HELÈNE awoke the next morning wild-eyed and distraught. She had had a most frightening dream. She had dreamed that she was bound and enveloped in a coarse rug, carried like the captive of some barbarian soldiery. Two terrible looking men in shaggy furs and great turbans were taking her down a narrow winding step-way hewn in a steep rock. She saw the slimy walls dripping with water and felt the heavy, damp air weighing on her chest so that she could scarcely breathe. She tried to scream in her terror. She heard the roaring of the surf beating against a door into which she realized she would soon be carried a prisoner. She must act at once—cry aloud for help. Straining at the thongs that bound her cruelly she gave a groan. It was then she awoke.

Her throat felt dry and almost parched. Trembling in every limb, she passed her hands over her face and took courage to look about her. Her eyes caught a purplish color against yellow boards; irregular cracks and knot holes let in faint streaks of light. Where was she? She pushed aside a heavy braid of hair that had fallen across her face and tried to collect herself. A grating noise from without drew her attention to the wall, where she saw a partly opened broad low window across which floated a purple scarf. Gradually she remembered. One by one the events of the past hours came back to her. She recalled the last words the young American had addressed to her. He had asked her to leave the window open, and she remembered carrying out his suggestion to put something over the opening so as to keep out the morning’s light. He had left her a lamp and a clock. Yes, the lamp was still there, its pale yellow flame flickering feebly now. The clock also was by the bedside ticking quickly. Its “tick-tock, tick-tock,” somehow comforted her; there was a human quality in the almost impudent carelessness with which it was doing its business—so regardless of her own feelings. How silly of her to be frightened by a dream!

By her side lay the Princess, her face and hair almost pansy-tinted in the light that filtered through the improvised purple-colored scarf-curtain. She was breathing regularly in a sleep that would be strengthening in its refreshing rest. And then came thoughts of the dangers yet to be endured and overcome. Would they once again be free and happy? Would it be granted to them to see their loved ones again? The questions brought a longing hope shot through with pain. But come what may she would play her part as her father would have wished her to play it.

Stepping out of bed so as not to arouse her companion, she dressed herself in the rough peasant’s costume she had worn the day before, and crept on tip-toe to the window.

Pushing aside the scarf, she leaned out to inhale the cool, balmy air. But the sight that met her eyes made her start back. Surely this was fairyland! Through majestic tree trunks and spreading boughs of noble firs, shafts of sunlight shot down on an earth white with snow. In the golden light the crystals shone and glittered again. The light wind blew the flakes and showered them abroad so that they seemed like floating diamonds as they dropped noiselessly to the ground. High up through the branches she caught a vista of a deep-blue sky, crossed and recrossed by the gleaming white bars of branches and making a pattern of lace work as intricate as it was wonderful. She felt as if she had been transported by some genii into a palace of snow and stalactites. And through it all—through this indescribable maze of virgin whiteness—floated and vibrated a bluish haze, an azure atmosphere that seemed as if it could be felt—pulsating light and living shadows playing a bewildering dance. HelÈne could scarcely breathe, so entranced was she. She leaned over the window-sill and watched the downy snow as it fell, released from its hold on the branches under the redeeming influence of sunlight. The blood coursed rapidly through her veins; her heart quickened and a new courage and hope came to her. She forgot her anxiety, she forgot the dangers, she thought of nothing but fairies and flowers and the sweet visions of her childhood. She was all compounded of wonder and worship, and happy, happy, happy!

A clear shrill whistle, the intimate call of a bird, drew her attention to the mysterious depths of the lower foliage. A little crossbill was hopping and flitting back and forth; and then she remembered that it was still autumn in the valleys below. And with this remembrance she was brought back to the reality of her present situation—of her escape from the palace with the Princess; of Mr. Morton—how brave and gentle he was! Of the terrible journey through the storm—how kind and considerate he had been!—of their arrival at this place—how encouraging and courteous he had proved himself! Who and what was this man? The little bird flew off with a whirr, and a knock sounded on the door. HelÈne jumped back quickly.

“Good morning, ladies!” came Morton’s voice through the closed door, “it is a lovely morning and breakfast will be ready as soon as you are.”Ah, what a friendly sound his words carried with them! She stepped quickly to the door and called out heartily:

“Good morning, Mr. Morton. I am already dressed, and the Princess soon will be. Isn’t it glorious outside?”

“Glorious, indeed. Don’t hurry. Call out the moment you are ready. We are just in the next room.”

“Thank you; we shall be with you in ten minutes.”

She listened to his firm steps and heard the outer door being closed. For a moment she stood smiling at the wooden partition.

“HelÈne, HelÈne, where are we?”

She turned quickly and found the Princess sitting up in bed, her hair in disorder and her great dark eyes staring frightened at her.

“Oh, my darling,” she cried, running up to her, “get up and dress at once. It’s so lovely and beautiful outside. I have just been speaking with Mr. Morton, who came to tell us that breakfast would soon be ready. I am so hungry that I could eat all Roumelia.”

“I didn’t know where I was when I woke up,” sighed the Princess, “and when I found you were not by my side I got frightened.”

“There is nothing to be afraid of now. Mr. Morton says we are quite safe. Come, let me be your maid this morning,—we must put on pleasant faces if only to show Mr. Morton that we have confidence in him.”

“You are right, dear HelÈne. I am afraid I’ve been a bit of a kill-joy. But, oh, you don’t know what I’ve suffered.”

“I do know, dear Princess, and I feel for you in all my soul. But the danger is passed now, and you will soon be with your friends.”

Thus comforting and cheering her companion HelÈne helped her to dress. In a little more than the ten minutes they were both ready, and with fresh, smiling faces walked timidly into the adjoining apartment.

They found no one there; but a table all laid out with tablecloth, plates and eating utensils was in the center of the room, giving it a homelike and inviting air. HelÈne walked to the door, and in her clear, ringing voice called out:

“We are ready, Mr. Morton!”

Instantly, almost, it seemed to her, John appeared, and greeting both girls, he led them to their places at the table. Papiu entered with a bountifully loaded tray, and the meal was begun under his grinning waiting. He beamed on them all as if there were no higher duty than service. John took the occasion to tell the girls of their present situation.

“We are quite safe here,” he assured them. “The men and I were out at daybreak exploring the country, and I was glad to find that the tracks of the wheels have been quite covered up. We took the precaution, however, to cut the telegraph wires on the other side of the valley, so that no communication can be sent to the border on the northwest, for which we are bound. I am sure we have nothing further to fear. All that it needs now is to be patient. There may be a few difficulties; but these can easily be overcome.”

The Princess smiled at Morton graciously. “You have placed us, Mr. Morton,” she said, “under a debt of gratitude which we can never repay. I must ask you to forgive me for my seeming lack of faith in you; but you will, I am sure, appreciate the circumstances of my position.”

“Please, Your Highness, say no more. I quite understand. In my eagerness to help you, I forgot that I was a total stranger to you. Count Rondell made it so imperative—I was not to leave you to the mercy of the new government, at any cost. That was why I begged your friend, the Comtesse HelÈne, to see you again and do her utmost to persuade you and to inform you of the political conditions about which you might, perhaps, be in ignorance.”

“You were very kind and thoughtful, Mr. Morton. I assure you I can never forget what you have done.”

HelÈne looked delighted at the happy outcome of this the first real meeting between her beloved Princess and Mr. Morton. Her face was all roses and her eyes beamed the emotions she was feeling.

“And now everything will be all right, won’t it?” she asked jocularly. They all laughed, as they rose from the table.

John explained that it was necessary for him to leave them now for an investigation as to the next stage of their journey, but he would see that Donald and Papiu remained behind to keep guard. He would go with Mihai. If they liked they could sit on the porch running along the south side of the cabin, but in that case they must be careful to wear their fur coats. He then shouldered his rifle and was soon seen to disappear in the close timber.

HelÈne and the Princess, only too eager to enjoy the freedom of the open air, put on their coats and sat sunning themselves under the sheltering wing of the house, drinking in the pine-laden air and filling their souls with the silent, imposing beauty of the forest-clad mountains. What a change from the rooms in the castle! Surely nature was kinder than man! She gave so freely of her bounteous treasures and asked nothing in return—nothing but the heart to feel and the spirit to enjoy her gifts. HelÈne looked at her companion and saw that her face had become clouded again. With a quick movement she drew close to her and put her arms about her, and thus they sat for many minutes in silent sympathy with each other. Nature is kind, but she is sadness-breeding even in her most generous moods, and it is then that the heart sends out its tendrils feeling for another heart. Perhaps that is why people are happier and simpler in the country than they are in the city.

Their meditations were disturbed by the sound of footfalls on the mushy snow. It was Donald emerging from the wood, rifle under his arm.

The girls greeted him smilingly.

“Fine morning, ladies, but kind o’ mean under-foot,” and he smiled a little sheepishly as he stood before them. They relieved him of his shyness by encouraging nods.

“Is there anything I can do for you? Mr. Morton told me to look after you.”

“Nothing, thank you,” replied HelÈne; “we are quite comfortable and enjoying the splendid air.”

Both, however, were hoping he would not go away. They longed for some companionship rather than their own—some other human being who would speak to them and tell them things—anything. HelÈne caught the Princess’s eyes and saw the same desire in them.

“Please, Mr. McCormick, won’t you sit down?” she asked in her soft, seductive voice. “Sit down and talk to us.”

“Thank you, miss, I don’t mind if I do.”

Donald’s social instincts, like those of all true Americans, were very strong in him. Moreover, he had not had many opportunities of exercising his English-speaking tongue since he had left Brindisi. His intercourse with Papiu and Mihai had been in the deaf and dumb language, mostly. Laying aside his rifle, he brought out a roughly made stool, and sitting down, cap in hand, faced the girls.

“Ah, it does a fellow like me good to see your sweet faces, ladies. And how did you like my breakfast?”

Of course it was delicious. So was he, they thought.

“Well, now, miss, that’s awful kind of you. But I would have done better if I’d had some time and things, and less strictness.”

“Strictness? What does that mean?”

“Why, miss, I wasn’t allowed to build a fire until the sun was way up. Mr. Morton didn’t want no smoke about.”

“Your friend is a very cautious man.”

“My friend? Oh, I see, you mean Mr. Morton. Well, he’s a friend all right, and a very good one; but he’s really my boss, you know—my master, I guess you’d call it.”

“Oh! I thought you were comrades.”

“Well, bless your pretty eyes, miss, we’ve been pals and comrades many a year and in many a land; but as I get paid for my part of it, I guess it’s a job with me. With Mr. Morton, it’s sport and study. A mighty good sport he is, and a fine student, too.”

Don was warming up.

“You interest us greatly—please go on.”

Donald’s leathery face creased itself into numerous wrinkles as he smiled.

“There ain’t much to tell, I guess. I’ve known Mr. John ever since he was a boy of ten or twelve, and a finer youngster never lived. His father, old Dan Morton, used to come every summer to the Upper Lakes for the fishin’, and when the boy got old enough to travel he took him along. In those days, I used to work as a guide in summer and fall and did loggin’ in winter and spring. After the great catch of 1874, the old gentleman had me for guide regularly; and when young John started to come up alone, I always rowed and cooked for him.”

Don paused for a moment; mechanically, his hand slipped into a side pocket of his coat to reappear with a pipe in it. He glanced at it, then recollecting himself, he quickly put it back. The Princess smiled: “Please, Mr. McCormick, don’t deprive yourself. Light your pipe.”

Don looked queerly dubious and hesitated. “You are very kind, but I’m afraid my tobacco ain’t a cigar.” The girls laughed and assured him they would enjoy the aroma. Don nodded and lit up; but as he puffed he was careful to blow the smoke so that the wind would carry it away from where the girls were sitting. These girls were all right, he said to himself—nice and pretty and considerate. He began to feel quite at home with them. Puffing serenely he took up his narrative with added zest.

“Mr. John wasn’t very strong as a youngster; he had some fever when a baby that left him kind o’ delicate. But he was fearless, quick and mighty steady. After a couple o’ years he started to pick up—and now—there ain’t a logger in Minnesoty that can beat him in rowing or wrestling or at huntin’. I took to him from the start, and I love him as I would if he were my own son. The Lord don’t make ’em any better than John Morton—let me tell ye!”

“It is fine of you to say so, Mr. McCormick,” said HelÈne; “and I’ve no doubt Mr. Morton thinks very highly of you, too.”

“I guess he does. He took me to the city, gave me all kinds of chances; but somehow or other I never could cotton to straight town life. Always wanted to go back to the woods and the water—I am satisfied to end my days there.”

A pause for a few more puffs.“Well, about two years ago, Mr. Morton comes up to his camp pretty late in the season and wants me to go huntin’ and fishin’ with him. It was kind o’ late for fish, and Mr. John is a queer hunter, he is. He would just watch the game, follow them up, maybe—but shoot? You can’t get him to kill anything. He has all the trophies he wanted, he said—and as long as we had grub there wasn’t no need of killing God’s creatures.

“He was quieter than usual, and he says to me that he wants me to go with him to Africa—doing some exploration work, some observing—and says he, ‘Don,’ he says, ‘you come with me and we’ll have a good time; you’ll learn some new things, see new kinds o’ game, and get fine experience; and I can do something I wanted to try for years.’ It was kind o’ sudden like, but I agreed. And so, the week after Christmas we went to London and Paris and from there to Egypt—and there we stuck out for nigh on twenty months. I ain’t seen snow in two years—’most forgot how real cold feels—and I’m mighty glad to get a taste of both once more! And to think that some ten days or so ago I was in the hottest part of the world—now, would you believe it?”

“Where was that, Mr. McCormick?”

“Why, bless your pretty face, Miss, in Egypt and the Red Sea. Hot?—two minutes of that climate, and there wouldn’t be a trace o’ this snow left!”

HelÈne could barely suppress showing her keen interest. Now, perhaps, would come what she had been longing to know. “And was it in Egypt that you met my father? Did Mr. Morton know my father very long?”

“I don’t know anything about that, Miss; Mr. John didn’t tell me much.”“Then you and Mr. Morton—you are not officers or soldiers in our—the Roumelian Army?”

“Why, bless your hearts, miss, so far as I am concerned, I didn’t know such a place as Roumelia was on the map ten days ago; and it’s very little more that I know now! Mr. John, he came to me the night we got to Suez, saying I should get ready to take the midnight train, go to Brindisi and act under written orders—and I went. From there I took a train to Kronstadt; and four days ago I drove the teams down to Padina with the dagoes—that’s all I know. When Mr. Morton gives you orders you ain’t askin’ no useless questions, I guess. He knows what he wants—and you are supposed to go ahead and do what you’re told. But you needn’t worry, young ladies, there ain’t no better man living than Mr. John—and few have as level a head as he’s got!”

“You are a great admirer of your master, Mr. McCormick,” remarked the Princess, who till now had sat very quietly, quite willing to leave the conversation to her friend. It took her some time to become accustomed to the peculiar drawl of the lanky foreigner; but when once she caught the quaint humor of the man she enjoyed him greatly. She wondered also at the simple directness of his manner, which was deferential without being in the least subservient. This must be due to the democratic spirit of his country.

“I don’t know if it’s admiration, young lady, but I have learned that Mr. Morton knows what’s right. There isn’t a man anywheres that can teach him much! You can build on him and never get left. If he says a thing—it’s so; and if he stands up for you you’re all right. And then, he ain’t putting the load on the other fellow, either! When it comes to hard knocks, he takes his share—and takes it without a murmur. He is square, is Mr, John—and white all through! You can bet on that!”

“White all through? What does that mean, please?”

“It means, miss, that he is good and true and fair all over. Not a yellow streak in him! Why, out in the desert—the niggers and them Arabs—they found it out quick enough—and Mr. Morton, he had the run of the country and their good-will pretty soon after we got settled there and they had a chance to see what kind of a man he was! After we had a little ruction with them once—why, after that, they would eat out of our hands!”

“Eat out of your hands?”—The Princess’s eyes were big with inquiry.

HelÈne gave a little laugh—equally at loss. “Now, Mr. McCormick, please tell us what that means.”

“Oh—I guess my talk ain’t just the easiest for you to get on to. I always forget that not all people come from America. Why, after these natives found out we were square, that Mr. John wasn’t afraid of them or anyone else, for that matter, that he wouldn’t stand for any crooked deal—why, they were just good—that’s all! I remember it as if it was yesterday; out there in the Soudan—a God-forsaken country that I can’t see why people will insist on living in—when Mr. Morton got to investigate our store tent one mornin’—he found a tripod and some instruments missin’. We looked ’round, found tracks in the dust and sand proving that some barefooted rascals had stole in over night. Mr. Morton, he just throws his rifle over his shoulder, says, ‘Come along, Don, we must see about this.’ Well, we got our Arab driver to bring the horses and rode over across the valley to a camp of Wadi-Arabs we know’d were stoppin’ there. Mr. John rides up and asks for the Chief. And when this feller—a fine-looking old chap with whiskers like Moses—comes up—‘Can I talk to all o’ your people for about five minutes?’ says he. The Chief just stares, asks Achmed—that’s our servant—a thing or two—and then gives a call like a foghorn. Out come a crowd o’ men, big and small, old and young, and they all lined up behind him without sayin’ a word.

“And then John Morton asks them to step up to the hollow into the shade of the rock—it was gittin’ mighty hot by that time—he just stands up on a boulder, leans on his rifle not caring any more than if he were in Euclid Park—in Cleveland, you know—and he says to the Chief: ‘I’ll say what I got to say in English, and I want you to translate it to your people.’ And the old man nods and grunts somethin’, an’ my boss—he goes on. And he tells ’em all right! ‘I have come here a stranger,’ says he, ‘to be a neighbor to you; I am peaceful. I don’t bother about you and I mind my own business. Now I want you to do to me as I am doin’ to you! Somebody, last night, took my tools and instruments, and I need them in my work—and I want ’em back! If any of you men is in need—you can come to me and if I can help ye—I will! If you need food—I’ll share mine with you. If you are in trouble and I know a way out—you can have my assistance. But I won’t allow any man to steal my things, and I am a feller you want to leave alone. I never wronged anybody—but neither will I permit any man living to do a wrong to me.’—Then he motions to the Chief and the old man he translates it to his people.”

Don stopped out of sheer breathlessness; his enthusiasm had carried him at a rapid pace, while the girls, fascinated, bent over, devouring every word. He paused long enough to relight his pipe and send out a few mouthfuls of his beloved golden-leaf smoke. Its pungent odor came to the girls’ nostrils and added to the reality of the mental pictures they had built out of his narrative.

“You ought to have seen him—standin’ there among those savage people, alone against a hundred—but as steady as a rock and as cool as a cucumber! Not an eyelash did he move! I wasn’t sure what would come next—but I guess Mr. Morton, he knew. He looked fine! I wish his father could ha’ seen him! The old man always was proud of his boy—as he had a right to be. He used to say to me: ‘Don, I want my boy to be a man first and a gentleman after!’ And I guess Mr. John is both, and both to the limit.”

He paused and gave a reminiscent stare into the infinite space above him. A few thoughtful pulls at the pipe followed by a copious discharge of saliva and he proceeded with his tale:

“Well—after the Chief had finished, two young fellers just drawed their burnooses a bit tighter over their faces and sneaked off. A minute later they brought the instruments, laid them down before Mr. John, and, walking with their heads bent in shame, they passed before the Chief. The old priest he just looked dark and grieved and waved them off without a word. Then he up and walks to John, hands him bread and salt and says: ‘Noble stranger, my people and me are humbled by your just complaint. Hereafter you needn’t lose sleep over my men; none of ’em will ever wrong you again, none of my people will do anything toward you that he don’t want you to do toward us. If we can do anything to please you—say the word—we are your slaves. And Mr. John—he took the bread and salt. Then we mounted the horses and rode home. Our servant, he carried the instruments and after that—none of them fellers came within a big spell of our camp! Those Arabs know a man when they see him pretty damn quick, I guess!’”

He shifted uneasily in his seat and shut his mouth tight. In his excitement he had forgotten he was speaking to ladies. “I guess I’m talking too much. I must apologize. But you’ve been so interested that I couldn’t help myself.”

The girls assured him that they had enjoyed his story extremely and begged him to tell them some more of his interesting adventures. But Don was too cautious now to be caught a second time.

Morton now appeared, followed by Mihai. He looked up at the porch and took the situation in at a glance. Don approached his master looking as if he had been caught, like a child in a naughty act. A few whispered words passed between them, and Don walked off without even giving the girls a glance.

“I suppose Donald has been chattering,” remarked Morton as he stepped on to the porch, “he’s a great yarn-spinner and doesn’t know when to stop. I hope he has not bored you.”

“Oh, no—not at all! He was telling us some of the incidents of your life in the desert——” HelÈne was attempting to shield the fellow.

“A-h—then I guess he’s been sounding my praises. But you must not believe everything he says. He’s a true Yankee, and knows how to drag the long bow. Have you rested?”

Both the girls assured him that they had and that Mr. McCormick had entertained them immensely. Morton smiled, and excusing himself, left them to themselves. The Princess, however, was tired; the bracing air had made her drowsy. She begged HelÈne to remain while she lay down in her room.

Morton was really disturbed about Don’s chatter; he was afraid he might have spoken of Count Rondell’s illness. He would find out, and warn the man to say nothing about that matter to the Comtesse.

HelÈne sat for a long time thinking over what she had learned from Don’s narrative. Instead of clearing up the situation it had only aroused in her more questionings. She could not explain Mr. Morton’s presence in Roumelia. Why had he undertaken this mission? It was true that her father had written begging her to place implicit confidence in him—but why this man, this American of all men? Even if it were dangerous for him to come himself, could he not have sent one of his own friends? It was more than she could understand. And yet—and yet—she was glad it had been this man. He was so different from the men she had met. He came from a country where there were neither kings nor nobles and yet, he knew how to command and be obeyed. His father wanted him to be a man first—yes, he was that—the equal to the best she had known. She felt herself blushing at her thoughts. No, no, no, she must not let herself think like this. Rising suddenly she crossed the open space before the cabin, and with quickened steps passed under the firs, to where a rushing stream was frothing its way down a deep gorge.