"To headquarters. We have less than half a mile to ride now. The
general will be glad to see you."
The Russian chuckled, and there seemed to be a hidden meaning in his
laugh. At any other time, when he was less weary, Fred would have
noticed that. He would have wondered at it, at least; he might even have
guessed its meaning. But now he only asked, quite idly: "Who is in
command of the troops here?"
"You will soon know," said the Russian, repeating his chuckle.
Fred did, indeed, soon get the answer to his question. They rode up to a
small farmhouse, ablaze with light, late as it was. The place was well
guarded. The Russian officer slipped off his horse.
"Wait one minute," he said. He went, and returned at once. Then he led
the way inside. And Fred, all weariness banished by the sight, stared
into the cold, evil eyes of Mikail Suvaroff, wearing his general's
uniform.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE GREAT WHITE CZAR
There was a moment of absolute, chilling silence; the sort of silence
that, in the old phrase, can be felt. For just an instant it was plain
that Mikail Suvaroff did not recognize the nephew he hated.
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