mystery is at an end. A man of about 35, in a deplorable plight,
bespattered with mud and blood and snow, his belt and the strap
of his revolver case keeping together the torn ruins of the blue
coat of a Servian artillery officer. As far as the candlelight
and his unwashed, unkempt condition make it possible to judge,
he is a man of middling stature and undistinguished appearance,
with strong neck and shoulders, a roundish, obstinate looking
head covered with short crisp bronze curls, clear quick blue
eyes and good brows and mouth, a hopelessly prosaic nose like
that of a strong-minded baby, trim soldierlike carriage and
energetic manner, and with all his wits about him in spite of
his desperate predicament--even with a sense of humor of it,
without, however, the least intention of trifling with it or
throwing away a chance. He reckons up what he can guess about
Raina--her age, her social position, her character, the extent
to which she is frightened--at a glance, and continues, more
politely but still most determinedly) Excuse my disturbing you;
but you recognise my uniform--Servian. If I'm caught I shall be
killed. (Determinedly.) Do you understand that?

RAINA. Yes.

MAN. Well, I don't intend to get killed if I can help it. (Still
more determinedly.) Do you understand that? (He locks the door
with a snap.)

RAINA (disdainfully). I suppose not. (She draws herself up
superbly, and looks him straight in the face, saying with
emphasis) Some soldiers, I know, are afraid of death.