Their plan was to enter Russia by way of Finland, leaving all the
things there to be smuggled through by degrees.
When they came to the frontier they would part company. Emile would
make his way towards the city that holds its trembling autocrat as
closely guarded in his palace as any convict in the mines, while
Vladimir was to go back to Spain overland to report success or failure
in the landing and disposal of their dangerous cargo.
All day the two men sat together, talking, plotting, preparing for all
contingencies.
There were no feminine voices to be heard on board the yacht now, no
singing on deck in the evenings, no hint of the presence of a woman,
either as wife, mistress, or companion.
They neither discussed nor recalled these vanished days, though one had
hours of memory and regret, and the other was consumed with a savage
hunger for that which he had lost.
Both had taken upon themselves vows that put them outside the pale of
human ties and affections.
The Goddess whom they both served had risen, claiming their allegiance,
their service, and with the lives and ways of mortal women they had no
concern.
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