like a horse," he answered--"a strayed horse, for it has no
rider."
They were going west, and what little daylight there was lived on the
western horizon. The form of the horse, cut out in black relief against
the sky, was weird and ghostlike. It was standing by the side of the road,
apparently grazing. As they approached it, its outlines became more
defined.
"It has a saddle," said Steinmetz at length. "What have we here?"

The beast was evidently famishing, for, as they came near, it never
ceased its occupation of dragging the wizened tufts of grass up, root
and all.
"What have we here?" repeated Steinmetz.
And the two men clapped spurs to their tired horses.
The solitary waif had a rider, but he was not in the saddle. One foot was
caught in the stirrup, and as the horse moved on from tuft to tuft it
dragged its dead master along the ground.


CHAPTER II
BY THE VOLGA
"This is going to be unpleasant," muttered Steinmetz, as he cumbrously
left the saddle. "That man is dead--has been dead some days; he's stiff.
And the horse has been dragging him face downward. God in heaven!
this will be unpleasant."
Paul had leaped to the ground, and was already loosening the dead
man's foot from the stirrup. He did it with a certain sort of skill, despite
the stiffness of the heavy riding-boot, as if he had walked a hospital in
his time. Very quickly Steinmetz came to his assistance, tenderly lifting
the dead man and laying him on his back.
"Ach!" he exclaimed; "we are unfortunate to meet a thing like this."
There was no need of Paul Alexis' medical skill to tell that this man
was dead; a child would have known it. Before searching the pockets
Steinmetz took out his own handkerchief and laid it over a face which
had become unrecognizable. The horse was standing over them. It bent
its head and sniffed wonderingly at that which had once been its master.
There was a singular, scared look in its eyes.

Steinmetz pushed aside the enquiring muzzle.
"If you could speak, my friend," he said, "we might want you. As it is,
you had better continue your meal."
Paul was unbuttoning the dead man's clothes. He inserted his hand
within the rough shirt.
"This man," he said, "was starving. He probably fainted from sheer
exhaustion and rolled out of the saddle. It is hunger that killed him."
"With his pocket full of money," added Steinmetz, withdrawing his
hand from the dead man's pocket and displaying a bundle of notes and
some silver.
There was nothing in any of the other pockets--no paper, no clue of any
sort to the man's identity.
The two finders of this silent tragedy stood up and looked around them.
It was almost dark. They were ten miles from a habitation. It does not
sound much; but a traveller would be hard put to place ten miles
between himself and a habitation in the whole of the British Islands.
This, added to a lack of road or path which is unknown to us in
England, made ten miles of some importance.
Steinmetz had pushed his fur cap to the back of his head, which he was
scratching pensively. He had a habit of scratching his forehead with
one finger, which denoted thought.
"Now, what are we to do?" he muttered. "Can't bury the poor chap