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countenance, on which the skin stretched taut over the bones, bore the stamp of pride; his wide mouth under the trim mustache was hard, his long chin stubborn. Women in other days had looked twice at the man who was Count of Hainault.
    "One forgets, my Pierre," he remarked gruffly, "that here there exists no need to wear fresh linen or draped cloak over a scabbard. Judging by the manners of the habitants, we have arrived at last in the land of Gog and Magog, so inscribed in the charts of the geographers. My faith, the end of the world-Tartaria. I have made good my promise."
    Pierre coughed and lay back weakly. Monsieur le comte had always been such a stickler for the niceties of dress. Even now, with the habit of a soldier, his coat and shirt were clean. The promises of monsieur le comte were always kept.
    It had been at Zbaraj. They had wandered, exiled, from France to the court of the Commonwealth of Poland. Here honest Pierre had taken heart again, seeing cathedrals and the retinue of great nobles. But his master had declared that the nobles reeked of fish, and the mead soiled his mouth after the red wine of Burgundy.
    So, hearing that the Cossacks and Crimea Tatars were making war on Prince Yeremi, the champion of the Commonwealth, on the southern marches of Poland, they had enlisted under the banner of the prince, had marched for years through blazing forests and over the steppe that was like a sea of grass.
    When Zbaraj, the stronghold of the Poles, had been besieged, Hainault, as castellan, had been called the lion of Zbaraj. Pierre remembered that one night when they had been eating horseflesh, the warrior-priest, Yaskolski, had made the round of the walls in the procession of the holy sacrament.
    Candles borne before the tall figure of the priest had shone upon gilded monstrance and swinging censers, even while cannonballs plunged through the air overhead.
    Pierre had fallen to his knees as the procession passed, and bared his head. Hugo, the doubter, rose from his seat in a trench, but kept his steel cap in place. Yaskolski had looked at him just as a flight of balls drove overhead with the scream of a thousand hawks.
    "Those cannoneers should be herding cattle," the burly priest had said to Hugo. "They cannot aim."
    Hugo had looked after the calm figure of the priest curiously.
    "That priest is a man: He has smelled powder before."
    When the war was over Hugo had waxed restless, as always. He had been offered a county by Yeremi himself, with an income sufficient to support a noble of his rank, if he would swear allegiance to the Diet.
    "Be under the orders of swine who stink of ale? Pfagh!"
    In view of his services, Hugo's insolence was overlooked, but thereafter he drank alone in Zbaraj, until Pierre brought to his chamber the warrior-priest, Yaskolski, who offered the exile the colonelcy of a regiment of armored cavalry.
    Hugo had hesitated. He respected Yaskolski. Unfortunately, he had been in his cups.
    "So, you would buy a man's sword-the sword of a Hainault. Well, you are another breed from the shaven polls who prune their souls and nourish their bellies with tithes from the peasantry. But-death of my life-I will not do business with you."
    Then he smiled.
    "Your words, Sir Monk, are an echo of my brother, who is likewise a priest. Doubtless he is still praying for my soul. I have not seen him for a dozen years. They tell me he has gone, probably with others of his cloth, to the particular demesne of the Devil on earth. That is Tartary. Well, I have a whim to go and see how Paul and his brethren relish the Devil's demesne."
    These words had been like wine to the faithful Pierre, who had yearned for a sight of the young son of Hugo's brother. Paul had promised Pierre that he and Hugo would yet sleep in the same bed. And Hugo's cynicism hid anxiety for the welfare of the priest, Paul.
    Yaskolski raised his great hands.
    "What, Sir Count? In Tartary are hordes of savages, and werewolves. That is a land beyond the