“Here—­I say, Boris, don’t do that!” he cried.

“Oh, I forgot that is not your custom!” said Boris.  “But I thought you were dead!  I thought they had killed you!  I saw them bring you out from my window, and if the sentry had not stopped me, I would have thrown myself out to join you!  Come with me—­my father is here!”

Fred was still dazed.  His escape had been so miraculous that he wanted to pinch himself to see if he were still awake.  A month before he had been at home in America, envied by the rest of his patrol because he was actually to go to far-off Russia by himself.  And since then he had been three times a prisoner, had been in danger of exile to Siberia, and just now had escaped by mere seconds meeting a blast of bullets from a German firing squad, a victim of a war that had not even been dreamed of when he had sailed from America!

But there could be no real doubt of the truth as he followed Boris into the house.  In the dining-room where he had been sentenced to death, he came upon Lieutenant Ernst, chatting amiably with half a dozen Russian officers in their white coats.  The German grinned at him.

“You’re in luck, youngster,” he said.  “I’m not so sorry, really!  They didn’t get what they came after, you see.”

“No, worse luck!” said a Russian.  “How did the old fox know we were coming?”

Ernst only looked wise, and did not answer.  Fred was surprised by the way in which captive and captors mingled, seemingly on the most friendly terms.  But when he thought it over, it did not seem so strange.  Ernst and these Russians knew what a huge thing this war was.  Each had his part to play, and would play it as well as he could.  But individuals, after all, could not count for much, and the man who was prisoner to-day might be on top to-morrow.  Later bitterness and personal hatred might come, but as yet, as Fred began to understand, these men hadn’t come to that.  They were like players on rival football teams after a hotly contested game.  In the play each man would fight his hardest; after the whistle blew, friendship ruled.  The referee’s whistle had blown when Ernst was caught in a trap.

Boris pushed on into a smaller room.  Here Fred saw a man he would have known anywhere as Boris’s father, and, for that matter, as some close relative of his mother.  Alexander Suvaroff, General of Division in the Russian army, looked very much like Mikail, but there was a sharp difference between them.  This Suvaroff was as kindly in aspect as the other was repellent and harsh.  His eyes twinkled affectionately when he saw Fred.

“Welcome, cousin,” he said.  “Even if our chief purpose failed, I am glad we got here in time to save you.  You heard that General von Hindenburg got away?”

“I knew that before we were caught,” said Fred, “but I didn’t know you had come for him.”

“Of course they did!” said Boris.  “Your wireless message told the staff he was here, and my father led a cavalry raid behind the German lines to try to catch him.  But—­he ran away!”