"Yes," one of the workmen was saying, "those who know say that there
will inevitably be a kingdom of Poland again. Some day. And if some day,
why not now? Why not this time?"

His hearers continued to eat in silence. Some were slightly built,
oval-faced men--real Poles; others had the narrower look of the
Lithuanian; while a third type possessed the broad and placid face that
comes from Posen. Some were born to this hard work of the sand-hills;
others had that look in the eyes, that carriage of the head, which
betokens breeding and suggests an ancestral story.

"The third time, they say, is lucky," answered a white-haired man, at
length. He was a strong man, with the lines of hunger cut deeply in his
face. The work was nothing to him. He had labored elsewhere. The others
turned and looked at him, but he said no more. He glanced across the
river towards the spires of Praga pointing above the brown trees.
Perhaps he was thinking of those other times, which he must have seen
fifty and twenty years ago. His father must have seen Praga paved with
the dead bodies of its people. He must have seen the river run sluggish
with the same burden. He may have seen the people shot down in the
streets of Warsaw only twenty years before. His eyes had the dull look
which nearly always betokens some grim vision never forgotten. He seemed
a placid old man, and was known as an excellent worker, though cruel to
his horses.

He who had first spoken--a boatman known as Kosmaroff--was a spare man,
with a narrow face and a long, pointed chin, hidden by a neat beard.
He was not more than thirty-five years old, and presented no outward
appearance of having passed through hardships. His manner was quick and