Saskia had said her enemy was a beautiful as a devil--he remembered the phrase, for he had thought it ridiculous.

This man was magnificent, but there was nothing devilish in his lean grave face.
"What's your name ?" the voice was asking.
"Tell me yours first," Dickson essayed to stutter between spasms of nausea.
"My name is Alexander Nicholson," was the answer.
"Then you're no' the man." It was a cry of wrath and despair.
"You're a very desperate little chap.

For whom had I the honour to be mistaken ?" Dickson had now wriggled into a sitting position and had clasped his hands above his aching head.
"I thought you were a Russian, name of Paul," he groaned.
"Paul! Paul who ?" "Just Paul.

A Bolshevik and an awful bad lot." Dickson could not see the change which his words wrought in the other's face.

He found himself picked up in strong arms and carried to a bog-pool where his battered face was carefully washed, his throbbing brows laved, and a wet handkerchief bound over them.