I.

The storm had lasted all night. Not until early dawn did the gale

lessen and the towering billows of the sea begin to subside.

The steamer, which had undergone a tolerably severe conflict with wind

and waves, was just running into the sheltering harbor, at whose end

appeared her destined port, a picturesquely situated town, dominated by

a strong citadel on a rocky height.

In the bow stood a young officer in the uniform of the Austrian

Imperial Chasseurs, who, spy-glass in hand, was scanning the scene. The

light fatigue cap covering his thick, fair hair, shaded a face that

harmonized perfectly with his manly bearing. Every feature was grave,

firm, resolute, and the clear light-brown eyes, with their quiet,

searching gaze, suited the countenance. Yet one might have desired a

little more life and animation; the grave, passionless repose of a face

so youthful produced an almost chilling impression. A heavy step was

heard on the cabin stairs, and directly after a young soldier, who wore

the same uniform, approached. The steamer still rocked so much that he

had some difficulty in crossing the deck to his officer, who now closed

the glass and turned toward him.

"Well, George, what are the men doing?" he asked. "How are things going

down below?"

"It's awful, lieutenant," was the reply. "They are still so sea-sick

that they can neither hear nor see. You and I are the only ones who

have kept up."

"I suppose you are very proud that we two are the only ones who have

proved ourselves good sailors?" said the officer, with a flitting

smile.

"I should think so," answered George. "When a man has seen nothing but

mountains all his life, it's no small matter to toss about on this

confounded glittering blue sea, as we have done for three days and

nights. This Cattaro is surely almost at the end of the world."

He spoke in the purest Tyrolese dialect, and now stationed himself

close behind the officer with a familiarity that implied some closer

relation than the tie between a subaltern and his commander.

George was a handsome, sturdy fellow, with curly black hair and a

fresh, sun-burnt face, in which a pair of black eyes sparkled boldly

and merrily. At present, however, they were scanning with evident

curiosity the goal of the journey which the steamer was now

approaching.

The open sea had already disappeared, and nearer and darker towered the

gigantic peaks which had been visible in the distance since early dawn.

They seemed to rise from the water in every direction and bar the

ship's way, but a narrow passage between the cliffs opened like a huge

gloomy gate, and the whole extent of the harbor appeared before the

vessel as she steered in.

The foaming, surging waves had been left outside, and the water lay

almost motionless, encircled by the chain of mountains surrounding it.

The sun was already struggling with the dispersing storm-clouds; ever

and anon golden shafts darted through them and danced upon the waves,

and broad, shimmering rays of light gleamed through the mist, but the

fog still rested in dense masses over the city, and the citadel was

scarcely visible in the shadow of the clouds gathered around it.

"A magnificent view!" said the young officer in a low tone, more to

himself than to his companion, but the latter assumed a very

contemptuous air.

"Pshaw, they're not like our Tyrolese mountains! No forests, no

streams, not a human habitation up there! This is surely the beginning

of the wilderness, and if we once get in there we'll never come out

alive."

He sighed so heavily that the lieutenant frowned and glanced angrily at

him.

"What does this mean, George? Are you losing heart? You were no

peace-maker at home. Wherever there was a brawl, George Moosbach was

sure to be in it."

"Yes, that he was!" George assented with great satisfaction. "But it

was only sport! Still, if we were going to fight honest Christians I

should have no objection to doing it in earnest. We should at least be

among our own people, and if a man were killed he would have Christian

burial, but fighting these savages is no joke. I've been told that they

cut off the noses of their enemies--if they have them, of course--and

both ears to boot, and that's certainly a very disagreeable custom."

"Nonsense! You and your comrades have imposed upon each other by all

sorts of stories, and now swear to them as is your custom."

"But Baroness von Steinach was terribly frightened when the marching

orders came. She sent for me to come to the castle and made me promise

never to leave your side, Herr Gerald--beg pardon, Herr Lieutenant, I

meant to say."

"Oh! use the old name, we are not on duty now," replied Gerald;

"respect for your lieutenant doesn't agree with the memories of our

boyhood, when we were playfellows. So my mother sent for you? Yes, she

is always anxious about the life of her only son, and can never

accustom herself to the thought that danger is part of the soldier's

trade. But there is the port in sight! Go to your comrades, they have

probably nearly recovered, the water is smooth here."

"Yes, Herr Lieutenant!" replied George, drawing himself up with a

military salute and marching off, while Gerald von Steinbach again

raised his spy-glass.

Meantime the steamer had been sighted from the shore, and its

appearance caused an eager stir near the harbor. True, ships bringing

troops to this distant frontier of the empire were now daily arriving;

still it was an event, and a motley crowd in which, however, uniforms

predominated, thronged the landing-place to greet the new arrivals.

Not far from the shore was a fine residence overlooking the bay. It was

the home of the commander of the garrison, and at the window stood a

young lady, gazing intently through the gradually dispersing fog at the

approaching ship.

The graceful figure framed by the window looked like a picture against

the dark background of the room, a picture in which everything was

bright and sunny, the rosy, laughing face, the fair curling locks, the

blue eyes radiant with mirth.

There was a great deal of arrogance and self-will in the charming

little face, and the extremely elegant attire which, in this

out-of-the-way place, displayed the very latest fashion prevailing in

the capital, showed that vanity was not a total stranger to the young

lady. Yet there was something bewitching in the little elfin figure

that leaned so gracefully out of the window, and now turned with every

sign of impatience.

"The steamer hardly moves to-day," she said, angrily. "It has been

in sight for more than half an hour. It ought to have reached the

landing-place long ago, and is still floating on the waves yonder.

Danira, for heaven's sake, put down that book! I can't bear to see you

reading so indifferently, while I am almost dying with curiosity."

The person addressed laid the book aside and glanced hastily out of the

window. She was probably about the same age--neither of the girls could

have been more than seventeen--but it would have been hard to find a

greater contrast than the pair presented.

There was something foreign in Danira's appearance which did not seem

to suit either her fashionable dress or her surroundings. Her face was

dark as if burned by a scorching sun, and yet pale, for the cheeks

showed scarcely a tinge of color. The luxuriant braids, blue-black in

hue, seemed to yield reluctantly to the constraint of being fastened on

the head; they looked as though they must fall by their own weight and

float unconfined.

Her long dark lashes were usually lowered, but when raised, revealed a

pair of large dark eyes, full of dewy radiance. Their expression was

cold and careless, yet their depths concealed a light ardent and

glowing as the rays of the Southern sun, which had evidently kissed

them.

The girl's voice too had a peculiar tone, deep yet musical, and the

German words, though spoken with perfect fluency, had a slight trace of

the foreign air which characterized her whole appearance.

"The steamer will be here in fifteen minutes," she said. "It is coming

at the usual time. Are you so impatient to see your betrothed

bridegroom, Edith?"

Edith tossed her little head. "Well, what if I am! We have become

almost strangers to each other. I was a child when we left home, and

Gerald only came from the military school to bid us good-bye. He was a

handsome fellow then--I remember him perfectly--but a little priggish,

rather stupid, and possessed of a horrible talent for lecturing. But

I'll cure him of that most thoroughly."

"Do you intend to 'cure' your future husband before you have ever seen

him?" asked Danira, with a tinge of sarcasm. "Perhaps he isn't so

yielding as your father."

Edith laughed. "Oh! Papa is sometimes stern enough to other people--yet

I do as I please with him, and it will be the same with Gerald. Do you

like his picture?"

She took a large photograph from the writing-table and held it toward

Danira, who, with a hasty glance at it, answered in a curt, positive

tone, "No."

Edith's blue eyes opened wide in amazement.

"What, you don't like this picture? This face with its handsome,

regular features----"

"And eyes as cold as ice! That man has never loved, his glance says

so."

"Well, he must learn then! That shall be my task. Of course I shall see

little enough at first of this lieutenant, who has been sent

campaigning and courting at the same time. He must go and fight your

countrymen for weeks up in the mountains before he can pay proper

attention to me. I hope it won't be long ere the bands of insurgents

are scattered and destroyed. I shall tell Gerald that he must hasten

the victory and his return on pain of my displeasure."

There was only saucy mirth in the words, nothing more, but Danira

seemed to find a different meaning. Her eyes flashed, and in a voice

that sounded almost cutting, she replied:

"Better tell him to take care that he does not lose up yonder all hope

of return and marriage--forever!"

Edith gazed at her a few seconds, perplexed and startled, then

indignantly exclaimed:

"I believe you are quite capable of wishing it. Is it possible that you

still care for those savages, who have not troubled themselves about

you since your childhood? Papa is perfectly right when he says you have

no affection, no gratitude, in spite of all he has done for you."

A half bitter, half grieved expression hovered around Danira's lips as

she heard these reproaches. "Gratitude!" she repeated, in a low tone.

"You do not know how hard a duty gratitude is, when it is required."

Spite of the sharp tone there was something in the words which disarmed

Edith's anger. Stealing to her companion's side, she laid her hand on

her arm.

"And I?" she asked in a voice of mingled reproach and entreaty, "am I

nothing to you?"

Danira looked down at the rosy blooming face, and her tone

involuntarily softened.

"You are much to me, Edith. But--we do not understand each other and

never shall."

"Because you are inaccessible and self-contained as a book with seven

seals. I have always been a friend, a sister to you. You would never be

the same to me."

The reproach must have struck home, for Danira's head drooped as if she

were conscious of guilt.

"You are right," she said in a troubled tone, "it is all my fault. But

you do not, cannot know----"

"What is it I don't know?" asked Edith, curiously. Danira made no

reply, but passed her hand lightly over the curly head resting on her

shoulder and gazed into the blue eyes, now glittering with tears.

Perhaps the young girl's feelings were deeper, more earnest than she

had believed.

Just at that moment they heard the signal announcing that the steamer

had reached the landing. Edith started, her tears vanished as quickly

as they had come, anger and reproaches were alike forgotten and the

young girl rushed to the window with the eagerness and curiosity of a

child that has been promised a new toy and cannot wait for the moment

of seeing it.

The scornful expression again hovered around Danira's lips. She pushed

aside, with a gesture of repugnance, the photograph which still stood

on the table, and, taking up her book again, turned her back to the

window.

Yet the young fiancee's impatience was very excusable, for her

remembrance of her betrothed husband dated from her earliest childhood.

Her father. Colonel Arlow, before being transferred to the distant

Dalmatian fortress, had been stationed with his regiment in the capital

of Southern Tyrol, only a few hours ride from Castle Steinach, and the

matrimonial plan had been arranged at that time. Gerald's father, on

his death-bed, had told his son of this darling wish, and Edith had

been educated expressly for him. While the young officer was preparing

for his military career, his betrothed bride, who had lost her mother

when very young, had grown up in the house of a father who spoiled and

idolized her. Distance had hitherto prevented a meeting between the

young couple, but at the outbreak of the insurrection Gerald's regiment

was unexpectedly ordered to Cattaro, and thus chance ordained that his

first campaign should also be a courtship.

Meantime the disembarkation had already begun, but amid the confusion

of arrivals and greetings it was scarcely possible to distinguish

individuals. At last, a group of officers separated from the throng and

walked toward the city, and but half an hour elapsed ere the commandant

entered the room with his guest.

Colonel Arlow, a fine-looking, soldierly man in the prime of life, led

the young officer to his daughter, saying, in a jesting tone:

"Herr Gerald von Steinach, lieutenant in the Imperial Chasseurs,

desires an introduction to you, my child. See whether you can recognize

in this young warrior the features of your former playfellow. Of

course, Gerald, you will not remember the child of those days; she has

altered considerably in the course of the years."

The last words and the look that rested on his daughter expressed

joyous paternal pride, a pride certainly justifiable. Edith was

wonderfully charming at that moment.

Gerald approached her with perfect ease, and, holding out his hand,

said cordially:

"How are you, Edith?" The words from his lips, with their native

accent, sounded as familiar as if he had taken leave of his little

_fiancee_ only the day before.

Edith looked up at the tall figure, met the eyes resting gravely but

kindly upon her, and suddenly lost her composure entirely. A burning

blush crimsoned her face, the words of greeting died upon her lips, and

she stood silent and confused, perfectly unconscious how bewitching she

looked in her embarrassment.

Gerald gallantly kissed the little hand that rested in his own, but

only held it a moment ere he relaxed it.

He had evidently received a pleasant impression of his young _fiancee_,

but his nature was apparently incapable of deep or passionate emotion.

He now saw for the first time that another lady was standing at the

back of the room, and turned with a gesture of inquiry to the colonel.

"My adopted daughter, Danira," said the latter carelessly. He seemed to

consider any further introduction unnecessary, and there was even a

tone of negligence in his voice.

The young officer bowed, casting a somewhat puzzled glance at the

girl's sullen face. Danira returned the salute without raising her

eyes.

Gerald brought messages and letters from his mother, and these afforded

subjects for a conversation which soon became extremely animated, and

in a few moments dispelled the last remnants of constraint still

existing between the young pair.

Edith had conquered her momentary embarrassment, and now resumed the

familiar tone of her childhood. She fairly sparkled with gayety and

jest, as was her nature, but all her vivacity failed to infect Gerald.

He was courteous, gallant, even cordial, and readily answered all her

questions about his journey, his home and his mother, but he did so

with the grave, quiet composure that seemed an inseparable part of his

character.

At last the conversation turned upon the approaching campaign. The

colonel did not consider the insurrection so trivial a matter as many

of the officers. He spoke of it earnestly, even anxiously, and, for the

first time, Gerald appeared really interested. He was evidently a

thorough soldier, and Edith noticed with a surprise equal to her

displeasure that the campaign lay far nearer to her lover's heart than

the courtship of his bride. With all her charms she had failed to rouse

one spark of feeling from the unvarying calmness of his manner, but

now, while talking of mountain passes, fortifications, attacks and

similar uninteresting things, his eyes brightened and his face began to

flush with eagerness.

The young lady was accustomed to be the principal object of attention,

and felt offended to have a man absorbed in such subjects while in her

presence. Her lips pouted more and more angrily, and the lines on her

smooth brow indicated an extremely wrathful mood. Unluckily Gerald did

not even notice it, he was plunging deeper and deeper into military

matters with the commandant.

Once, however, he faltered in the midst of a sentence. He had addressed

a question to the colonel, and pointing to the mountains, turned toward

the window, when he suddenly saw Danira, of whom no one had taken any

further notice. She was standing, half concealed by the curtain,

apparently uninterested, yet her face betrayed feverish suspense,

breathless attention, she was fairly reading the words from the

speaker's lips.

For a moment her gaze met the young officer's. It was the first time he

had seen her eyes, but a menacing, mysterious look flashed from their

depths. He could not understand its meaning, for it was only a

moment--then the lashes drooped and the girl's features regained their

usual rigid, icy immobility.

The colonel answered the question with great minuteness, and the

discussion between the two gentlemen became more and more animated.

Edith listened a few moments longer but, as the pair did not seem

disposed to leave their mountain passes and fortifications, her

patience became exhausted. Rising with the freedom and rudeness of a

child she said, in a tone intended to be sarcastic, but which sounded

extremely angry:

"Come, Danira, we will leave the gentlemen to their conversation on

military affairs. We are only interrupting these interesting

discussions."

With these words she unceremoniously seized her adopted sister's arm

and drew her into the adjoining room. Gerald looked after her in great

astonishment; he evidently had no suspicion of the crime he had

committed. The colonel laughed.

"Ah! yes, we had forgotten the presence of the ladies! They take the

liberty of showing us how greatly our war stories bore them, and after

all they are right. You have lost Ethel's favor, Gerald, and must seek

forgiveness."

Gerald seemed in no haste to do so, he answered with perfect composure:

"I am sorry, but I really supposed Edith might be expected to take some

interest in a campaign where I am to win my spurs."

"Perhaps she is afraid it will make you forget her," said the colonel

with a shade of reproof. "It really almost seemed so. My little Edith

is spoiled in that respect. Perhaps I have indulged her too much, we

are always weak toward an only child. I am glad that you are so devoted

to your profession, but young girls desire first of all to see a lover

in a betrothed husband. The military hero occupies a secondary place.

Note that, my boy, and govern yourself accordingly in future."

Gerald smiled. "You are right, perhaps, I am too thorough a soldier,

but ought Edith to reproach me for it? She is a soldier's daughter, a

soldier's promised bride, and is living here amid all the excitement

and preparations for the campaign. Her companion seemed far more

interested in it."

"Danira? Possibly. I have not noticed."

"Who is this Danira? There is something peculiar, foreign in her

appearance. She cannot be a German. Every feature betrays Slavonic

origin."

"Yes, that blood does not belie itself," said Arlow indignantly. "You

are perfectly right, the girl belongs to the race that is giving us so

much trouble, and you have before your eyes a type of the whole people.

When Danira came to my house she was a child, who could have received

no very deep impressions of her home. She has had the same education as

Edith, has been reared like a daughter of the family, has lived

exclusively in our circle, yet the fierce, defiant Slav nature has

remained unchanged. Neither kindness nor harshness can influence it."

"But how came this adopted daughter into your house? Did you receive

her voluntarily?"

"Yes and no, as you choose to regard it. When I was ordered to my

present post, the insurrection, which was then supposed to be finally

suppressed and is now again glimmering like a spark under ashes, had

just been put down. Yet there were still daily skirmishes in the

mountains. During one of these, a leader of the insurgents fell into

our hands severely wounded, and was brought here as a prisoner. After a

few days his wife appeared with her two children, and asked permission

to see and nurse him, which was granted. The man succumbed to his

wounds; the wife, who had caught a dangerous fever prevailing at that

time in our hospital, soon followed him to the grave, and the children,

Danira and her brother, were orphaned."

Gerald listened with increasing interest; the young Slav girl would

probably have been indifferent to him, but her origin aroused his

sympathy and he listened attentively to the story of the commandant,

who now continued:

"My officers and I agreed that it was both a humane duty and a point of

honor to adopt the orphans, and we knew, also, that persons in high

places would be pleased to have the children of one of the most dreaded

insurgent chiefs under our charge and training. Conciliation was then

the watchword. I took the little ones into my own house, but after a

few weeks the boy vanished.

"Had he fled?"

"We thought so at first, but it soon appeared that he had been carried

off by his countrymen. Danira escaped the same fate only because she

was sleeping in the room with Edith. Besides, women are little valued

by this people. To leave their chiefs son in our hands seemed to them a

disgrace, but they did not care about the girl."

"So she remained in your house?"

"Yes, by my dead wife's express desire. I at first opposed it, and the

result proves that I was right. Every care and kindness was lavished on

this girl, who even now, after so many years, is still as alien, I

might almost say as hostile to us, as on the first day of her arrival.

If I did not know that my Edith's bright, sunny temperament

instinctively repels such influences, I should be anxious about this

companionship and should have put an end to it long ago."

"Such mysterious natures are unsympathetic to me also," replied Gerald

hastily, with an expression that almost betrayed repugnance. "There is

something uncanny in her appearance. I met her eyes a moment a short

time ago, and it seemed as if I were gazing into a dark, tempestuous

night. Edith, on the contrary, seems like a bright spring day, though

with somewhat April weather."

The colonel laughed heartily at the comparison.

"Have you discovered that already? Yes, she is as capricious as an

April day. Rain and sunshine in the same moment. But I can give you the

consolation that the sunshine predominates, only you must understand

how to call it forth. Now go to her, that your first meeting may not

end in discord. You will come to an understanding better if you are

alone."

He waved his hand kindly to his future son-in-law and left the room.

Gerald did not seem to have thought of a reconciliation, but he could

not disregard this hint; and, besides, the father was right, this first

hour of their intercourse ought not to end in discord. The young man,

therefore, went to the adjoining room, where the girls probably still

remained. His coming had doubtless been expected, for at his entrance

something fluttered away like a frightened bird, and he saw Edith's

light summer dress vanish behind the door of the adjacent apartment.

But the concealment did not seem to be very seriously meant--besides

the dress a little foot was visible, betraying the listener's presence.

Gerald turned to Danira, who had not left her seat.

"I wished to have a few minutes' conversation with Edith. I expected to

find her here."

"Edith has a headache, and will not make her appearance again until

dinner time; she does not wish to be disturbed now."

While Danira carelessly delivered the message she stepped back a

little, as if expecting that the young officer would not heed the

command but enter in spite of it. He could not help seeing his

_fiancee_ in her hiding place, or fail to understand that she was

merely making it a little difficult for him to obtain forgiveness.

Gerald really did cast a glance in that direction, but instantly drew

himself up and with a military salute, and said:

"Then please give my regards to her." And he left the room without even

glancing back.

He had scarcely gone when Edith appeared from behind the door. She

looked more astonished than indignant, and evidently could not

understand the rebuff she had received.

"He is really going!" she angrily exclaimed. "Yet he must have seen

that I was in the room, that I expected him--he probably did not wish

to find me."

Danira shrugged her shoulders. "I'm afraid it won't be so easy for you

to 'cure' this man. He has just showed you that he does not allow

himself to be trifled with."

Edith stamped her little foot on the ground like a naughty child.

"I told you he had a horrible leaven of the schoolmaster, but his very

defiance pleased me. He really looked like a hero when he drew himself

up in that soldierly way and stalked off with his spurs clanking."

She saucily tried to imitate Gerald's gait and bearing, but Danira did

not even smile. Her tone was cold and grave as she replied:

"Beware of that obstinacy; it will give you trouble."