The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, August 14, 1904, Page 4

THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL 2 is bleak enough and I regard it merely as a stage. If Gaudarez hurries, he can let us have the news on the third day. We shall then ride on to Oust and it we have any luck we should be in the pelace within the week.” They dined at Orleans at half-past #ix, in the restaurant car there at- tached to the express. Day was just glimmering in the heavens when the first stage of that long journey came to its end; and stepping out upon a wide platform, Esther knew that she was at Foix. “We shall find my servants here, and the carriages,” Arthur had said while he helped her to the platform and stacked their dressing-bags beside her. “We must have some hot coffee and then get on. I told them to put fur rugs in the carriage and two of my heavy coats. We'll make a soldier of you, Esther; you won't complain of the uniform when you get up into the hills.” She was but half awake, and not a little afraid of the strange eyes which here stared at her so curiously. Though it was then a little after six o'clock in the morning, quite a number of peo- ple had gathered upon the platform at Foix to meet the express; and they bustled hither and thither, shouting and pushing and exchanging their ef- fusive greetings in a way quite char- acteristic of a southern race. Some of them, Esther observed, were soldlers, and these she disliked cordially, for they stared her out of countenance, and taking advantage of her husband's ab- sence, proffered an assistance entirely unnecessary. She had feared that some demonstration of welcome would have awaited them at Foix, and it was not without satisfaction that she found herself just an ordinary traveler alighting at a country station and do- ing battle with the difficulties of a ter- minus. Arthur, however, was anxious that she should not misunderstand such apparent neglect, and he offered her explanations over their hurried meal. “I knew you would feel tired; and, besides, we are in a hurry,” he sald. “These people would make speeches y for a month if we gave them any en- , couragement. We shall have enough of that sort of thing to go through when we arrive at the palace. It is a long drive from here and I don’t want my little girl to be dreadfully tired. Come, drink up your coffee, Esther; drink it while it is hot. We sha’'n’t get such a chance again until we reach St. Girons.” When breakfast was done, he went out to summon his servants, and Esth- er was left alone for a brief while in the corridor of the station. She did not know what instinct made her turn suddenly, or why she should have been conscious of some presence there which was not friendly; but it chanced that as she turned, she perceived a man almost at her elbow, and recog- nizing the bright dress and the white bernouse of the Eastern, she saw.that it was Yussuf, the Moor, Doctor Xav- fer's servant. For an instant she be- held his keen piercing black eyes re- garding her ominously. Then he van- ished as mysteriously as he had come, without word or sign, and almost be- fore she had.realized how greatly his presence frightened her. Arthur found her still flushed and agitated and it was difficult to tell him exactly what had happened. “The Moor they call Yussuf, Dr. Xavier's servant—I have just seen him in the corridor!” she stammered a little wildly He laughed = ly reassured h “Of course you would. to Cadi as we are. What are you afraid of, Esther? What has the man got to do with you?” She could not teil him. not say how much she omen. In the courtyard of the station they found an old fashioned barouche and with it a fourgon for their luggage. Esther noticed that the liveries of the men servants had once been showy, but were now a little worn and faded. The carriage itself suggested the France of the empire, but the horses were magnificent and what was more, there were four of them. “It is eight years since I was at St. Girons,” Arthur said, like one a lit- tle dubious about the reception awit- ing them in his house. “To be frank, I have almost forgotten what the place is like. The steward says that it needs a fortune spending on it. Most of these old casties in Spain do, but as no one has a fortune they re- main uncared for. I have ordered the housekeeper to light fires in every room and to do the best she can.” He ran on, anxious to please her, and pointed out many beautiful scenes of that magnificent country. o e e her fears and instant- He is going She would feared the They reached the castle at § o'clock that afternoon. For an hour at least darkness had shut out those fantastic pictures of gorge and height which the long afternoon gave them so abundant- ly. Esther lay in her husband’'s arms and lost all sense of time or place. When she awoke he was lifting her from the carriage, and the light of a lantern flashed in her face. Night had come down In earnest mow; the wind whistled dolefully through the caverns of the hills, and Esther, but half awake, believed at the first that some acci- dent had overtaken them. A moment later, however, she perceived the nar- row windows of some building above her, and could distinguish a cluster of epires and a great arched gate, through which the barouche drove away. The sound of strange voices, too, fell upon her ears; and then, out of this bitter night, she was carried swiftly to the warmth and the light of some vast room, and waking thoroughly she knew that the journey was ended and that this was Arthur's home. “Come,” he said gayly, brushing the snowflakes off his coat, and holding his hands to the ruddy blaze, “come and warm yourself, little wife! You are really at St. Girons—you are home at last!” She loosened her cloak and bent toward the flaming logs. The room in which they sat was ill-lighted enough, but she could see something of its im- mensity and of that strange melange of riches and poverty it displayed. The chimney-piece, she thought, must be the largest in the world. You could have roasted an ox upon its hearth, and high above the ingle bizarre figures carved in jet black oak, lifted a bald- achino to the very ceiling. A buffet, just as odd, matched this giant chim- ney-piece. The walls were hung with torn and tattered tapestry. Chairs and tables of oak might have been hacked by the swords of an army. There was no carpet on the floor, but the candlesticks were of pure si ver and worthy a king's house. Es- ther's first impression of this room was of its homeliness in spite of all. The weird scenes she had quitted in the mountains had left her a little awed and afraid.® She was like one who had found a haven from the night. It was all shut out now—all behind her; these amazing walls were her defense. Her lover stood beside her; the blazing fire brouzht the blood back to her stiffened limbs. “I am sure that I shait like it, Ar- thur,” she exclaimed upon an impulse of her gratitude. “How kind you are to me! Imagine being alone on that dreadful road! I shall never let you out of my sight while I am here! He knelt beside her and took both her hands in his own. “Never!” he said, “it s a promise —never until my life's end.” They dined alone in the great hall, the old steward, Martinez, waiting upon them. When dinner was done, Arthur showed her a prettier room, furnished in the fashion of France, with Louis XV ornaments and an old plano, which, like all old pianos, had once been the property of Chopin. Here for an hour she played to him and then at his bidding (for her fa- tigue was unmistakable) she followed an old woman of the house up a nar- row stairway to her bedroom and was left for the time being alone. That sense of homeliness she had discov- ered below was not lacking upstairs, despite walls of white stone and win- s which recalled the years of ivalry. Blazing logs upon an open hearth suffused a gentle warmth and cast their welcome glow upon the high groined ceiling. The bed was cur- tained with dimity, white and spotl Many candles stood upon a wide dress ing table; there were even fresh roses from the valleys in vases of Sevres. From the windows, which were but little more than loopholes in tremen- dous walls of stone, a vista of the pass could be seen and the road by which they had come up to the castle. The night fell calm and still and the wailing wind had ceased. A moon, waxing full and enshrouded in golden mist, rose up between two frowning peaks and pointed the untrodden snow with gems of fire. The sky itself was luminously blue and altogether bereft of cloud. Esther perceived that the castle stood upon a spur of rock and thence thrust out its Moorish gables above an immense at The road to Foix resembled nothing so much as a winding stairway, zigzagging from peak to peak and oft 8o narrow that she wondered a carriage might follow it safely. Vivid as her im- pressions were of the c#untry to which the day had introduced her, this moonlight scene surpassed all the grandeur of its changing shapes and the variety of its weird defiles. Mighty precipices abounded there at the height of the pass. Black basins of rock, prodigiously deep and surmount- ed by spires and pinnacles which evil spirits might have shaped, suggested a nether world, unknown and pro- foundly mvsterious. The snow caps themselves won beauty of the moon- light; some of them were but rounded domes, gentle to the eye and pleasing; others, jagged and twisted, leaned at such odd angles and were so tilted from the perpendicular that you might have thought a touch of the hand would have sent them headlong into the valleys below. Esther found this scene of gorge and crag so alluring that she delayed un- dressing for many minutes to enjoy it. She was alone in the room and none troubled her. Her maid, Suzanne, was to follow them from Paris to-morrow— the willing housekeeper spoke Spanish with amazing volubility, but had no other tongue. Esther was very pleascd when the old woman went about her business and left her to herseif. She had never been a lover of strange faces and at such an hour she did not desire them at all. If amid the natural ex- citement of that night her thoughts passed in any way from her present occupations it was to remind her how far she had journeyed from England and in what circumstances of isolation and dependence. Arthur's love meant s0 much to her in this lonely house. She clung to it as to something which would safeguard her wherever they might be and sooner or later would carry her back to the world again. If she had ever questioged the meaning of her love this night answered her finally. She was naturally a girl of great courage, but she joined to this a disposition to rely both upon the fidelity gnd the affection of the friend she trusted. This gaunt castle, so si- lent, so remote, asked of her those qualities of mind and heart which were most characteristic of her girlhood. She had changed her dress when first she entered the room, and put on a rose-pink dressing-gown in its place, allowing her abundant hair to fall upon her pretty shoulders and trying to feel at her ease. The glass showed her a rosy face and arms and shoulders superbly white. If her thoughts wan- dered from the entrancing present it ‘was to remind her of the hand which had showered these gifts upon her and had made her future possible. She could not think hardly of Doctor Xa- vier, nor believe him to be her hus- band's enemy. She was so supremely happy herself that she desired the hap- piness of others and of all who had be- friended her loneliness. Such reflections caused her to be a little preoccupied and to undress at her leisure. She awoke from them sud- denly to remember what a long time she had been, and was about to make greater haste when, looking from the window by chance, she beheld some- thing upon the mountain path which instantly arrested her attention and, she knew not why, excited a swift sus- picion. But a quarter of an hour ago the utter loneliness of that road and the solitude of the pass spoke elo- quently of the winter's night; but now, observing it for the second time, she perceived that there were horsemen upon it, a straggling company riding up in single file and making, as far as she could judge, for the postern of the castle. The moonlight showed her these figures with great distinctness. Effulgent beams scintillated upon the bright barrels of their rifles and sil- vered bit and spur and all their stern accounterment. She thought that she could place their captain, a cautious horseman, who turned from time to time to address a trooper near to him, or who halted for whole minutes to- gether to observe the gate he approach- ed. Esther could net imagine why those men came to St. Girons or what their business there might be. If she leaped to some wild idea of the truth, her own precarious past was fot al- together unconcerned with it. From the first she could not believe that such happiness as had come to her could endure. There must be a price, a sur- prise and a rude awakening. Here, upon the road to Foix was the witness to the justice of that skepticism. The silent cloaked horsemen, the untrod- den snow, the glittering peaks above, towers and turrets in the gloom below, helped her imagination in its new alarm. She was sure that danger menaced her. Nothing could banish that premonition—and stubborn in her submission she began quickly but with some composure to dress again. When next she looked from the window, the barbican tower hid the men from her sight. Esther bound up her hair, pinned it loocsely, and trying to tell herself that she was foolish to be afraid, she went to her bedroom door and opened it. The narrow winding stair by which he had ascended was in darkness now. he distinguished voices—that of her husband and, as she believed, of the steward Martinez—and somewhat re- assured by these she withdrew into her room, and for a little while heard noth- ing but the sound of her own Heart beating. These suspicions—unjustified, but girlish—endured for a full five min- utes. Ilsther was quite ready to tell herself that her acts were very ridicu- lous, and that the horsemen were no other than travelers crossing by night to Spain, when a quick step upon the stair turned her eyes to the door again, and she was about to open it when her husband burst in uncere- moniously and by word and manner at once confronted her doubts. “Where are you, Esther?” he asked; and then percelving her, exclaimed, “why, you are still dressed!"” She told him everything, disguise. “It is very silly of me, but I have been frightened—and, Arthur, what does it mean—why are those men at st. Girons?” He asked her “what men?” pre- tending to be ignorant of it; but she persisted: “I went to my window and the snow was untrodden—then I looked again and there were soldiers riding up! Wrat is it, dear? Please tell me?” He made a brave effort, but he could not cenceal his apprehensions from her, and so, holding both her hot hands in his and kissing her, he put the best face he could upon it. Something has happened—perhaps it is Gaudarez who has news for me. I have sent Martinez to the gate. You must lock your door and wait until I come up. Of course, there is no dan- ger, but it is as well to be careful in this wild place. You must not be frightened, Esther. The people about here are all my friends; they would do anything for me.” He broke off abruptly and dropped her hands. A woman’s wild scream, ringing through the hall below, gave him the lie and left in his eyes the wild look of a hunted man. He kissed Es- ther passionately, his pulse throbbed in every vein. “I will soon settle this,” he cried; “wait until I come.” And without an- other word he went down the stairs and she was alone again. She did not lock the door, it occurred to her even then that he might be driven and return to her. Holding a candle in her hand she took up a posi- tion at the stairs head and waited more fearfully than she had ever done in all her life. The suspense was in- tolerable; the shadows upon the wind- ing stair she peopled with dreadful fig- ures. The worst was known now—the swift cataclysm in which life, happi- ness, all might be lost. From the hall below came the sound of angry argu- ment and of swords trailing upon the boards. Arthur's voive, clear and dis- tinct above the others, was raised from time to time in command or entreaty; but it gave place suddenly to a sharp cry like that of a man stricken down unawares. Esther belleved that they had killed her lover; she reeled against the wall, the light fell from her hands and she waited in utter darkness. What awful crime had been committed? The uncertainty drove her as with a goad. She could hear the clash of swords, the deep breath- ing of men in anger, the shuffling and gasping cry of those who fight for life. Hoarse shouts filled the house; they without died down as suddenly, and silence, profound and meaning, followed upon the uproar. In the ebb of the storm the messenger of death spoke clearly. A body fell with a heavy thud, unmis- takable, dreadful to hear. Esther could control herself no longer. She ran wildly down the stairs and broke in upon the scene. Twenty men were grouped about the hearth in the great hall and the swords of three of them were un- sheathed. Such light as fell upon the room shone upward from the redden- ing embers of the logs. Capricious rays, they flashed out upon forbidding faces and grim figures, leaving as in the shadow of the grave the body of a man who had fallen dead across the table. Esther’s silent tread had been heard by none, but the cry which es- caped her lips when she entered the hall brought every eye upon her and sent the swords to the sheaths. A bur- ly man, fat and squat and threatening, strode toward her without ceremony. “Ah,” he said in broken French, “you save us the trouble, then, senorita!” She shuddered at his touch, but her courage did not leave her. Vhere is my husband?” she asked, “what have you done with him?" The man dragged her to the light and laughed in bravado. “The Prince sends his compliments, senorita. He is called away. Yon fel- low had a message but is too lazy to speak it. Come, we were waiting for you. It is time to be going, senorita.” She snatched her hand from the man and, covering her face, shut out the figure of the dead. It was not Arthur but another who lay so still in the shadows. Her relief was intense; she turned to the men, imploring their pity. “Where is my husband?—oh, in God's name, take me to him!” No one seemed very willing to an- swer this pitiful appeal, but when she repeated it with tears in her eyes and hands outstretched to them, a young trooper stepped forward and said: “By the Virgin, senorita, but I will do what you want.” It was a chivalrous boast but vain, Scarcely had he spoken the words when another—a wild hillman, drunk and reckless—pulled a dagger from his girdle and drove it in the Vvouth’s heart. He rolled headlong, al- most to Esther's feet, and while his life’'s blood gushed out upon the floor she lost all consciousness and fell, swooning, by his side. CHAPTER XIIL ~ A fresh wind of dawn blowing coldly upon her face awoke Esther from her dream-like sweon. She opened her eves and became aware that the sun was shining upon her face and that the night had passed. Anon, her situation shaped more clearly, and she under- stood that she was strapped upon a horse’s back and that the animal's un- certain step rocked her as in the rudest cradle. She Was very {ll and her brain burned, defying all clear thought. If she remembered anything of yesterday, it was at first indistinctly as something which she would well forget. One by one, ‘however, events aped them- selves. She recalled Her arrival at Foix, the scene at the station, the drive through the hills, the slient gorge, the castle perched upon the height. She dwelt upon Arthur’s passionate tender- ness when they were together at their journey’s end. She recailed her mus- ings in the bedroom, the picture of the snow-bound road, and then, as in a flash, the whole story of the tragedy! Her despair at such a moment was be- yond words to describe. She knew not whenee the outrage had come, or why. At one time she was willing to think that these men were brigands of the hills ®ho would carry her to théir hid- ing-places, where she might expect a worse fate than death. But this thought she quickly rejected. No mere hill thief would venture an attaek upon her husband's house. She must find her answer in a subtler plan, nor could she separate her misfortunes m the story of Arthur’'s kingdom and of his months of exile. He himself had warned her that all mignt not be as he would wish it. This hour of crisis was the justification of his doubts, She suffered terribly from the cold, though they had wrapped fur coats about her and even covered her face with a woolen shawl. The bonds which bound her to the saddle were cruelly tight and left her hands and fect white and bloodless. She could have cried for very pain of it, and yet suffered in silence. That many accom- panied her upon this stran~e journey the circumstances of the hour denied. From time to time she heard a harsh voice encouraging a horse or cursing a loiterer, but the volce was never an- swered and it ended always in guttural self-approval. The road itself told her nothing. She perceived a mighty wall of rock upon her left, rising sheer, as it were, to the very heavens. Her eyes could not fathom the abyss below and she understcod that they were upon the ledge of a precipice, descending to the valley's heart. Thus, for a full hour, she endured her torture with a woman's unbroken courage. They could kill her, she said. She would be content to die if she knew that Arthur lived. The cortege, if such 1t might be called, halted at last; and for the first time Esther beheld the face of one of her captors. This man she recognized at once for the burly ruffian who led the troop last night. His uniform was blue, with metal butto: He wore an odd-shaped busby and @arried an an- cient sword at his belt. As last night, so now, his air of self-importance was tremendcus, and not less ridiculous than the French tongue he delighted to misuse. “So,” he said, crying out in mock sur- prise, “her Highness is awake! Come here, Pablo, come and help me to pay my respects.” He lumbered from his horse and tugged clumsily at the ropes which bound her. She was so faint and bloodless that she could scarcely stand when her feet touched the grcund; the touch of the man's hand was loathsome to her and she drew away from him, clinging to the horse. ‘‘Please leave me,” she exclaimed, “please leave me alone. I do not want your help.” He laughed loudly, and breaking in- to Spanish, addressed her in a long speech of which she could not under- stand a single word. When he remem- bered his broken French again it was to excuse himself upon a pretense of necessity, but with the air of one who would say, “I do what I please!” “The ropes were tight? yes, would you fall down the mountain? I, Alonzo, T make it my business to save your life. You are cold, but the wine will warm you. Here is the posada of Vic-Des- sos. We shall eat and drink, senorita— aye, can you eat and drink? Well, I can, if you will not!"” The sunshine and the softer alr of the valley brought the blood back to Es- ther’s tingling limbs, and although she felt very sick and giddy and her heart sank at every word, she did not answer the man nor again appeal to his pity. The place they had come to was a little grassy knoll abcve the bed of a moun- tain cascade. Here was a rude inn built of planks. Peasants sat at a little table beneath the shelter of a clump of pines. The valley itself spread out far and wide upon her left hand, disclosing a pleasing scene of field and pasture and nestling villages. Now that she could count the number of her escort, she perceived that the company was five in all, and that one of them was the man who had struck her befriender down last night. Not a shred of ro- mance could she now permit these roving bandits. The less kindly sun- light declared many a rent in their tat- tered uniforms and showed their accou- terment as but a metal sham. They were indescribably dirty, ferocious in mein and obviously drunken. Whither they were taking her or to what end she knew no more than the dead. Wild stories of the Pyreneces and it§ moun- tain bands had been tcld her often in Doctor Xavier's houss. She believed that her story was the simplest—she had fallen into the hands of the hillmen and would be lucky to escape them with her life. . They led her to a seat before the inn door and there left her to rest her weary limbs. A Spanish woman, fat but nct unkindly, set a bottle of harsh wine before hgr and a mess of kid's flesh from which she turned with loathing. Her escort, meanwhile, drank deeply and quarreled no less lib- erally. The leader himself, the man they named Alonzo, appeared to E: ther to have a genius for long speeches which was altogether remarkable. From time to time he addressed her as though she had been an audience of ten thousand, in a tongue entirely foreign to her and with an emphasis absolute- ly unnecessary. His fellows, mean- while, played a game with greasy cards and pointed their remarks from time to time with a fine display of Spanish knives. The intruding peasants, taking in the situation at a glance, went off one by ome, and left the robbers in possession of the inn. No scene of con- trasts more picturesque could have been discovered or imagined. Yonder on the heights was the glory and the solitude of sternest winter; here in the valley the murmur of streams, the rustling of leaves, the pasture land, the first fruits of a southern spring. When the bellowing voice permitted her to hear it, Esther was conscious of that buzz of insect life which ever fol- lows abundant sunshine. The cascade, leaping down from bowlder to bowlder, gave a weird music whose note was plaintive and not a little melancholy. Esther’'s brave demeanor both per- plexed and angered the leader of the band. He had sent the landlord hither, thither, in quest of such meager enter- tainment as the inn could afford; and when Esther would do no more than sip her wine, and turn sick and faint from the mess of food they offered her, he was alternately threatening and persuasive. “Ah,” he said, “ we must teach you to be obedient, senorita. You wish to frighten us. Lcok at me, Alonzo Dela- raz—am I one to be afraid? By the Virgin of Cadi, I am not frightened at all! Here is a little whip, senorita. If you make me, I shall know how to use it. Observe my features; do you de- tect any weakness there? Holy image! I have known some cbstinate females in my time. It is like a woman to die for spite—but you shall not die, not just vet, senorita, so please to eat. Do not compel me to forget myself.” She did not look at him, did not say a word. He carried a riding-whip in his hand and he gripped the leather of it tightly, while with the other hand he pushed the dish toward her. “Do you hear?” he repeated, “I am ordering you to eat!™ Agaln she did not answer, did not make a movement. Chagrined at her obstinacy, he caught her by the wrist and ralsed his whip suddenly. “None of your fine airs here!” he ex- claimed with the bully's delight at her helplessness. “Will you eat that meat or will you not?” She believed that he would strike her, and she did not shrink from the blow. The others applauded him, ecrying, “Well done, old Alonzo!"” The woman of the posada stood with folded arms watching the scene indifferently. The question had been put for the third time; Esther believed that nothing could save her from this terrible igno- miny of a blow; when, without any warning, a loud clatter of Hoofs was heard upon the path, and before any man could stir hand or foot a troop of cavalry swept down the defile and reined back in a dramatic halt at the very door of the inn, For an instant Bsther did not know whether the new- comers were friends or foes. She per- ceived many bright blue uniforms and heard an officer talking angrily. Then she understood that the ruffian Alonzo was excusing himself as best he could: but he had not uttered many words when some one snatched the whip from his hand and beat him unmercifully. Esther saw the blood running from his face while he groveled upon his knees before a burly trooper; she beheld the remaining bandits flying wildly to the hills; then some one spoke to her, and she burst into a flood of tears. “Goed God, mademoiselle! what does this mean—who are you? How did you come to this place?” She raised her eyes, and found her- self face to face with a man of fine presence, and apparently of some 30 years of age. He wore the uniform of a regiment of hussars, bright blue in color and heavily laced with gold. “Do not be afraid, I beg of you,” he said. “I am the Count of Foix; these are my men. You have nothing to fear from them.” She dried her tears and answered him quite frankly: “My home is at St. Girons—I arrived there from Paris yesterday—if you could send a message there, my hus- band would be very grateful to you.” He, turned and called a trooper to him. Nothing was easier than to do as she asked. “You are staying with the Prince, then, madame he asked. “I am his wife,” she said. The Count regarded her with a look expressing both amazement and incre- dulity. “The wife of my Prince, madame!— impossible! This is his own regiment. Please do not jest with me. I am one of his Highness’ oldest friends.” ir,” she said, “I would ask you if any one in my circumstances would wish to jest. If you doubt me send to St. Girons at once. I do mnot know whether my husband is alive or dead. You can understand what I suffer.” He did not seem to hear her; his hes- itation was not to be disguised. Some of the hussars, by this time, had dis- mounted from their horses and they held them in a circle about the inn door. The landlady had gone flying into the house at the first word spoken. The bandit, Alonzo, hung limp and dead above the moaning cascade. They hanged him without pity from a branch of the oak in the garden of the inn. ‘When the Count next spoke, he gave an order which sent six of the troopers at the gallop toward St. Girons. “Let me have tidings before sunset. The Prince is to know that I have rid- den to the frontier with this lady. If you find any stranger in the castle, hang him without question; say that the Comte de Foix is your authority. You others, get a litter ready. Madame cannot walk. Let a file go to Merens and prepare breakfast. We shall be there in an hour.” She sipped the spirit and it stimu- lated her courage; remembering that the greater danger had passed, she begged to be taken to St. Girons. “If you will allow one of your men to accompany me, I am sure I can ride there,” she pleaded. “It cannot be very far from here, Count. I am weil enough for that.” The Count shook his head. His man- ner was kindly; but he was plainly ob- durate. “By no means well enough,” he sald; “you forget that one hour’s journey down the pass will be three hours up. It is a hard and difficult road which a stranger follows at his peril Besides, we shall ascertain at Merens what are the Prince’s wishes. I im- agine he will say that I have done well and that I am to take you to Cadi without loss of time."” “You do not consider my anxiety,” she protested. “Will you not think of that? I cannot bear the suspense!" “Your anxiety is unnecessary,” he re- plied, suavely. “I have no doubt what- ever of the Prince’s safety. These men + are vulgar thieves. They will sra!tcr; directly a troop appears in the hills. I imagine they were in ignorance that the Prince was at St. Girons. They certainly have not courage enough to do him an injury!™ With this and similar assurances he did his best to persuade her. She thought it a little odd that he had never once spoken of her marriage or appeared to recognize it. He addressed her as a stranger, it may be as one who had shared the hospitality of St. Girons; but of her act and its .conse- quences he was careful not to speak. “In any case we shall not be long in doubt,” he sald; “my men have definite instructions and will obey them to the letter. If you feel equal to it, we will now go on to Merens; I am sure it is the wiser course, madame.” It was plain to her that he would in- sist upon it, and the futility of further protest being evident, she gave her re- luctant consent and thanked him for his solicitude. Troopers had, by this time, contrived a rude litter of poles and sheeting and in this way they car- ried her from the inn—for she was far too weak to walk, and even the most trifling exertion caused her an effort. Esther wondered, in spite of all, if any English girl had ever crossed the mountains in such a fashion—escorted by a hundred Spanish hussars who had snatched her from insult or from death. The troopers’ jangling arms, the bugle’s deep note, the tossing plumes, the capering horses, suggested some wild pageant of the hills which no story book surpassed. Her imagina- tion would have delighted in such a spectacle but for that vivid doubt which followed every step and ha- rassed her unpityingly. Was Arthur alive? When and where would he come to her? Had her love dream ended for- ever? She knew not. Some crisis of her fate had overtaken her, and the future lay in God's hands. Esther, troubled in her new security, lay back upon the pillow and let the sunshine fall upon her tired face. In the end she slept, and in her sleep she heard her lover's voice. Continued Next Sunday.