In which some Desperate Enterprises are Undertaken.  
At this time the Russians had taken up a strong position in the Balkan mountain range, and entrenched themselves within a short distance of the enemy.
 
After a night and a day of aimless wandering, Jacob Lancey found himself at last in a rocky defile between the hostile lines. How he got there he could not tell, but there he was, in a position of imminent danger, with the sentinels of the belligerent armies on either side of him.
 
Evening was setting in when he made this discovery, and recoiled, happily without having been seen, into a narrow rocky place where the fast-failing light had already deepened into gloom. A cold white fog was slowly creeping up from the valleys and covering the hill-sides.
 
It is in such places and circumstances that men conceive and execute designs, which, according to their nature, are deeds of recklessness or of heroism. Two such ventures were afoot that night.
 
In the Russian camp preparations were being made for a night attack on a village in possession of the Turks, and out of which, with a view to future movements, it was deemed necessary to drive them. In this village there dwelt a youth, an intimate friend of Dobri Petroff. The two had played with each other in childhood, had roamed about the country together in boyhood, and, when they reached man’s estate, had become faster friends than ever, being bound by the ties of intellectual as well as physical sympathy. When this friend, Petko Borronow, left Yenilik at the death of his mother, it was to take charge of the little farm in the Balkan mountains,—the desolate home where his sister Giuana, an invalid, and a beautiful girl, was now left in solitude.
 
In his capacity of scout, Petroff was always in the neighbourhood of headquarters, and was frequently summoned to the tent of the general commanding, to be interrogated. Thus he chanced to overhear occasional remarks and hints which, when pieced together by his intelligent mind, showed him pretty clearly what was pending.
 
He sat by the camp-fire that night, buried in meditation, with a series of troubled wrinkles on a brow that was usually open and unclouded. Many a time did he light his pipe and forget to smoke it, and relight it, and again let it die out, until his comrades were impressed by his absence of mind. Well did the scout know by that time the certain fate of a village which was to be fought for by contending armies. To warn his friend Borronow in time to remove his sister from the doomed village became to the scout a duty which must be performed at all hazards, but how to do this without deserting his post, and appearing to go over to the enemy, was the difficulty.
 
“Something troubles you,” said his young friend André Vanovitch, who had for some time sat smoking quietly at his side, gazing into the fire, and thinking, no doubt, of the girl with the auburn hair, far away in the land of the Muscove.
 
“Yes, I’m troubled about friends,” was the scout’s laconic answer.
 
“Oh! they’re all right, you may be sure, now that our fellows have crossed the Danube in such force,” said André, supposing that the other referred to his family.
 
“Perhaps!” returned Petroff, and relapsed into silence.
 
Suddenly it occurred to him that he had overheard some expression among the officers around the General of a desire to know more particularly about the disposition of the Turkish force, and the suggestion that a spy should be sent out. His brow cleared at once; with almost a triumphant look on his countenance, he turned sharply to André, and seized his arm.
 
“Well, Dobri,” said the latter, with a smile and look of surprise, “I have had perfect faith in the strength of your grip without requiring positive proof.”
 
“Listen,” said the scout earnestly. “I have a job to do, and a risk to run.”
 
“That is obvious to every one in the division,” returned André, with a touch of the smile still curling his young moustache.
 
“Ay, but I mean a private job, and a great risk—the risk of being shot as a traitor or a spy, and I want you, André, to clear my character with the Russians if it fares ill with me.”
 
Petroff’s unwonted energy of action and earnestness of look and tone produced their effect on the young dragoon. He listened intently while his friend told him of his intended plan.
 
“But why go into the enemy’s lines without permission?” objected André. “Why risk being thought a deserter when you have only to go and ask leave? It seems to me they would be only too glad to accept your services as a spy.”
 
“I’m not certain that they would accept them,” replied the scout, with a return of the perplexed look; “and if they chanced to refuse leave, my case would be hopeless, because I could not and would not dare to act in opposition to positive orders; whereas, if I go off without leave, I shall only be blamed for undertaking a foolish or reckless act; that is, if I return in safety. If I don’t return at all, it won’t matter what is said or done, but I should count on you, André, explaining that I did not desert.”
 
“But,” returned André, “if you merely go to warn and save your friends, I think the General won’t think much of your spying.”
 
“You do me injustice, lad,” said Petroff quietly. “I shall enter the enemy’s lines as a real spy. I will visit every point of his position, ascertain the number of his troops, count his guns, and bring in such information as will make the General wink, I hope, at my having acted without orders. It would please me better to go with permission, but I cannot allow the lives of my friends to hang upon the chance humour of a Russian general. You must remember, André, that I am not a Russian soldier, and may therefore take upon me to exercise a little more personal liberty than you can. Why, you know,” continued the scout, with a touch of humour in his glance, as he rose and made some preliminary preparations, “I might refuse to lead you Russians, or might lead you to your destruction.”
 
“You would be shot if you did,” returned the dragoon quietly.
 
“And what if I am willing to be shot in a good cause? I should be no greater hero than every man in your armies. But now, André, one more shake of your hand. We may never meet again, and I won’t part without saying I’ve taken a fancy to you.”
 
“God knows I can truly say the same to you,” cried André, leaping up with enthusiasm, and seizing the scout’s hand with a grasp as powerful as his own.
 
“And don’t be angry,” added Petroff, in a gentle tone, as he tightened his belt, “if I again urge you to keep the locket always in remembrance. You’re not likely ever to forget the auburn hair, but you may, lad, you may, for there is no perfection in this world, and soldiering is a dangerous life.”
 
André smiled half-contemptuously. He felt that the advice was needless. Petroff also smiled kindly, for he knew that it might be needful.
 
Neither of these men was very deeply impressed with the fact that keeping before the mental eye the Maker of the “auburn hair,” and of all other blessed human influences, was a better and safer refuge. But what matter? Does not our Creator in all His dealings make use of means? Does He not lead us step by step from a lower to a higher level? There are no ready-made human angels in this life, male or female, with full-grown wings to bear them over the troubles of earth to a state of sudden sanctification. We are in a rebel world, and, when lifted from the pit by a Saviour’s hand, the steps by which the Spirit of God leads us upwards are numerous as well as varied, including sometimes—I write without irreverence—such footholds as “auburn hair.”
 
Disguised as a Bulgarian rustic, Dobri Petroff left the Russian camp, passed the outposts, and, under cover of the fog, gained the neutral ground between the two armies.
 
Of course the sentries on both sides were numerous as well as vigilant—especially so on such a night. It therefore behoved him to advance with extreme caution. Creeping from mound to rock, and bush to knoll, he reached a small clump of bushes, into which he entered for the purpose of resting a few minutes and considering well his future movements.
 
A thrill of excitement ran through his frame when he discovered that he was not alone in this thicket. A man sat there leaning against a tree as if asleep. The scout crouched and drew a revolver. A moment sufficed to show that his arrival had not been observed. No wonder, for his approach had been like that of a cat! He was now in great perplexity. The man was evidently not a sentinel of either belligerent—that was plain, but it was equally plain that he was armed. To shoot him would be impossible without putting the sentries of both sides on the alert. To pass him in so small a thicket, without attracting attention, would be difficult. To draw back would necessitate a long détour, involving loss of precious time and increase of risk. A thought occurred to him. Many a time had he hunted among these mountains, and well accustomed was he to glide with serpentine caution towards his game. He would stalk him! Petroff seldom thought twice in cases of emergency. He unbuckled his sword quietly and hung it on a branch, and leant his carbine against a tree, resolving to trust to his great personal strength alone, for he did not mean to sacrifice life if he could avoid it. In case of being driven to extremity, his knife and revolver would suffice.
 
Then, sinking down until he became lost among the deep shadows of bush and brake, he began the slow, laborious, and silent process of gliding towards his unconscious victim.
 
This was one of those ventures to which we have referred as being afoot on that foggy night. The other venture had some points of similarity to it, though the end in view was different.
 
Let us turn aside for a little to the Turkish camp.
 
There, round one of the watch-fires, a considerable distance to the rear, stood a group of Turkish soldiers chatting and smoking. Although not so noisy as the Russians round their camp-fires, these Turks were by no means taciturn. There was a touch, now and then, of dry humour in the remarks of some, and a sedate chuckle occasionally. Among them stood Eskiwin and his resuscitated friend Ali Bobo. The latter, although not naturally boastful, had been so nettled by a big comrade underrating his courage and muscular power, in regard to which latter he, Bobo, was rather vain, that he vowed he would prove both by going to the front and bringing in, single-handed, a live Russian sentinel!
 
The big comrade laughed contemptuously, whereupon Ali Bobo rose to carry out his threat, but was warned by his mates of the danger of being shot by his own commander for going on such an errand without leave. Bobo replied that his captain would forgive him when he presented his Russian prisoner. As it was clear that the angry little man was in earnest, his friend Eskiwin vowed he would go with him, and the big comrade agreed to regard the deed as a sufficient proof of Ali Bobo’s strength and prowess if a Russian should be brought in by the two of them. Bobo would have preferred to go alone, but Eskiwin would take no denial.
 
Accordingly the two adventurous fellows went off and were soon lost in the fog. In a short time they reached the front, and began to move with excessive caution in order to pass their own sentries unobserved.
 
Ali Bobo, it must be remarked, had not originated this idea of stalking sentinels. Some Albanians in the army had already done so with great success; but these ferocious murderers had done it for the mere pleasure of killing their enemies, without any other end in view. Their method was to creep towards a wearied sentinel, which they did with comparative ease, being expert mountaineers. Each man on reaching his victim sprang on him from behind, clapped a hand on his mouth, crushed his neck, after the manner of garrotters, with his strong left arm, and drawing a long keen knife thrust it into his heart.
 
But our adventurers had no such murderous design as this. To capture a live Russian was their aim.
 
The front reached, and the Turkish line of sentries safely passed in the fog, they came unexpectedly on two Russian horsemen who were cautiously riding towards the Turkish lines. These horsemen were Sergeant Gotsuchakoff and Corporal Shoveloff. They had been visiting the outposts, and, before returning, were making a little private reconnaissance of the enemy’s disposition, for Gotsuchakoff and Shoveloff were enthusiasts in their way, and fond of adventure.
 
The ground at the spot being much broken, and affording facility for concealment, especially to men on foot, Eskiwi............