WITH much bowing and scraping and apologetic mumblings, the Jew passed through the doorway and into the room. Once within, he gave a quick turn and, closing the door quietly, he carefully pushed home the bolt on the inner panel. When he turned again, John was astonished at the transformation in the man’s features and bearing.

The bent figure had assumed an erect attitude and carried a head surmounted by a brow indicative of high intellectuality. In the light of the candle which now shone fully on his face, the fine, dark eyes were full of intelligence. He continued to speak in a whining voice, as he held out a piece of paper to Morton, of matters of trade; but as soon as Morton had taken the paper from him he whispered: “Read while I talk. Answer questions without using names; we may be overheard or even watched.”

The whisper, in perfect German, was spoken with the intonation of a man of education. John needed no further explanation as to the real personality of his uninviting caller. He examined the writing and read:

“Pay no attention to what I am saying now—read!”

“Where did you leave my patron?”

“Have you vouchers to prove who you are?”

“What do you want?”

Morton walked to the table, and on the reverse side of the paper wrote:“In ill health at Brindisi.”

“Have letter from Nimar and the Count’s ring; countersign, ‘Arnim’s pledge.’”

“Want to take two girls out for a long drive.”

He handed the paper back to the Jew, who never ceased from talking and gesticulating while he glanced quickly at the replies Morton had written. Morton took the Count’s ring from an inner pocket and held it out in the light. Rosen bowed courteously.

“All is well!” he said in low, clear tones. “To-morrow morning at nine walk along the street to your right, and under the third tree after passing the corner you will see a small boy in a red cap, playing. When he sees you, he will walk off. Follow him. He will enter a doorway. Pass through after him. Twenty paces further you will see an open gate in a high wall. Pass through that also and bolt the gate after you. To your right in the garden, you will find a green door. It will be unlocked; enter, and if anyone asks you your business say you want to see Sig. Rosen about the rare old crucifix he offered you. My daughter Rachel will be there. She will guide you. Is everything clear?”

Morton nodded.

The Jew then resumed his cringing manner and, backing softly to the door, he slipped the bolt back and passed through, whining aloud in his sing-song tones: “I thank your Honor for your indulgence. I hope you will let me show you the articles I spoke of. I can also exchange foreign money for our own. I have beautiful jewelry that would please your ladies, and very fine Turkish arms and antiques to show you. The best and rarest articles from Persia and Anatolia can be found in our town. I am your obedient servant—Good night! and thank you, your Honor.”

The last words came up to Morton from the bottom of the stairway and were accompanied by the sound of the man’s feet shuffling along the hallway.

Things were developing! Morton blew out his candle and felt his way to the tap-room where he found the promised supper awaiting him. The landlord looked unconcerned and served him rather surlily and with ill-concealed indifference. Sitting at a small table in the corner, and removed from the range of an oil lamp suspended from the ceiling in the middle of the room, sat a man apparently engrossed in the contents of a black bottle before him. Ah—this, then, was the explanation for the Jew’s caution! The fellow did not even glance at Morton, foreigner as he must have struck any native to be. He was evidently there for a purpose. Morton took no notice of him, but busied himself in doing justice to the savory dishes provided for him. He took his time about eating and ordered a bottle of wine which he found excellent.

His hunger appeased, he invited the landlord to help him finish the bottle. The landlord, nothing loth, drank heartily and answered readily the questions Morton put to him, which related only to horses and hunting, and took a second bottle to satisfy. And still the man in the corner said not a word, but kept on sipping the liquid in his glass and staring vacantly before him. When Morton had finished, he bade the landlord good night and ascended the stairs to his room.

In spite of his first distaste for the bed, Morton found it more inviting now that he had had a decent meal and was feeling the effects of the wine he had drunk with the landlord. He slept very soundly, though his sleep was filled with dreams of running fights with rough men and hairy beasts, of scaling rocky heights and sliding into deep pits, of detectives following him wherever he went and of a greasy-looking Jew grinning at him.When he awoke, the full daylight was slanting through the openings of the blinds. He was soon dressed and in the tap-room eating his breakfast. His meal finished, he lit a cigar and walked carelessly down the street.

Keeping to the right, he found, as Rosen had told him, a boy, under the third tree, deeply intent on playing with some glass balls. Before he had approached to within some yards of the spot, the urchin had collected his marbles and was throwing and catching his fez in the air. When he had almost reached the lad, the little fellow ran off and disappeared through a low door in a plastered wall. Morton noted the spot and, walking nonchalantly, passed through it, with a carelessness of manner that betokened utter indifference.

He now found himself in a narrow garden plot bordered by a red brick walk. There was little enough in the garden to attract the attention—only a bed or two of autumn flowers, and at the far end, a grape vine roofing a small rustic kiosk. Beyond, the view was cut off by a low rambling structure with heavy tile roofing, the weather-worn eaves of which were covered with deep moss. There was no sign of life anywhere, except the chattering of a few sparrows in the dense boxwood hedge along the walk, and the cooing of some pigeons strutting on the brick walk.

Remembering the Jew’s instructions, he threw away his cigar and turned to his right. A green door in the plastered building confronted him. When he had closed the door behind him a voice from the dark shadows of the hallway called out: “Who is there?” He gave his name to the invisible interlocutor and added that he had come to see the crucifix Herr Rosen had for sale.

By this time his eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness and he could make out the figure of a woman approaching. A door was thrown open and he was asked to enter.

The room in which he found himself was invitingly cozy. It was furnished with an old-fashioned hair-cloth couch and deep chairs. A finely carved round table and an old desk, littered with papers, occupied the rest of the space. The walls were covered in dark leather and decorated with choice etchings. In a corner a choicely carved cupboard stood out in its classic distinction. He had barely time to note these things when he heard the creaking of a door to his left. The hanging was thrust aside and a small but well-built young woman approached smilingly and courtesied to him with quiet self-possession.

“I am Herr Rosen’s daughter, Rachel. Please be seated.”

John bowed, sank into the nearest chair, the bountiful proportions of which he thoroughly enjoyed—it was very comforting after his restless night. At once the young woman plunged into the subject, speaking in fluent German.

“What do you wish me to tell you, Herr Morton? Have no hesitation; you may trust me fully.”

“I am here to take two ladies out of the country, Miss Rosen. Perhaps it will be better if I do not give their full names.” Miss Rosen nodded knowingly. “Very well, then,” continued Morton, “my first object is to be introduced to Miss Mary and Miss HelÈne. Then I want to find out how they are being detained.”

Miss Rosen hesitated for a moment and then spoke rapidly as if she were thoroughly conversant with the whole matter.

“Miss Marie is more or less a prisoner in the castle—exactly opposite this house”—she pointed in the direction of the red tiled building he had observed in the garden. “Miss HelÈne, however, is allowed more freedom. She will be here in less than an hour. She would not forsake Miss Marie and is with her as her companion. She comes here every day after chapel for some of the things they are permitted to have. She is supposed to be at her prayers, but she comes to us instead. I will see that you meet her in this room. It would be no use for you to speak to Miss Marie; the poor girl could not help you in any way. Miss HelÈne is different. She will do whatever you ask her if it means their freedom.”

“How are they confined, Miss Rosen?”

“The Princess—pardon the slip, but no one can hear us here—Miss Marie is in the south wing of the castle, adjoining the chapel, which is built close to the enclosure of the grounds and at the South Gate—the side entrance to the summer castle. If you go through our house that way,” and she pointed to her right, “you will reach Calla Aurel; almost directly opposite to our house is the entrance gate. Marie is never allowed to go out, but HelÈne is permitted to walk in the town for an hour. If she exceeds that time, she will not be allowed to go back.”

“Then Miss HelÈne could leave Padina if she wished?” inquired John in surprised tones.

“No, the gates of the town and the railway are guarded day and night. No one can leave unobserved; indeed, scarcely a soul has left town in the last two weeks. But she could be gotten out of town, however, if she could find anybody to undertake the task. Father has offered to arrange it; but she declines to go. Miss HelÈne will not leave the Princess.”

“Can you suggest a way by which Miss Marie could be smuggled out?”

“I know of only one way which I think would be feasible.”The young woman looked earnestly at Morton as if trying to read his mind. “May I tell it to you?”

“By all means. Your father has told me I can rely on you. Tell me what you have in your mind.”

The girl smiled. “I will, but my plan requires quick action. Our maid is the sister of Sergeant Valera, who is in command of the guards at the south entrance to the palace. One of the guards is her sweetheart—they are to be married as soon as he can afford it. The girl tells me that her Marco will do anything for her. She can arrange that he shall be the guard on any required night. The rest would be simple—merely a liberal sum of money.”

John looked at the girl admiringly. “Splendid, Miss Rosen, splendid! The money will be easy—I’ll attend to that. Arrange for Marco to be the guard for to-morrow night and I’ll get them both out of this place. Can you manage it?” John had risen in his excitement. “I’ll look over the ground now, if I may.”

“Not so fast, Herr Morton,” came in quiet tones from Miss Rosen. “You will only arouse suspicion. Wait here for the present. Miss HelÈne will be here now any minute and you can talk it over with her first.”

“You know best, dear lady,” and John, somewhat calmed, reseated himself.

“Tell me, Herr Morton, what news from the capital?”

“Things are in a very unsettled state there, I am afraid, Miss Rosen. The fate of the royal family and the imprisoned leaders of the nobility is not known positively. The Parliament has adjourned for the celebration of the feast of All Souls and will not re-open until Saturday evening. It is expected that Flava will, on that day, try to carry the assembly in favor of his extreme views and that the Flavarists and the liberal Left will cast their vote with him if he so chooses. Everybody takes it for granted that he will ask for a vote condemning the royal family and nobility to expulsion or, perhaps, worse. He will not spare any of them. In the cafÉs it is rumored that he is seeking to duplicate the proceedings of the French Chamber after the fall of the Gironde—and you know what that means! If we are to act, we must act promptly, or it may be too late. The two ladies must be out of this town by Sunday at the latest.”

Rachel’s face had grown pale. Her hands kept crossing and uncrossing convulsively, and a look of deep fear came into her eyes.

“God of my people,” she whispered in an awed voice, “this is terrible! You are right, Herr Morton, the ladies must be taken away. Oh, Herr Morton—our peasants and our townspeople here are so good and obedient if only they are left to their own good natures. So happy and contented! They love their homes, they love peace and adore their king! Unhappy land—the football of ambitious villains! Yes, yes, Herr Morton, the ladies must be rescued. And we, too,—my father and I will go also. God help us!”

Morton listened silently to this outburst, unable to say a word. What crimes are not committed in the name of liberty! And what fearful sufferings are not endured for those so-called rights of man!

“Father has told me that you are an American. You are the first from that country I have met. You look as if you could accomplish what you undertake. Oh, how I wish I could help!”

“You can, nay, you are helping, Miss Rosen. But you are too young to have such a burden and sorrow thrust upon you.”

“The daughters of our race become women very early in life. We ripen soon. Our people have had to bear a life of persecution for many generations. We know what it is to suffer. That has ever been the lot of the Jew. Believe me, Herr Morton, ours is but a brief childhood.”

Morton could say nothing; he could but look the sympathy he was feeling. The color had mounted to the girl’s cheeks and she was speaking from an overflowing heart:

“It will help you, perhaps, to know that my father has always been very close to—to Miss HelÈne’s father. They were friends for many years. Father is a very learned and wise man, Herr Morton, and very brave and loyal. Once he is your friend, he is always your friend. You can rely on my father. He will be here shortly. He is absent on purpose. He did not want to be in when you called, so as to put off suspicion.”

Morton could not help admiring the fine poise and keen mind of this remarkable young woman—seemingly a child in years, but a woman in sense. “You and your father should come to my country, Miss Rosen. Your father’s talents would be recognized there, and you also, with your wit and beauty. In my country, your people are powerful and honored. Persuade your father, won’t you? If he needs help I will help him.”

“Thank you, Herr Morton; but I hear some one coming. It is Miss HelÈne.”

Rachel bounded up and was through the door in a flash. In that moment, however, he realized whom he was to meet. He stood up, his heart beating, and waited. He had not to wait long, for the curtain was pushed aside and the lovely face of the photograph was framed in the doorway.

The clear, mellowed light which filtered through the lace curtains of the windows fell full on the sweet countenance and revealed the slender figure as it stood against the velvet background of the portiÈres. Miss Rosen had thought it best not to come in with her.

The door behind the curtains closed with a gentle click. She came toward the center of the room and leaned one hand against the table whilst the other timidly rested upon her bosom, which was rising and falling in her agitation.

Morton’s gaze was riveted on her. He saw as in a vision the pale face of soft contour, the delicate nose with quivering nostrils above slightly parted tremulous lips—moist as with the dew of innocent childhood, the eyes encircled by dark shadows—blue eyes, the blue of the wood-violet. She was more beautiful than his dreams. She was looking at him with a pitiful, questioning look, which went to his heart and roused him from his state of trance. All his manhood rose up in him in response to the appeal, and bowing deeply, he said:

“I am Mr. John Morton, Comtesse, a friend of your dear father. I am the bearer of a letter from him to you.” He held the package towards her. “I am here to be of service, if I can, to you and the Princess.”

With her hand still upon her bosom, she whispered rather than spoke:

“Miss Rosen has told me you have letters from my father—pray forgive me—I have been walking fast and am a little out of breath——”

She took the letter in a delicate, white hand and saw that its envelope was unaddressed. It was sealed, but in the corner she noted her father’s mark.

“Thank you. Permit me.”

With trembling hands she broke the letter and, turning towards the window, began to read.

During the reading, John stood drinking in the beauty of the agitated girl. He was exultant and distressed by turns. Exultant in that fate had led him to her—distressed at the sorrow that had come into her life. Come what may, he would, at least, rescue her from her present cruel position and bring her to where life would be worth living. His whole soul welled up in him, and it was only after a great effort of will that he calmed himself to the exigencies of the moment.

The letter read, the girl dropped her arms listlessly. She turned to Morton, her eyes filled with tears:

“How was my father when you left him, Mr. Morton? Was he very ill?”

Her voice broke a little from the stress of her feelings. She spoke in excellent English, though with a distinctly foreign accent, and both tone and words went to the young man’s heart.

“Count Rondell was not well, but he was not suffering. He wished me to hand you this ring as a further guarantee of myself. I was also to repeat to you his message: ‘From Arnim to his Kindchen.’”

HelÈne broke down utterly at these words. She took the ring with trembling hand and kissed it passionately the while tears coursed down her pale cheeks.

John turned away and watched the sparrows flitting across the garden. The scene in the stateroom with her father rose before his mind, and again a deep yearning filled him.

“Forgive me, Mr. Morton. My father’s letter unnerved me. What am I to do?”

John turned a face full of smiling sympathy:

“Comtesse, let me first assure you that I am entirely at your service. Your father could only suggest some plans, but I hope I shall be able to find a way out. But, pray, be seated.”

Comtesse HelÈne sank into the chair lately occupied by Miss Rosen. She looked up at Morton with eager questioning in her eyes.

“Can you obtain for me an interview with the Princess, Comtesse?” Morton asked.

HelÈne shook her head. “That would be impossible,” she whispered.

“Well, it may not be necessary. Miss Rachel has suggested a plan which fits in excellently with the preparations I made before coming to Roumelia. Could you and the Princess be ready to leave by Saturday evening?”

HelÈne gasped with wide eyes. Morton, seeing her state of mind, smiled reassuringly.

“Have no fear, dear lady, all will be well. But you will help me if I know how to proceed. Are either of you permitted to leave the castle?”

“Why—I—I can go out every forenoon for an hour. The Princess is not permitted to leave the castle. We live on the second floor of the wing adjoining the chapel—the wife of Captain Gradsiano, of the guard, shares the floor with us. On the floor below us are the guard rooms and the Captain’s office. We are permitted to go to chapel for our devotions every morning and evening and on Sundays for mass at eleven. I am the only attendant on the Princess. Signora Gradsiano sends a woman with our meals at the regular hours.”

“Who goes with you to chapel?”

“The guard.”

“Comtesse, to-morrow, on your way to vespers, walk as close to the gate as you can. I understand the chapel adjoins the South Gate. I shall be there with my men, ready to take you both away. A closed carriage will be in waiting, with good horses. Bring nothing with you, for everything will be provided for your comfort and needs. Put on your stoutest shoes and your stoutest hearts. If you have any papers or jewels that you value you may bring them, but nothing else. Will you do this?”

“But where are we going to?” the girl asked piteously.

“Your father instructed me to take you to Thuringia. Did he not tell you that in his letter?”

“Yes. He says I am to follow her Highness there. But how are we to get there?”

“I will see to that, Comtesse. Every preparation has been made, even to the securing of fresh horses for the road. Believe me, you need have no fear. I have trusty men to help me, and they will be ready.”

Morton spoke confidently and looked the confidence he felt.

“Time flies, Comtesse. Your hour is almost up. When you see the Princess, pray tell her of the plan and see that she is ready. I will be here to-morrow at this time and give you final instructions.”

The girl rose, her lips trembling and her eyes filled with doubt. She walked slowly to the curtained door, her head bent. John drew aside the drapery, and opening the door bowed deeply, saying: “Until ten to-morrow, then, Comtesse. I beg of you to be of good cheer; and permit me to say that we are deeply devoted to your cause.”

HelÈne bowed her head lower and left the room without a word.

Once more he was alone—but not lonely. He had seen her and spoken to her—face to face. He felt as if he had been on that high mountain and had come down again, his face shining. “God is good to me,” he breathed to himself. He was grateful for the silence of the room, grateful also that no one came in to disturb his thoughts. Mechanically he sat down and lit a cigarette. Everything was going well—everything would go well, if the Princess agreed. How easy it would be if the Comtesse alone were concerned! And as he thought of HelÈne his whole being dissolved into pity. How worn she looked and yet how beautiful! The blue of her eyes was the color of heaven itself. Would they ever shine on him with love?

The sound of voices in the hall woke him from his dreams. A moment later the door was pushed open and the alert face of Rachel with its dark and flashing eyes showed itself in the doorway. She was followed into the room by her father.

The Rosen who appeared now was an entirely different Rosen from the servile trader of the previous evening. He was neatly dressed in sober black and faultless linen, and gave the impression of being a scholar rather than a tradesman. As Morton shook hands with him, he could not help noting the well-cared-for fingers which met his in a hearty pressure. A smile lighted up his features. John was drawn to the man.

In obedience to a nod from her father, Rachel withdrew and left the men to themselves.

John was full of his plans and eager to have Rosen’s opinion. The latter listened attentively to all the details, nodding occasionally in approval. Morton had taken from his pocket a map of the country, laid it on the table and pointed out the routes he had arranged on. Rosen agreed that the plan was a good one, but as John alone was to get the girls out of the castle it would be necessary for him to have a diagram of the town. Rosen supplied this by drawing one very carefully on a sheet of paper. He advised John that bribes were dangerous in the present juncture of affairs—there was too much risk in them. There would, however, be nothing to fear from Marco. Once the girls were out of the town the sparsely settled country would offer few obstacles to his getting across the border. If John could cut the telegraph wires on the way as he planned to do, it would help by delaying the police.

But he would meet his greatest difficulty in the actual crossing of the border, thought Rosen. There was no road over the mountains for hundreds of miles, except by means of the passes, and these were well guarded by the military and the Lingari gendarmes. If he attempted to cross without a passport, Herr Morton might have to fight for it. That was the weak part of the plan. Did Herr Morton realize it?

John coolly said he did realize it; but he would take the risk. He was of the firm opinion that he would manage to get through somehow.

Rosen suggested that Morton and his men should pass as smugglers. Tobacco smuggling was quite common over the border, and the guards were amenable to the persuasive power of gold. “It’s the yellow metal, Herr Morton,” remarked Rosen with a smile, “and not paper, that will get you across.”

Morton said that he would see to it that he had a sufficient supply of this with him.

These matters having been settled to both their satisfactions, John begged Rosen to instruct his daughter to purchase a proper outfit for the young ladies—an outfit proper for the journey and at the same time befit their station in life. Rosen promised to see to that, and the two men parted for the day.

The late noon found John at his hostelry partaking of an excellently cooked dinner served in the most primitive fashion. He then drove out to the Olata ranch, where he purchased several fine horses and arranged for their removal on the following Monday. His man, he told the horsedealer, could call for them and pay the balance of the purchase price.

John had now done everything that would bear out the statement he had made as to the purpose of his visit to Roumelia. He was satisfied that there would be no cause for suspicion. He would retire early, since it was imperative he should be fully prepared for what had to be done the next day. The morning would find Donald and the men in Padina, and he must be up betimes to give them their instructions for the evening.

The man he had seen drinking in the tap-room the night before was sitting in the same place busily engaged eating. As before, he took no notice of the stranger in English clothes, and John was well satisfied that it should be so. Evidently, the authorities were still deeply interested in him.

The windows rattled from a strong wind which had risen. Gusts found their way through cracks in the panes, chilling the room and almost extinguishing the candle. But John’s thoughts were far away from the wretched room in which he lay. He was in a palace in his dreams, gazing at the beautiful maiden who walked in stately grace over its marble floors.

A great gust almost blew the shutters off their hinges. John awoke and shivered. The wind was roaring outside. “Good,” he thought, “a storm will be my Providence.”