II.

Nearly three weeks had passed since the arrival of the regiment. The

larger part of it had already gone to the scene of the insurrection,

but Gerald's division still remained in Cattaro, thereby subjecting his

patience to a severe trial. He and his men had been ordered to the

citadel overlooking the city, now used only for keeping prisoners. The

service was therefore very easy, and the young officer could spend

several hours daily with his fiancee, which was regularly done.

It was very early in the morning. A dense fog rested on the bay and

mountains, and there was less bustle than usual in the port.

Among the sailors and laborers already on the spot appeared the figure

of George Moosbach, walking up and down in full uniform, but evidently

much bored.

He had tried to enter into conversation with one of the sailors, but

the latter understood nothing but Slavonic, and pantomime was not

sufficient to enable them to comprehend each other, so the attempt

ceased. George was strolling discontentedly on, muttering something

about ignorant people who did not even understand Tyrolese German, when

a voice behind him said:

"Surely that's George from the Moosbach Farm."

The young soldier started and turned. Before him stood a priest in the

dress of the Franciscan Order, a tall figure with grave, deeply-lined

features which, however, expressed no sternness; the eyes, on the

contrary, had an unmistakable look of kindness and benevolence, and the

same traits were noticeable in his voice as he now added:

"How are you, George, here in this foreign land?"

George had been on the point of jumping for joy in a most disrespectful

way, but instead of doing so he stooped and reverently kissed the

priest's hand.

"His Reverence, Father Leonhard! I didn't think you would come here to

the world's end too. I supposed you were at home in beautiful Tyrol

among Christians!"

"Well, I don't seem to have fallen among Pagans, for the first person I

have met in Cattaro proves to be one of my own parish," replied the

priest, smiling. "I arrived yesterday and was sent to take the place of

Father Antonius, who cannot bear the climate. I shall accompany the

regiment instead."

The young soldier's face fairly beamed with delight.

"You are going with us, your reverence? God be praised! Then we shall

have one blessing in the wilderness--Krivoscia, they call the place!

It's such a barbarous name that an honest Tyrolese tongue can't

pronounce it. There is nothing except stones, robbers and goats, one

can scarcely get anything to eat and still less to drink"--George

sighed heavily--"and when a man lies down to sleep at night he may

happen to wake with his head split open."

"Those are certainly unpleasant circumstances! But I hear that the

regiment left Cattaro long ago. Why are you still in this city?"

"We have stayed here, the lieutenant, I, myself, and fifty men. We are

up in yonder old walls--the citadel, they call it--guarding a few of

the rascals we've been lucky enough to catch. Herr Gerald, of course,

is furious about it, but that does him no good."

"Gerald von Steinach?" asked the priest. "I don't believe he finds it

so hard to bear the delay, since Colonel Arlow commands this garrison."

"I believe he would far rather be up among the savages," said George,

laconically.

"Why? Isn't his future wife in the city?"

"Yes. And he's a betrothed husband, too, that's certain, but--I don't

like the business."

Father Leonhard looked surprised. "What is it you don't like? Herr von

Steinach's future wife?"

"The young lady!" cried George enthusiastically. "With all due respect,

she's a splendid girl! She looks like the sunshine itself, and she can

laugh and play pranks like an elf. I'm high in her favor, and am

constantly obliged to tell her about our Tyrol, where she was born. No,

I like her very much, your reverence."

"Then what did you mean by your remark?"

The young soldier, much embarrassed, thrust his hand through his curly

black hair.

"I don't know--Herr Gerald always kisses her hand and brings her

flowers, and rides and drives with her--but I should treat my

sweetheart differently."

"I believe so," said the priest, with a furtive smile. "But in Baron

von Steinach's circle people conduct courtships in another fashion from

the wooing at the Moosbach Farm."

"Very true. I know that the manners of the nobility are entirely

different from ours, but when a man is in love it's all the same

whether he's a count or a peasant, and Herr Gerald isn't in love a bit.

In short--there's a hitch in the affair, and some reverend priest must

interfere and set it to rights again."

He looked at Father Leonhard with such honest, beseeching eyes, that it

was evident he firmly believed that a priest could set to rights

anything he undertook. But Father Leonhard replied:

"No, George, the young couple must arrange such things themselves;

there can be no interference. They will learn to know and love each

other better. Gerald von Steinach is a man of excellent character."

"Yes, unluckily, rather too excellent!" George exclaimed. "I believe he

never committed a folly in his life, and people must do foolish things,

your reverence, otherwise men wouldn't be men; it can't be helped."

"You have certainly given sufficient proof of that. Your father and

mother are anxious about how their reckless and somewhat quarrelsome

son may fare in a foreign land. I promised to have an eye on you, but I

think you have kept the promise you made me when you left. Where did

you get that bump on your forehead?"

George hastily raised his hand to his head and drew down his cap so

that the suspicious spot was covered.

"It isn't worth mentioning. It was only in sport, that we might not get

entirely out of practice. Besides Bartel began; he gave me one blow,

but only one, and I dealt him six in return. He won't come near me

again very soon."

"George, you are incorrigible!" said the priest, gravely, but this time

the sinner was to escape the punishment he deserved. Just at that

moment Gerald appeared on his way from the citadel, and, with much

surprise and pleasure, greeted Father Leonhard, of whose arrival he had

also been ignorant.

Again messages and questions about home were exchanged, and when Father

Leonhard said that he was going to call on the commandant, the young

officer offered to accompany him. But he turned back to ask the

question:

"Are the mules ordered, George?"

"Yes, Herr Lieutenant, they'll be at the colonel's house in half an

hour."

"Very well, I think the ladies will be ready by that time. Let me know

when the animals are there."

He walked on, conversing with the priest, and George followed, greatly

delighted that a reverend ecclesiastic was going with the regiment into

the "wilderness," as he persisted in calling Krivoscia.

Spite of the early hour the inmates of the colonel's household were

awake and ready for the excursion, which had been planned the day

before, except Edith, who, at the last moment, had taken a dislike to

the expedition. She thought the weather too uncertain, the road too

long, the ride too fatiguing--she wanted to stay at home, and her

father, instead of opposing this capriciousness by a word of authority,

was trying remonstrances.

"Why, child, do listen to reason," he said. "What will Gerald think if

you stay at home? How can he help believing that his society has no

attraction for you?"

"Perhaps it has as much as mine for him," was the defiant retort.

"Well, then, we shall be quits."

"You had a little dispute yesterday. I saw it by your faces when I

entered the room, and now the poor fellow is to suffer for it. Take

care, Edith, don't strain the cord too tight, he is not over-yielding."

"Papa, you love me, don't you?" The young girl's voice had an unusually

bitter tone. "You would even sacrifice a favorite plan for my sake, you

would never force me into a marriage which----"

"For heaven's sake, what does this mean?" cried the colonel, now really

alarmed. "What has occurred between you?"

Instead of answering, Edith began to weep so bitterly that her father

became seriously troubled.

"But, my child, what is your objection to Gerald? Is he not an

attentive, gallant lover? Doesn't he gratify all your wishes? I don't

understand you."

"Oh! yes, he's attentive and gallant, and--so icy, that I sometimes

feel as if a cold wind was blowing upon me. Danira was right when,

looking at his picture, she told me that he could not love and would

never learn. I have never yet heard one warm, tender word from his

lips, but, on the contrary, he plays the tutor on every occasion, and,

if I don't submit patiently, shrugs his shoulders and smiles

compassionately, as we smile at a child--I'll bear it no longer."

The colonel took the excited girl's hand and drew her toward him.

"Edith, you know how much Gerald's mother and I desire this marriage,

but you also know that I will never force you into it. Be frank, does

no voice in your heart plead for your old playfellow?"

A traitorous blush crimsoned Edith's face and, nestling in her father's

arms, she laid her head on his breast.

"He doesn't love me!" she sobbed. "He thinks of nothing but the

campaign. He is impatient to get away, fairly longs to go, the sooner

the better; he doesn't care in the least that I am to remain behind."

"You are mistaken," replied Colonel Arlow gravely, but with perfect

sincerity. "Gerald might be a little less of a soldier and more of a

lover, I admit, but you ought not to doubt his affection. Passionate

impetuosity is not one of his traits of character, but the better I

know his character, the more security it affords for your future

happiness. Have you ever really tried to win him? I do not think so."

Edith raised her head--she was evidently very willing to be

persuaded--and asked in a low tone:

"You mean, papa?"

"I mean that Gerald has hitherto known much more of your caprices than

of your attractions. Can not my little Edith succeed in striking a

spark from the flint if she tries the other method? She always knows

how to get her own way. Now go, my child, and dress for the ride;

meantime I'll have a word to say to the lieutenant; he has no suspicion

of your interpretation of his military zeal."

This time the young lady found it advisable to obey the request. A

smile was already breaking through her tears, for Gerald's voice was

heard in the ante-room.

"There he is," she whispered. "Don't tell him I've been crying, papa,"

and without waiting for a reply she glided out of the room.

The colonel smilingly shook his head; his mind was now relieved

concerning his daughter's aversion to her proposed bridegroom, but he

could find no opportunity to "say his word" to the latter, for Gerald

entered with Father Leonhard, whom he introduced to the commandant.

The fog was beginning to scatter when the little party of riders left

the city. They passed the fortification walls and the citadel frowning

on its cliff, and entered the open country. The object of the day's

excursion was a visit to a fort situated on a steep mountain several

hours' journey away, whose commanding position afforded a wide and

magnificent view. They intended to avail themselves of the opportunity

to pay the commanding officer a short call, for the order excluding

strangers, of course, did not apply to Colonel Arlow's prospective

son-in-law. The colonel himself was detained in the city by his

military duties, so Gerald accompanied the two ladies.

The mountain road, used principally for military purposes, and

therefore extremely well kept, began just outside of the city. At first

trees and bushes appeared on both sides, but soon everything green

vanished, and the road led upward in countless windings through

desolate, rocky heights.

The dense, heavy curtain of clouds, which at dawn had concealed the

whole landscape, began to grow thinner and thinner till it became a

transparent veil, and finally melted away in blue vapor. The bay and

its shores sank lower and lower, and the mountains seemed higher and

more rugged, the nearer the party approached them. Edith's moods that

day perfectly justified the term "April weather." The shower of the

morning was followed by bright sunshine. No one would have supposed

that the sparkling, laughing eyes had shed tears an hour before. The

dainty figure in the dark-blue riding habit sat the mule lightly and

gracefully, and looked as fresh and sunny as the day struggling

victoriously through the mists.

Edith had either taken her father's admonition to heart or actually

determined to strike fire from the flint, for she was so bewitchingly

engaging that even Gerald's cool composure was not proof against it. He

must indeed have been stone to remain unmoved by such a sparkling flow

of jests and witticisms. The smile that so well suited his grave

features, yet so rarely visited them, became more and more frequent,

and, contrary to his usual custom, he allowed himself to be completely

enthralled by the gay spirits of his _fiancee_.

While the young couple rode forward on the best terms with each other,

Danira followed more slowly. As if by accident, she kept her mule a few

steps behind, and the distance between her and the two others

imperceptibly increased. The rear of the little cavalcade was closed by

George, who trotted comfortably along, thinking how foolish his

lieutenant was to long to be in the midst of the campaign, where they

would be obliged to march in the dust and heat, instead of riding at

their ease on mules.

They had gone about half way when they met a solitary horseman. He wore

the picturesque dress of the mountain tribes of the country, a costume

admirably suited to the vigorous frame and dark complexion of a man

already past his youth. His rich garments and the small but spirited

mountain horse, with its shining brown coat and gay trappings, showed

that he was a rich and distinguished person in his tribe, and moreover

he was attended by a servant or subaltern, who also wore the costume of

the country, but was on foot.

The two men had come down a steep path which met the mountain road at

this point, and in a narrow curve of the latter encountered Gerald and

Edith. The stranger stopped his horse to let them pass, and made a

haughty, dignified bow, though his eyes rested with a hostile gaze on

the young officer. Gerald returned it with a military salute, and

Edith, pleased with the stately mountaineer, bent her head courteously.

They were some distance in advance when Danira passed the spot. The

stranger still sat motionless on his horse, but the young girl's mule

suddenly stumbled, then reared and made a spring toward the cliffs. It

was a perilous moment, but the horseman seized the animal's bridle with

a firm grasp. While doing so he murmured a few words in the Slavonic

tongue. Danira answered in the same language, probably an expression of

thanks for the service rendered. The animals remained side by side a

short time, while the stranger continued talking--not until George came

up did he release the bridle with a brief farewell, and Danira then

rode on.

Gerald and Edith had turned and watched the scene. There was no

occasion for anxiety, as the rider kept a firm seat in the saddle, yet

they waited.

"See, Danira has found a cavalier on the high-road!" said Edith,

laughing. "Her countrymen are not usually ready to pay polite

attentions to ladies; this seems to be an exceptional case."

"It is unusual, too, for a quiet, steady mule to stumble on a smooth

road," replied Gerald, without averting his eyes from the group. "I

don't understand how it could have occurred. The animal must have been

irritated."

"Here you are! What has happened?" Edith called to her foster sister,

who had remained perfectly undisturbed by the little incident, and now

answered quietly:

"I don't know; something must have frightened the beast."

"Did you know that man, Fraeulein Danira?" asked Gerald.

"No; I was merely thanking him for his assistance."

The answered sound positive and repellant, as though she wished to

prevent any more questions. The young officer remained silent, but cast

a keen glance at the spot where the stranger was just disappearing

around a curve in the road. Edith, however, asked with curiosity:

"Did you know him, Gerald?"

"Certainly. It was Joan Obrevic, the chief of one of the principal

mountain tribes, who, though he has not yet openly declared war against

us, is only waiting for the signal to join the insurrection. He has

been in Cattaro several days, ostensibly to make negotiations, and,

unfortunately, has not been sent off without ceremony."

"Unfortunately?" Danira repeated. "You seem to regret it, Baron von

Steinach."

"Certainly, for I believe the whole affair is merely a pretext to gain

time or conceal efforts in another direction. Joan Obrevic has reason

to remain passive for the present--his son is a prisoner in our hands.

This son was one of the first to resist the attempt to force him into

the military service, and unceremoniously shot the officer who

commanded the detachment. This was the beginning of the bloody scenes

which have since been so frequently repeated, but we at last succeeded

in securing the assassin."

"The assassin--because he defended his liberty?"

"Because he treacherously shot the officer who stood quietly talking

with him, expecting no attack--in civilized nations that is called

assassination, Fraeulein!"

Question and answer were equally sharp in tone, but Edith, who had been

listening impatiently, now interposed.

"Dear me, do stop these political and military discussions! I'll make

George my cavalier; he will at least try to entertain me, and not bore

me with accounts of the insurrection."

The threat was probably not seriously meant, but Gerald seemed to

understand it so, for he answered coldly:

"If you prefer George's company to mine I must of course submit."

Again that shrug of the shoulders and compassionate smile, which always

enraged her. They did not fail to produce their effect to-day. She

hastily drew bridle, turned, and called loudly:

"George, come here! We'll ride on before."

With these words she turned into a steep path that saved a long bend of

the mountain road.

George did not wait to be asked twice. He quickly put his mule into a

trot and overtook her the next instant.

A very familiar relation had already been formed between him and the

young lady. Edith liked the somewhat rough but comical and zealous

fellow, saw in him her lover's former play-fellow rather than his

subaltern, and had instantly granted his entreaty that she would

address him with the "Du" used in his native Tyrol. George, on his

side, was not a little proud of this confidential position, and felt an

even more enthusiastic admiration for his lieutenant's _fiancee_ than

for the lieutenant himself.

They rode up the mountain for about ten minutes, then reached the main

road again, and were now far ahead of the others. Edith stopped her

mule, and George did the same.

"I suppose we are to wait here for the lieutenant?" he asked.

The young lady cast a glance backward. Her anger had already vanished,

but she wanted to punish Gerald for his lack of gallantry by compelling

him to ride with Danira.

She knew that he had a positive aversion to her foster sister and that

the feeling was mutual, for he and Danira avoided each other whenever

they could. So Edith found much amusement in the idea of the vexation

of both, if they were condemned to a longer _tete-a-tete_.

"No, George," she said. "As we are in advance, we'll get to the fort

first--that is, if you'll go with me."

"I, Fraeulein--to Krivoscia, if you order me!" exclaimed George, whose

tongue always seemed to have an attack of cramp whenever he uttered the

ominous word.

"Well, we won't go quite so far to-day, but I know how to appreciate

this proof of your devotion. In your eyes, Krivoscia is the incarnation

of everything horrible. So much the better. You won't run the risk of

carrying home one of the Krivoscian girls and making her the future

mistress of the Moosbach Farm."

The young Tyrolese, in his horror, dropped the mule's bridle and

crossed himself.

"St. George forbid! I should first have to lose my senses and my head

to boot. I believe my father would leave the whole farm to the

monastery if I should bring home such a savage, and he would do right."

"Your father of course expects you to bring him one of the Tyrolese

girls for a daughter-in-law?"

"No one else would ever suit!" replied George solemnly, "No other girls

can compare with those in the Tyrol. They are better than all the rest

in the world put together."

"I'm quite of your opinion, especially as I'm a Tyrolese lass myself,

and who knows--if I were not already betrothed, I might have a chance

of being mistress of the Moosbach Farm."

"Yes, that might do!" said George, honestly. "I should have no

objection, I'd take you on the spot, Fraeulein--but it can't be."

Edith burst into a merry laugh. "No, it certainly can't be, but your

offer is very flattering to me, and I will consider it seriously. Now

let us ride on, the animals have rested long enough." She urged her

mule forward and George followed. He respectfully remained a few paces

behind the young lady, but could not help feeling a little regret that

"it couldn't be."

Meantime Gerald and Danira pursued their way alone. The latter, it is

true, had paused a moment and asked: "Shall not we follow?"

"I think not," replied Gerald, so coolly that it was evident he did not

feel at all inclined to submit to his _fiancee's_ whim. "The path is

steep and stony. I at least prefer to ride along the comfortable road."

"And give Edith a lesson," Danira added in a low tone.

"Edith must learn to take more interest in my profession; that is

essential in a soldier's wife."

"Certainly. I only fear that, with this mode of teaching, you will

accomplish nothing."

"Why not? Edith Is still half a child, and children must be taught.

Yet, if you desire to give me any advice on this point, I shall be

grateful." There was unconcealed mockery in this appeal for counsel to

the girl of seventeen, but the cold, sullen glance that answered the

scoff showed that it had failed to reach its mark. The young Slav was

no longer a child; the dark shadow on her brow betrayed how far she had

already advanced into womanhood.

"Edith can be influenced in only one way," she replied. "Then she can

be swayed completely--but the appeal must be made to her heart."

"And you think I have not understood that?"

"You have apparently not desired to do so. The tutor will gain nothing

from this spoiled child--the lover everything."

Gerald bit his lips; he felt the justice of this reproach, but he also

felt a touch of Edith's irritability when she was reproved. Now it was

his turn, and he could not even find a fitting answer.

As they approached the summit of the mountain the road began to ascend

in steeper curves. Danira rode close to the edge; though her mule had

just shown its untrustworthiness, she seemed perfectly fearless. Gerald

could not help noticing how steadily the animal now trod upon the loose

stones, and how firmly the slender hand held the bridle; she evidently

had perfect control of the beast, so the incident appeared all the more

incomprehensible.

They had just reached a broader, rocky projection, when Danira suddenly

drew rein and bent down to her saddle.

"Has anything happened?" asked Gerald, whose attention was attracted.

"Nothing of any importance. Something about the saddle must have been

disarranged by the mule's sudden jump. I did not notice it until now."

The young officer instantly stopped and dismounted, but his companion

swung herself out of the saddle so quickly that she was already

standing on the ground when he approached. He saw that she wished to

avoid his assistance, and therefore, without a word, instantly turned

to the animal. The damage was trifling; the saddle-girth had loosened.

Gerald tightened it again, and then straightening himself, said:

"I think we will let the mules rest a little. They have had a sharp

climb, and the fort is still some distance off."

He knotted the bridles loosely together, and then stepped out upon the

point, where Danira was already standing, gazing into the distance.

The landscape they beheld was both magnificent and peculiar, a picture

whose wide frame contained the most abrupt contrasts. Desolate rocky

wastes, and green, smiling shores, white hamlets glimmering in the

brightest sunshine, and gloomy ravines where scarcely a ray of light

penetrated, the luxuriance of the south and the rude solitude of the

north, but all lay as if transfigured in the clear, golden radiance of

the morning.

Yonder appeared the city, with its harbor and citadel, picturesquely

located on the coast, and beyond the rocks, bare dark-gray stone,

towering higher and higher, growing more and more desolate, till they

at last ended in jagged, riven peaks. Far below gleamed the bay in its

strange, curving outlines, which sometimes seemed to seek and meet each

other, then to recede far asunder. The surface of the water flashed

under the rays of the sun like a glittering metal mirror, and the same

tide lay black and motionless in the shadow of the lofty cliffs, which

actually rose out of it, and whose steep sides were washed by the

waves.

But the eye roved over rocks and waters to the open sea. Yonder on the

horizon it gleamed, mist-veiled, sun-illumined, the blue expanse

seeming to stretch into infinite distance, for at the point where sea

and sky met it blended with the deep azure hue of the heavens, arching

above the earth in all the radiant, glittering splendor of the south.

Gerald's gaze rested fixedly on this magnificent view, whose varied

charms enthralled him. At last he turned to his companion, but she did

not notice it. Her eyes, looking dreamily into the distance, were now

fixed on the mountain peaks of her home, looming dimly through the

mists. The girl herself stood like a dark enigma amid the surroundings

into which fate had cast her. The cold, expressionless face, and the

fire lurking in the depths of her dark eyes, the delicate, youthful

features, and the stern aspect that robbed them of all youth, were as

contradictory as the country of her birth.

Perhaps this very contrast attracted the young officer. This girl was

certainly a different creature from the blonde Edith, with her rosy,

laughing face, around which the blue veil fluttered so coquettishly.

Danira's black habit was wholly devoid of ornament, and the little

black hat, which did not half cover the heavy braids was equally

simple. The slender yet vigorous figure, it is true, showed perfect

symmetry of outline, and the regular features seemed chiselled in

marble, but the sunshine flooding the girlish form appeared to be

repelled; she had something of shadow in her nature which only became

more conspicuous in a bright light.

Danira must have felt the searching glance resting upon her, for she

suddenly turned, and pointing to the distant landscape, said:

"There is a symbol of our country! I think it can bear comparison even

with your home."

"Certainly, and it has an added charm--the superb background of the

sea. The country is beautiful, if only it did not contain so many

enigmas."

"Why, you are just on the verge of solving them all. There is not a

ravine, not a rock-bound province which has not been penetrated by your

troops; the people know how to tell them."

"At least we shall know our friends from our foes, and I think we have

a right to ask that question."

The words sounded so significant that Danira's attention was attracted.

She cast a quick, inquiring glance at the young officer's face, and

replied curtly and coldly:

"Ask, then."

"Suppose I should be obliged to commence here with the query: 'Where

did you make Joan Obrevic's acquaintance?'"

"I have already told you that he is a stranger to me."

"Yes, you said so, but I don't believe it."

Danira drew herself up proudly. "Baron von Steinach, I must beg you not

to extend your educational efforts to me; I am not Edith."

"But you are the commandant's adopted daughter and enjoy the rights of

a child in his household. I must remind you of the fact, since you seem

to have forgotten it."

The young girl turned pale and was in the act of making a hasty reply,

but, as though warned by some sudden recollection, controlled herself.

Yet a contemptuous expression hovered around her lips as she replied:

"At least, until now, the commandant's house has been free

from--spies."

Gerald started as if he had received a blow, his face flushed crimson

and his hand involuntarily grasped the hilt of his sword. No one would

have supposed that his clear eyes could blaze with so fierce a fire as

at that moment, and his voice, usually so calm, sounded hollow and half

stifled.

"That word came from a woman's lips. Had a man dared to so insult me, I

should have had but one answer for him."

Probably Danira had not expected her thoughtless words to produce such

an effect, but she was evidently more surprised than alarmed by the

sudden outbreak. So this man must be irritated, stung to the quick, ere

sparks would flash from the flint. She almost felt a secret

satisfaction in having accomplished this, but now also realized the

full force of the offence. Her eyes dropped, and she answered in a low

tone:

"I was insulted first--I have no weapon of defence except my tongue."

Gerald had already recovered his composure. He seemed to repent the

ebullition of rage and resumed his usual quiet manner, though with a

shade of icy reserve.

"I fear I shall be obliged to give you back the evil name. Listen to me

quietly, Fraeulein," he added, as she made an angry gesture. "The

subject must be mentioned between us. I prefer to apply first to you

and, as we are alone here, it can be done at once."

The words sounded somewhat mysterious, but Danira seemed to understand

them, for she requested no explanation. Yet her eyes no longer avoided

the gaze of her foe, but met it firmly and fearlessly; she was ready

for battle.

"A week ago I was obliged to take to the commandant in person a report

that admitted no delay," Gerald continued. "Leaving the citadel at a

very early hour in the morning, I went to the city alone on foot. I

suppose you know the little house, occupied by Slavonic fishermen,

which stands somewhat off the road; I need not describe it to you. Day

had not quite dawned when I reached the spot. Just at that moment the

door opened and two persons came out. A man--not Joan Obrevic, but a

slender youth, who, like him, wore the costume of the country--and a

lady whom, in spite of the gray dusk, I distinctly recognized. How she

had succeeded in passing through the city gates, which at night open

only to the watchword, I do not know, nor how she returned again. The

pair took a very familiar leave of each other, then one walked in the

direction of the city, the other went toward the mountains, and in a

few minutes both vanished in the fog. But no one had passed through the

gates that night, I was the first person for whom they were opened."

He paused as if for an answer; but none came. The girl remained silent

and did not even attempt to defend herself. The young officer had

probably expected something of the sort. His face darkened still more

and there was an accent of scorn in his voice as he continued:

"Of coarse I have no right to meddle with love affairs, but I have

every reason to suppose that the relation is here abused to forward

very different plans. A few days after this incident, Joan Obrevic

appeared in the city. He, too, frequents that house, and probably also

receives reports there from persons most closely associated with the

commandant. His younger comrade doubtless merely opened the path he is

now following. I, at least, do not believe in the farce of negotiations

which he alleges as the motive for his stay."

Again a pause ensued. Danira still persisted in her silence, though

evidently most deeply wounded by the speaker's glance and tone. Her

face seemed to grow actually livid in its pallor, and her bosom heaved

with her gasping breath, but her lips were firmly closed as if to force

back any words.

"So you refuse me any explanation," Gerald began again. "Then of course

I see my fears confirmed. You can understand that I cannot take

delicacy into account where our safety is at stake. I shall inform the

colonel that he is being betrayed by a member of his own household, and

at the same time beg him if possible to keep the matter from Edith. I

should not like to have my young _fiancee_ learn at what an hour and

place her adopted sister receives a stranger who----"

He did not finish the sentence, for Danira interrupted him. Now she at

last found words, but they sounded like the outcry of a tortured

prisoner who can no longer endure the rack.

"No more! Spare your insults. You are speaking of--my brother."

She hurled the word at him so passionately, yet with such convincing

truth that doubt was impossible. Nor did Gerald doubt, but he seemed

fairly stunned by the unexpected disclosure, and almost mechanically

repeated:

"Your brother?"

"Stephan Hersovac--yes! I saw and talked with him that night; with him

and no one else."

Gerald involuntarily uttered a sigh of relief. He did not know himself

why a load suddenly seemed to fall from his breast. The worst fact, the

treachery still existed; but he had a vague feeling that he could

forgive even this sooner than the other, which had aroused his

contempt.

"Then, of course, I beg your pardon," he said. "I could not possibly

suspect that a brother and sister would surround their meetings with

such secrecy."

"Is it my fault that my brother dares not venture to approach me

openly?" asked Danira sullenly. "He was implicated in the affair which

delivered young Obrevic into your hands; the same fate threatens him if

he shows himself here."

"Yet he ventures into the immediate vicinity of the city. Was that

really done only to see a sister who has become so much a stranger to

him, for whom he has never inquired, about whom he has never troubled

himself?"

Gerald's tone was very different from before, but he had retained the

same earnestness, and the look which strove to read the young girl's

features was so grave and searching that she shrank from it.

"Baron von Steinach," she said, in a hurried, anxious tone, "I have

betrayed my secret to you against my will; you understood how to drive

me to extremities, but you will take no unfair advantage of a

confession wrung from me in a moment of excitement. You will say

nothing?"

"First convince me that I can keep silence without violating my duty.

We stand on the brink of a volcano; hatred and hostility everywhere

confront us; we must be watchful. I have done you injustice once,

Fraeulein, and should not like to do so a second time, but--can you

answer to the man to whom you owe so much for what was agreed upon that

night between you and your brother?"

"To whom I owe the slavery of my whole youth? I suppose you are

speaking of Colonel Arlow?"

The words sounded so cutting that the young officer frowned angrily,

and his voice regained its former harsh tone as he replied:

"Though Colonel Arlow feels your coldness to him and Edith, he probably

never suspected the existence of such an idea in the mind of his

adopted daughter, nor has he deserved such a return for his kindness in

giving a shelter to two deserted orphans."

The reproach only seemed to irritate Danira still more. A threatening

light flashed in her eyes.

"And who made us orphans? Who killed our father? He was dragged here

mortally wounded, to die in prison; my mother caught her death in the

fever-laden air of the hospital, and the children were to be reared and

educated by those who had robbed them of their parents. We were not

consulted when we were torn from our people, our home; we were disposed

of like soulless brutes. My brother was spared this fate; he was

carried back to our native mountains. I remained among strangers, as a

stranger, whose presence was tolerated beside the beloved and idolized

child of the household. They robbed me of everything--country, parents,

friends and gave me in return the wretched alms of an education which

only made me miserable, for it never filled the deep gulf that

separated me from them in every thought and feeling, never let me

forget that I am of a different race. I remained in chains, because I

was forced to do so, yet I felt them when still a child, hated them

from the moment I first waked to the consciousness of their existence.

Now my own kindred summon me, I cannot, will not wear the fetters

longer. I throw them at your feet. I will be free at last."

She had at first spoken with repressed bitterness, but soon her

language rose to a passionate vehemence that forgot every precaution,

swept away every barrier. Her pallid face flushed crimson as the hot

blood suffused her temples; her whole frame trembled with her terrible

excitement; a demon seemed to have suddenly taken possession of the

young girl.

But there was also a demoniac charm surrounding her which was felt even

by Gerald, whose eyes rested upon this apparition as if spell-bound.

Hitherto he had only known her cold, reserved, mysterious; now the veil

was rent asunder, and he saw the real person--the free daughter of the

mountains, in her primal fierceness, which no education, no habit had

curbed.

In a single moment she had flung; aside the fetters worn for years, and

risen triumphant and threatening against her former benefactor. Yet,

notwithstanding all this, the girl was beautiful, bewitchingly

beautiful in this storm of passion. She stood proudly erect, with

flaming eyes; doubtless they still contained the gloom of tempestuous

nights, but now this darkness was filled with darting flashes of

lightning.

Just at that moment, from the heights above, a shout echoed distinctly

through the clear, still air. There stood Edith, who had already

reached the end of their ride, and her companion. She waved her

handkerchief and called merrily to the laggards.

Gerald started as if waking from a dream, and hastily passed his hand

over his forehead, as though trying to efface some mark there.

"Edith is reminding us to start," he said, in a strangely tremulous

tone. "It is really time for us to continue our ride, we had

almost--forgotten it."

Danira made no reply, her dark lashes had already drooped again, and

with them the veil seemed to fall once more over her whole nature; her

face was as cold and rigid as before.

Gerald went to the mules, which had profited by the rest allowed them

to browse on the puny plants growing here and there between the

bowlders. Loosing the bridles he again turned to his companion.

"One word more, while we are alone. You were very frank to me, perhaps

too much so. Can you, dare you, tell me the subject of that nocturnal

conversation in the fisherman's hut?"

"No," was the curt, resolute answer.

"Then I must speak, at the peril of seeming to you an informer. When

treachery is in question--"

"Treachery!" interrupted the young girl with quivering lips. "I am no

traitress."

"Well, what do you call it, then, when hostile plans are woven against

those under whose roof, in whose protection you live? How you reconcile

your residence under that roof with what I was forced to hear just now

is your own affair; it is my duty to warn the colonel, and I shall do

so this very day."

With distant courtesy he offered his hand to help her mount, but she

silently declined his assistance, and, with a single effort, sprung

unaided into the saddle. The next instant Gerald was also ready and

they pursued their way without exchanging another word.

On the height above Edith met them, radiant with delight at the

advantage she had gained and maliciously enjoying the vexation

inflicted upon her lover. She read plainly enough in his face and

Danira's the annoyance they had endured during their ride.

"There come the loiterers!" she cried. "Why did you dismount on the

way? You spent half an eternity on the rock down below."

"It was on account of the view," replied Gerald laconically. "You were

far ahead. Did George take proper care when he went up the steep

bridle-path with you?"

The young lady laughed--it was the merry, bell-like laugh ever at her

command.

"Oh! yes; but you will be obliged to challenge George, Gerald. He has

made me a proposal in all due form, and I requested time for

consideration--the heir of the Moosbach Farm is a good match. What do

you think of it?"

The young officer laughed very little at the joke. He had already

joined his _fiancee_ and was riding close beside her. He felt as if he

must seek in her sunny eyes protection from some unknown power that was

shading him with its dark wings.

They now reached the last bend in the road, and here the whole view

opened before them, still wider and more magnificent than below. At

their feet lay the country with its rocks and waters, its dreary,

barren wastes and luxuriant shores. The fervid rays of the southern sun

were shining upon it, and far away in the distance glimmered the

boundless expanse of the sea.

Yes, it was a strange country. Repellant, yet bewitching, like the

people who belonged to it, and whoever had once taken a long look at it

understood its mysterious spell.