The Popular Magazine/Volume 29/Number 3/The Golden Goddess

by Henry C. Rowland

The Golden Goddess

By Henry C. Rowland
Author of “Footprints,” “Corrigan the Raw,” Etc.

A story of war and dressmaking. Dr. Rowland, with his genius for originality, picks for hero of this romance of the Balkans a tailor! Some fellow has said that it takes nine tailors to make a man. It would take many times nine men to make such a man as the tailor in this story, a true artist in the fashioning of feminine apparel, a sincere worker in his profession, and equally sincere, equally zealous and equally a genius when he buckles on a sword in defense of his country.

Chapter I.

Morits Landovski was a tailor of Sofia. His father had built up the business, and had so far prospered as to rank with the leading merchants of the capital. With his wife and five children, he lived comfortably in one of the better residences of the city, a charming house, half hidden in a garden which had been carefully designed after certain of those in and about Teheran. The property had formerly belonged to Sami Pasha, an Ottoman of high rank, a studious, austere man, who had gone 'into voluntary exile on finding himself ground between the millstones of the orthodox Osmanlis and the Young Turkish Party.

A splendid type of Ottoman of the old school was Sami Pasha, whom we shall meet again. He had incurred the displeasure of Sultan Abdul-Hamid by trying to prove to him such simple facts as that a dynamo which might be installed to light Constantinople was not run by dynamite; that the development of the coal outcrops along the beach in front of Kerkos might be achieved to the profit of the country, and with no danger of a twenty-mile subterranean tunnel to the Yildiz Kiosk; that the ancient squadron at Tchanak Kalessi could not be expected to maneuver by the grace of Allah alone, and that while a caracole might be sent out to patrol a country without rations, an army on the plains of Thrace would fight better if fed.

The latter-day Turks had been antagonized by Sami Pasha's politely expressed opinion that they were a pack of grafters and blackguards.

Wherefore, he had withdrawn to Sofia. But with the first darkening of the political horizon patriotism had conquered pride, and he had packed together his effects, and sold his residency to Landovski, the merchant tailor. “You appear to be an honest man,” said Sami Pasha to Landovski, “and one with a certain appreciation of the beautiful, and as such we have properties in common. Take good care of the garden. Some of the Persian tiles in the fountain are loose, and in danger of falling if not recemented. You had better cut down the pomegranate trees, as they have proved a failure. The winters are too severe, and the fruit does not come to maturity. Also, they attract the caterpillars, and shade the imported Spanish caper bushes which I have been trying to grow along the wall.”

So Sami Pasha departed, and Landovski installed himself in the roomy, wooden house.

Landovski was a progressive man, and a patriot. He foresaw an important future for Bulgaria, and his ambition was to build up the best tailoring establishment in the Balkan Peninsula. To this end he had sent his eldest son, Morits, to London, where the young man had entered the well-known house of Whitefern, and speedily risen to the position of premier cutter and fitter. Morits was a graduate of Robert College, near Constantinople, and spoke English far better than most of his British associates. Morits was a good-looking young fellow, strongly and gracefully built, and a dash of Semitic blood had given him talent and imagination, with shapely hands and feet, regular features, and a clear olive skin through which there glowed a rich, warm color. His forehead was broad and intelligent, his eyes clear, with a direct and kindly gaze, and he performed his duties with a dignity and unwavering courtesy which had not a trace of servility, and won him the liking and respect of all with whom he came in contact, even to the “smart,” and ofttimes haughty, clients of the house.

Morits had passed the educational test which entitled him to the privilege of serving but one year with the colors upon arriving at his twentieth year instead of the required two. Passing very highly another examination at the end of his service, he had been listed as second lieutenant on the Corps of Reserve Officers, and had then gone to London to perfect himself in the cutting and fitting of ladies' dresses. It had never occurred to him that there was anything ignoble about his profession, for which he had that respect which any able craftsman feels for his work. It was his ambition in time to return to Sofia, there to devote himself to the worthy task of making the Balkan ladies among the best-turned-out women of Europe.

Morits' leisure hours in London were busily occupied in studies of a military character and athletic exercises, principally fencing and shooting with the army revolver. With the broadsword and rapier he was rapidly arriving at a state of perfection where he rarely met his master. Also, he belonged to a club of which the members were entirely composed of Balkans—Bulgarians, Servians, Roumanians, Greeks, and Montenegrins and the like—who met frequently to discuss matters which were chiefly political, and where their individual differences and interests were either considered calmly or, as was usually the case, laid aside entirely for the more absorbing topic of that ancient common enemy, the Turk.

The dark war clouds which had been gathering on the horizon when Morits had gone to London had to some extent dissipated during his two years with Whitefern; but lately they had begun to mass themselves with even blacker menace, and the Balkan peoples were looking to the gears of their ship of state, and that not only on the peninsula itself, but wherever their children were scattered—in many parts of Europe, and even in far-away America. So Morits, like many of his fellows, studied and pondered, and husbanded his resources, and cut and fitted stylish costumes for petulant beauties who scarcely gave him more of their thought than to some busy worm of Kherson weaving its silk cocoon.

One day, as Morits was busy at his table, the voice of the manager called curtly:

“Step this w'y, please, Mr. Landovski.”

Morits followed the pursy little man into one of the private fitting salons. As he entered a tall girl turned from the inspection of a model, and glanced at him with a cool indifference. Morits' first instinctive professional glance at her figure showed him that it was of the sort which tailors love to clothe—of strong, sweeping lines, the promise of maturity still draped in youth, supple and boyish to the casual eye, yet with subtle curves, and so exquisitely proportioned as to give a false impression of slenderness; the figure which lends itself so readily to the skill of the costumer to produce the desired effect, whether of slim girlishness or the fuller, stronger curves of a draped Diana.

Morits bowed slightly, and glanced at the charming subject for his art. She was undeniably lovely, yet her face, like her body, rather suggested the boy—a princely boy of a warrior race. Her type was rather Scandinavian, Morits thought—fair, with violet blue eyes of which the intensity burned through her most indifferent glances, full, thoughtful brows, a straight nose, rather low-bridged, but delicately chiseled, and a sweet, resolute mouth, full-lipped, but firm. Her hair looked dark in the shadow, but turned a pure gold where the light struck it.

“Miss Hasbrouck is a former client who has, I am happy to say, decided to return to us,” said the manager.

“You'll have to do better than you did last time if you want to keep me,” said the girl; and Morits noticed that her voice had the throaty quality often to be heard in that of linguists in command of a variety of tongues. “The last two jackets you made pinched me under the arms. Apparently your fitter does not understand muscle in a woman.” She glanced at Morits. “Hope you do. There's nothing so wretched as a jacket that pinches under the arms,”

“I can see that madame is athletic,” said Morits. “It is necessary to consider the different dimensions of the arm and shoulder in different positions.”

Her blue eyes flashed approvingly.

“Right!” said she. “You're the first cutter that I've seen who seems to have a sense of anatomy. Make 'em full. Give me room to swing dumb-bells if I like.” She looked at the manager. “Those last two cloth suits of yours were like strait-jackets. Couldn't get into one now with a shoe horn.”

“Ah, but you were growing, miss. We can't myke a jacket fit a growing young lydy for more than a year.”

“Well, you needn't count on that excuse any longer. See that you give me room to walk, too. I've got long legs. Now, let me see; I want the two cloth tailor suits, and something rather more dressy in velvet, and a couple of shooting suits in tweed. Then I want a riding habit—two riding habits, I believe and——”

Morits returned to his work in a state of mind which was quite new to him. The girl's image remained constantly before his eyes. Up to this time a client had meant no more to him than a wax mannequin in a show window. It is doubtful if a paper hanger fitting his material to a plaster wall could have felt less personal emotion about the wall itself than had Morits for the often beautiful bodies which his art had arrayed. It had interested him only that his part of the work should be faultless in execution, of the required stylish elegance in effect, cunningly concealing physical defects, and enhancing anatomical perfections. But the human clay beneath his deft fingers had left him unimpressed except, perhaps, as it lent itself by its. contours to the achievement of a satisfactory result.

The models of the establishment—for the most part, beautiful girls, with the figures of charming nymphs—had sometimes cast inviting glances at the dark, handsome young Bulgarian cutter, but Morits had been oblivious to them. With every moment of his professional and leisure hours occupied, light pleasures had never entered his scheme of life. In a year or two he would go back to Sofia to undertake the management of his father's business and to make of it the leading establishment of its sort east of Vienna, taking no odds even from Budapest. Then no doubt he would choose some maiden of his own race, marry, and become an esteemed and worthy citizen of Sofia. Until then he would be content with his work and his political and economic studies in the effort to prepare himself for any national situation which might arise.

In the course of the next few days he learned from the gossip of the fitting salons, than which there is probably no gossip more searching, that Miss Alicia Hasbrouck was a young lady who despite her twenty-four years of age had been already much in the public eye. The only daughter of Sir Despard Hasbrouck, a writer and explorer who had been knighted for his various works of a geographical and economic character, Alicia had herself become a personality by reason of her beauty, talents, and daring exploits. It appeared that she was a cool and daring huntress of big game, a brilliant automobilist, a skilled aviateuse, and a horsewoman whom few men cared to follow when riding to hounds. The winter before she had driven her own motor boat to victory in the Monaco races, and during the past spring she had won the Dieppe circuit, driving her own racing voiturette. Also, she had some skill as an artist in aquarelles.

Nothing very definite appeared to be known of Sir Despard beyond the fact that he had amassed a fortune in some South African promoting scheme, and was supposed to be related to the Norfolk Hasbroucks. He and his daughter were frequently entertained by prominent members of the “smart set,” and he was acknowledged to be a man of wit and polish. He had been for many years a widower, his wife, the daughter of a penniless baronet, having succumbed to Roman fever while her husband was engaged in making some archæological researches in Italy.

Morits learned also that Alicia was in the habit of riding early in the Row. He himself had a modest lodging off the Edgeware Road, and he formed the habit of making a detour on his way to work in the hope of catching a glimpse of her as she started for her matinal canter. Then one day he found a full-page picture of her in the Tattler, and this he had carefully framed and hung it in his little den. One may pause to wonder how many conspicuous beauties are thus enshrined and worshiped by some modest devotee far removed from their brilliant orbit.

And then one day he opened his paper to read of the great Waterkop Mines scandal, and the arrest on a charge of swindling of its promoter, Sir Despard Hasbrouck. Morits read the account carefully, then laid down the paper, and sat for a long time staring at the framed portrait hanging above his desk.

Chapter II.

The last week in June, Morits was sent across the Channel to confer with the premier of Whitefern's Paris establishment on the autumn and winter's models. It was the week of the Grand Prix, and on Sunday Morits went to the races. The day was superb, and the young man was thus able to combine the pleasure of seeing the horses run with the business of observing the different mannequins of the leading Paris modistes.

Dressed himself with exquisite care, and resembling rather a Russian prince than a London dressmaker, Morits stood on the promenade in front of the tribunal, his malacca hanging from his arm, and a cigarette between his fingers, watching the brilliant pageant. His alert eye was quick to discriminate between the three general classes of exquisitely dressed women as they passed—femmes du monde, mannequins (or gown models), and demi-mondaines. Most of the mannequins he was, furthermore, able to recognize from their pictures, continually appearing in the various publications devoted to the fashions. Otherwise it might have been difficult, as these wonderfully gowned and sylphlike creatures were often accompanied by men well known in the world of fashion.

Morits, like most Balkans, was a lover of horseflesh, and after the first race had been run he strolled around to the paddock. For a few moments he stood admiring the entries for the second race as they were led in succession around the little circle, some nervous and fretful, some quiet and self-contained, their tension betrayed only in the brightness of their beautiful eyes or a fine ripple of the springy muscles under the satin skin, and some evincing a sullen ill humor, and moving with fitful, irregular steps, pointed ears laid back, eyes showing a rim of white, and tails flattened, against their rumps as though contemplating a treacherous kick. The young man was meditating on the sharply drawn lines of individuality among the beautiful, high-mettled animals, when there came a rustle at his elbow, the faint fragrance of hyacinth, and a throaty voice said in his ear:

“How do you do, Mr. Landovski?”

Morits turned quickly, and looked into the violet eyes of Alicia Hasbrouck. He stepped back, raising his hat, and a warm flush glowing through his clear olive skin. He did not speak, thinking that she had merely given him a gracious greeting on finding him at her elbow.

The girl's eyes rested for an instant on a glistening sorrel which was passing in front of her. Then she turned to Morits, who was on the point of withdrawing, for, with his usual modesty, he had not thought of entering into conversation with her.

“Do you understand horses?” she asked.

“I am very fond of them,” he answered. “In my country we have some very good ones.”

“Where is that?” she asked.

“In Bulgaria, madame. I am a native of Sofia.”

“Really? I have been at Sofia. Are you still with Whitefern, of London?”

“Yes, madame. I have been sent over to our Paris house to study the new models.”

“I see. No doubt you recognize this one.” She glanced at her gown with a faint smile.

But Morits had already recognized it, and that to his bewilderment, for he had been shown the identical gown at the Paris house, and been told by his colleague that it was one of their new exclusive models which was to be shown for the first time at the Grand Prix in anticipation of the season at Trouville, Aix-les-Bains, and other fashionable summer resorts. He looked questioningly at Alicia.

“I suppose you wonder how I happen to be wearing it?” she said. “It's simple enough. I am one of Whitefern's mannequins.”

Morits stared at her a bit wildly.

“You!” he gasped. “You a mannequin? Impossible!”

His eyes rested on her face, aghast. His expression was that of the guardian of a shrine in whose presence the goddess has been profaned. But as he looked he saw that certain changes had been wrought. The girl's vivid coloring had paled, and there were the faintest of shadows under the violet eyes. Her cheeks were thinner, and there was the slightest droop at the corner of the sweet mouth. Recent suffering had left its traces on a face which he remembered as glowing with youth and vigor, and that trace of haughtiness which came of a self-confidence which had never felt the need to falter.

Yet the girl was lovelier than before, perhaps because trouble had effaced the boyish look of recklessness, and left in its place an unconscious expression of appeal. Morits drew his breath deeply, and a flame seemed to run through his veins,

“But your friends, madame,” he muttered huskily, “your relatives——”

Alicia gave a slight shrug, and drew down the corners of her pretty lips.

“It's plain that you've never come a cropper,” said she, “or you wouldn't speak of friends and relatives. Besides, I fancy I'm a rather difficult person to 'do something for,' as they say. Perhaps you may have read about my trouble—and disgrace——” She bit her full under lip.

Morits «slightly raised his silk hat. It was an instinctive tribute of acknowledgment to the compliment he felt she paid him in mentioning to him, her tailor, her own personal affairs. Alicia, observing the act, ascribed it carelessly to the servility of the tradesman. She was destined one day to know him better. He was, she felt, so far removed from her in station that it was easy to talk to him. Mannequin she might be through adversity, but aristocrat she was by birth and attainments, and as such might speak as pleased her.

“Yes, madame,” Morits answered quietly. “I read of your misfortune with the deepest regret.”

“That's more than most people did,” she answered curtly. “I managed to pay the most of my own personal debts. When I settled with Whitefern for all those things you made, I said: 'Look here—now that we're square, can't you get me something to do? Some way to earn a living? Not in London, but with your Paris house. I understand dress, and I know a few people over there.' When he'd recovered a bit from his shock he gave me a letter—and here I am. I hadn't quite counted on being a mannequin, but when it came right down to business there wasn't anything else I could do.” Her tone underwent a sudden change. “I say, I'm going to place a small bet. What do you think of that bay gelding that seems to want to strike at the stable lad? Durand is up, and he's a good jockey, and the gee is from Ephrussi's stables, and has a decent record. They'll list him at about forty francs because he's a bit rank.”

“I think,” said Morits, “that a better bet would be the chestnut coming toward us. This is to be a short race, and the bay may act badly and not get into his stride. I do not know what horse this is, but I like its style.”

“What—this little rabbit going past?” She looked at him with a slight curve of her lip. “Why the beast has no shoulders.”

“This is not a steeplechase, madame.” Morits smiled deprecatingly. He knew her for a celebrated horsewoman, and disliked to place his opinion against hers. “Rabbits can run very fast for a short distance. I like his head.”

“A horse doesn't run with its head,” she objected.

“Pardon me, madame; it does.”

She shot him a curious look. “Perhaps you're right,” said she, a little doubtfully.

“Of course one cannot say,” Morits remarked. “I do not know what this horse has done, but one can see from the expression of its face that it is honest and courageous. It makes no fuss here in the paddock, like some of the others, but if you will notice carefully the eyes are hot and eager. Some people are like that, and they do not often fail.”

He felt the violet eyes playing over him again, and the rich color deepened on his cheek bones, which were high and of a Magyar prominence.

Alicia turned. “There goes the bell,” said she. “I'm going to put a hundred francs on your choice.” She consulted her card. “Ottoman——”

“What, madame?” interrupted Morits sharply. “Is that his name?”

“Yes; and his owner must be a Turk—Ohmed Hussein Bey.”

“A military student at St. Cyr,” said Morits. “Do not bet on this horse, madame.”

“Why not?” She stared at him, thrusting out her square little chin. “Now that you speak of it, I like his face myself. And did you notice how he seemed to wake up on leaving the paddock? Looks to me like a good one. I'm going to back him a hundred francs to win——”

She turned on her heel, then glanced at Morits, who had not moved.

“You may stay with me if you like, Mr. Landovski. Some of the men here are inclined to be horrid.”

Morits turned quickly. “Which ones?” he asked, in an odd, eager voice.

Alicia laughed. “Most of them,” she answered; “but I don't ask you to defend me with a bodkin. And you needn't call me 'madame.' Henceforth I am 'mam'selle.'”

Again Morits' ready hand went to his hat, and his color deepened.

“But I beg of you not to back that horse,” he implored.

Alicia stopped short to look at him. Their eyes met evenly.

“Why not?” she asked.

“Because his name is Ottoman,” Morits answered doggedly, “and his owner is a Turk. The Osmanli star and crescent are fading, leaving only the field of blood.”

“Now you talk more like a Balkan conspirator than a quite respectable cutter and fitter, Mr. Landovski.” She drew a hundred-franc note from her purse. “Will you be so good as to place that to win on Ottoman? You'd better hurry; they are mounting.”

Morits took the note from her hand, then asked:

“What was the number of the other horse, mademoiselle? The bay which was your first choice?”

“I don't remember,” she answered shortly, and Morits saw that she had read his ruse. He colored to the eyes.

“May I ask to see your card?” he asked. “I want to place a small bet myself.”

She handed it to him with a lift of her square chin. Morits glared at it, then smiled.

“Here is a horse called Mon Amour,” said he. “I shall place a bet on him.”

“You think. the name a lucky one?” she asked, looking at him curiously.

“I should not call it that,” he answered, “but the colors are Bulgarian.”

He hurried to the betting booth, and placed the two bets, then returned to Alicia. The tribunal was already filled, so they stood on the sloping turf opposite the judges' stand. As there were but six entries, the start was quickly made. Morits handed his field glasses to the girl.

“Ottoman is second,” said she, as the first turn taken the race began to form itself. “I doubt he can catch that sorrel, though; the brute has a stride like a kangaroo. My first choice is fighting—as you said he would—and the jockey's fighting him back, like a fool. What's that spadger doing to Ottoman—whipping already, as I live! Ottoman's climbing up that hill like a hare. I believe he'll catch that sorrel thing on the turn. Hello! Here comes your Balkan hack. Look how he goes through! I believe the boy's pulling him; he's all doubled up. Look! Here comes Ottoman! Vive le Turc——”

“No, no, please!” Morits implored.

“He can run—my word! He's honest as a pint of home brew—and here comes your Balkan gee, ramming all over the field. The sorrel's out of it—hold the place. Look at Ottoman! Oh——”

The exclamation was lost in the clamor that rose from many thousands of throats. The race was plainly Ottoman's, for the sorrel was dropping back, his jockey whipping furiously. Mon Amour, who seemed to have fallen into his stride, swept past him, crowding close on the flanks of Ottoman, but no longer gaining. And then, within a hundred meters of the winning post, a strange thing happened, for Ottoman's jockey suddenly appeared to reel in his saddle, pitch forward, then lurch back, snatching at the reins as if for support. He swayed to the side, then fell, clutching at one rein. The next instant horse and jockey were down in a hopeless tangle on the turf, and Mon Amour swept past to victory, the sorrel a neck behind.

“Did you ever see the like?” she gasped. “What happened the boy?”

“He appears to have a fit,” said Morits, taking the glass. “You see, mademoiselle, I was right.”

“But why should he? The race was won. All he had to do was to ride.”

Morits shrugged. “I have won,” said he.

“On a name——”

“On the colors of Bulgaria. That is more than a name, mademoiselle.”

“You have yet to prove it,” she retorted, hot and angry at her loss.

Morits did not answer. He was staring through his glasses at the jockey, who was being carried from the field, writhing convulsively.

“Fancy putting up an epileptic!” said Alicia resentfully. “However, I hope the poor thing is not hurt even if he has cost me a hundred francs that I could ill afford to lose.”

Morits glanced at her with a smile.

“You have not lost a hundred francs, mademoiselle.”

“What do you mean? Surely you placed my bet?”

“Yes; but not on Ottoman. I placed it on Mon Amour.”

“But I told you to place it on Ottoman,” said she angrily.

“I could not back a Turkish horse—even for another person,” Morits answered. His face was a little pale, and he did not meet her angry eyes. “You do not understand what anything Turkish means to me, mademoiselle. I played your hundred francs on Mon Amour to win, and, as he appeared to be an outsider, from the betting, it is probable that you have won perhaps a thousand francs. Our tickets were numbered only five and six, which speaks well for the odds. Here is yours——” He took the crumpled receipt for a hundred francs on No. 7 from his pocket, and handed it her.

Alicia turned it slowly in her hand. She glanced at Morits, and her angry face softened slightly. At that moment the money meant a great deal to her; also, she was amazed at his having dared such a thing.

“And what if Ottoman had won?” she asked.

Morits glanced up at her, and his white teeth flashed in a smile that was boyishly mischievous.

“In that case, mademoiselle,” he answered quietly, “you would never have known that I had not placed your bet on him.”

Chapter III.

In the tiny salon of the pension where Alicia lived, Morits was leaning over the center table, carefully examining a series of designs done in water color. Opposite him the girl, in a simple muslin blouse, with elbow sleeves, handed him her sketches one by one, then watched his face eagerly as he studied them.

“Here is one that I rather fancied,” said she, in her low-pitched voice, which if one had not seen the speaker would have passed for that of a youth; “it's a black chiffon velvet of the finest, most supple stuff, and coming up in one piece to just under the bust. It is slightly draped, you see, with the bust rising out of pale-pink mousseline de soie, heavily embroidered with small brilliants, and veiled with pink tulle. The flesh itself, with its jewels, would merge in a single tone with the diamonded pink tulle. What do you think of the light butterfly sleeves, weighted with a diamond tassel?”

Morits glanced across at her in surprise. Alicia's face wore a slight flush, her eyes were of the darkest shade of ultramarine, and her bright hair, twisted snugly around her small patrician head, glowed pure golden under the mellow light of the tall lamp.

“It is excellent!” said Morits. “You have great talent for designing costumes, Miss Hasbrouck. Have you shown any of these sketches to Monsieur Plasson?”

“No,” she answered. “I was rather afraid he might think that I was trying to steal his thunder. I did tell him that I had made a few designs, and asked if he would care to see them; but he shrugged, and said that he had not the time, and that anyhow he and Madame Plasson were quite capable of getting out what new models were required. He advised me to confine myself to my duties of mannequin.” She smiled slightly, drawing down one corner of her mouth.

Morits nodded. “I am not surprised,” he answered. “There is a great deal of professional jealousy in the dressmaking business. Plasson would turn green with envy if he could see this ball gown. It is better than anything he has put out this season.”

“That's putting it rather strongly, Mr. Landovski. He has really created some stunning things.” She looked across at him with the faintest trace of suspicion in her eyes.

Morits leaned back in his chair, and drummed on the table with his strong, well-shaped fingers. Alicia had already observed his hands with approval. She did not think that they looked like the hands of a tailor.

“I cannot help thinking, Miss Hasbrouck,” said Morits, “that you are throwing yourself away in your present position. Since you are obliged to work for your living, and have seen fit to choose——”

“There was no choice,” she interrupted quickly. “There was nothing else for me to do—that I was willing to do. After all, it is not a very ennobling profession either for a man or woman, do you think?”

“For me it is an art,” answered Morits quietly, “just as much as painting or sculpture or applied design. If one is to get on in one's profession the first necessity is to respect it.”

She threw him a curious look. Heretofore a ladies' tailor had seemed to her far less admirable an individual than a footman or butler. She would have carelessly placed him in the same class with a coiffeur, a valet de chambre, or a “beauty doctor,” if she had thought of him at all as a male individual, which she had not.

But Morits seemed actually human, and possessed of a personality, and although the girl could not quite master her secret contempt for a man who would voluntarily select an occupation which consisted of cutting and fitting women's clothes, she was beginning to admit to herself that it might perhaps be possible to do so without a complete loss of masculinity. She was thinking this over to herself when Morits looked up and caught her eye. It seemed for the moment as if he read her thought, for he smiled slightly and as though to himself. Alicia felt the color coming into her face.

“There are two sides to the question,” said he, “if one has the imagination and takes the trouble to consider it. For the lady client the tailor is scarcely a human being; he is a sort of emasculated machine. But there is also the cutter's point of view. His clients are very apt to be mere puppets so far as he is concerned, mere lumps of animated clay which he expends his talent to beautify—just as a sculptor might drape his lay figure, or a blank canvas which a painter might cover with a masterpiece. There are of course beautiful subjects which it is a pleasure to adorn, just as a decorator might enhance the naked beauty of a salon, perfect in proportion and design as it comes to him from the hands of the architect. Since society decrees that we must be clothed, why grudge the clothier his due credit? Personally I see little difference in the man who clothes his fellows and the man who feeds them so far as his manhood is concerned.”

“But tailors are caterers to our vanity,” objected Alicia. “And you must admit that in most cases they are rather servile and effeminate.”

“People are a good deal what society makes them,” Morits answered, with a shrug; “and tailors must be respectful to hold their clients, just like other tradespeople. However, that is not what I came to say. I have called, Miss Hasbrouck, to offer you a position which I think might prove to the advantage of us both.”

“What is that?” she asked, opening her eyes a little wider.

“It is purely a business proposition,” said Morits. “You must know, Miss Hasbrouck, that I came to London for the purpose of perfecting myself in my profession of ladies' and gentlemen's tailor. The former branch of the trade is particularly what I wished to learn.”

“Then I think that you have succeeded,” she answered. “Those suits you made for me were the best I've ever had.”

“I am very glad to have pleased you,” Morits answered; and Alicia felt herself congeal slightly at the suave professional tone. “In another year,” he continued, “I expect to have finished with Whitefern, when I am going back to Sofia to take charge of my father's tailoring establishment, which I hope to make the most renowned in eastern Europe. We shall have the money and the goods, and can count on a rich and fashionable clientele.”

“We've got the men, and we've got the guns, and we've got the money, too,” quoted Alicia half mockingly.

Morits looked up so sharply that the girl thought for the moment that she might have gone a bit too far.

“What is that you are saying, Miss Hasbrouck?” he asked, in a voice which was almost stern, and unlike any tone which she had ever heard him use.

“Oh, nothing,” she answered, a little awkwardly. “The way you spoke put me in mind of a patriotic song. Excuse me; I did not mean to be rude.”

His quick smile showed that he had understood, and that there was no offense. Alicia rather liked his smile, which had a trick of coming swiftly out of a face that was usually grave, and with a tinge of melancholy, like the faces of so many of his race. It showed his strong, white, even teeth, which were large and set with a slight and curious upward curve at the center. When he smiled she almost forgot that he was a ladies' tailor.

“Yes,” said he, nodding, “we have those things also, and some day, Miss Hasbrouck, our having them shall make us a power to be reckoned with—both in peace and war.”

“You expect war?” she asked.

“We hope to avoid it, and no doubt we shall—if we have the men and guns and money. I trust so, as, aside from the needless slaughter and suffering, it is very bad for trade—and I am a tailor. However, whether it comes or not, Bulgaria is surely destined to become an important country of Europe, and that brings me to what I wish to say. My own business out there is a good one, and can be made very profitable. What we need now is an able staff. Not long ago I received a letter from my father, asking me to look about for some ladylike person of good references and ability who had some idea of designing and showing modish garments. Both my father and younger brother are fairly expert cutters, but we need an intelligent woman to attract our richer and more fashionable feminine clients. I am thoroughly convinced of your ability to fill the position, and if you care to undertake it I shall take pleasure in offering you the place of première vendeuse.”

Alicia leaned back, and stared at him with parted lips and wide-open eyes.

“Mr. Landovski!” she exclaimed. “But what do I know about the work?”

“You would very quickly learn. You have natural talent, a charming personality”—he bowed slightly and without a smile—“and there is no person better qualified to understand stylish costumes than the woman who has always worn them. At first your compensation would not be large, but it would probably be more than twice what you might expect to earn at first in any dress-making establishment in western Europe, while your expenses would be insignificant. After my return to Sofia, which I expect will be in about a year, you may probably be sent twice a year to Paris for the latest models. Then you may expect a commission on your sales, and an increase of salary as the business grows more important. I should advise, if you see fit to accept this offer, that you live at my father's house. It is a cheerful and comfortable place, with grounds and gardens, and you would find my family very kind and worthy tradespeople. Of course, all of your initial expenses would be defrayed.”

Alicia had managed to overcome her first surprise, and was listening with a flushed face, her chin in the hollow of her hand, and her round, bare elbow on the table.

“But I can't speak your language,” she protested.

Morits smiled. “All the members of my family speak French, German, and some English,” he answered. “Most of the customers you would have to deal with speak French, like all other educated Europeans. But you would soon pick up our Bulgarian tongue, which is not difficult for English people. Now, I shall ask you to consider this proposition, Miss Hasbrouck, and let me know your decision as soon as possible. I expect to return to London the day after to-morrow.”

Alicia threw back her head, and gave her low, gurgling laugh. Morits observed the creamy perfection of her throat, and was conscious of a hot wave which seemed to send the blood tingling through his body, to glow warmly through the clear skin of his lean cheeks. One hand gripped the edge of the table with a strength which may have come from the constant manipulation of his shears.

Suddenly Alicia lowered her head and looked at him.

“My word!” said she. “Mademoiselle Alicia Hasbrouck, late of Whitefern's, Paris, Première Vendeuse of Messieurs Landovski et Fils, Sofia, Bulgaria! I must have some cards engraved to send to all of my friends.”

Morits mistook her meaning, and leaned suddenly back, his face a swarthy color.

“The Landovskis are worthy people, Miss Hasbrouck,” he said quietly, “tailors though they may be.”

Alicia gave him a startled look, then leaned forward quickly, and, quite forgetting that he was a fitter and cutter, which at that moment was not difficult, dropped her hand on the back of his. It felt to Morits like one of the damask roses which bloomed in his father's garden. His eyes darkened, the pupils dilating until they crowded back the deep zone of clear olive green which usually passed for black.

“But, Mr. Landovski,” Alicia cried, “you don't understand! I am not sneering at you—quite the reverse. I am delighted. Of course I accept your generous offer. Did you think that I was trying to be sarcastic? Who am I to be sarcastic—the penniless daughter of a—a convict——” Her voice broke a little. “Do you know, you are the first person who has offered me real kindness since my—my trouble——” She stared at him with swimming eyes.

Morits gripped the edge of the table with his other hand. He was fighting with all the force of his hot, Slavic nature the wild impulse to bend his head and cover with passionate kisses the little hand which still rested, unheeding, on his. He tried to speak, but his voice was caught in his dry throat. Again Alicia mistook the real source of his emotion. She leaned still farther forward. Her flushed, charming face was thrust toward his, and there reached him the faint odor of hyacinths, which more than once had caused his hand to tremble in the fitting room.

“Don't feel hurt,” she implored, almost tearfully. “I laughed because—because it seemed so odd. My life has been so different, so very different—though not always so easy as many people think. And within the last few days it has seemed to me as if I had reached the end of things. You know yourself what a mannequin is compelled to face; and my father has never been out of my mind, though we never were in sympathy. But I have thought at times that I ought to save him from prison—at any cost; and only yesterday the chance came, but the—cost was too great. Of course, I will go to Sofia, and I will serve you faithfully—and thank you—thank you ——”

She flung herself back in her chair, and burst into tears. Morits rose slowly. His eyes were burning, and his face was very white. For an instant he stood looking down at her, and the tenderness that poured from his eyes seemed to envelop the sobbing girl and bring her comfort, for suddenly she dropped her hands and looked up, smiling through her tears.

“When do you want me to go?” she asked.

Morits found his voice with some difficulty.

“We will discuss that to-morrow, Miss Hasbrouck,” said he, in his usual quiet tone. “I will call here at about this hour, when we can arrange for your journey. I am—very glad that you have decided to accept.”

He flashed his quick smile at her, bowed, and left the room. As he went down the narrow, winding stairs he raised the back of his hand and crushed it to his lips, holding it there until he had reached the door.

Chapter IV.

Alicia, descended from the Orient Express, and looked about her with curious eyes. Eight years before, when en route for Constantinople with her father, she had spent three days in Sofia, and remembered the place as a curious mixture of ancient and modern; the meeting place, as it were, of Orient and Occident.

Morits had told her that she might expect to find a great change, and the West crowding the East into a small compass, as ever since the year eighteen-seventy-eight, when the Turks had been driven southward by the Russian troops and Bulgaria had been given its independence, the industrious little nation had been busily occupied with its work of modernization. National pride had decreed that Sofia should soon vie with Budapest in the importance of its trade and in civic institutions, and Alicia's first glance showed her that little time had been lost in the effort to achieve this ambition.

As she stood upon the platform, she saw coming toward her a pretty, dark-eyed girl of about fourteen, in whose pleasant, smiling face she recognized a strong resemblance to Morits. Beside her was a thickset young man who bore the same family resemblance, though lacking in his brother's grace of manner and expression. Michael Landovski was more of the pure type of Bulgarian—rather heavy, stolid, inclined to brusquerie of manner, but kind at heart, intelligent, and honest. Morits had inherited from his mother the Semitic strain which gave him gentleness and imagination.

Both were dressed simply but tastefully in European clothes, and close at their heels came a ruddy, black-eyed girl who wore the national dress of dark velvet prelisse cut low at the neck and showing the white under bodice, very short in the waist, and held beneath the arms by a wide band of braid with a pattern of flowers. The skirt was also of velvet, stopping a little above the ankles with a pattern about the hem. Around her plump neck were several necklaces of colored beads.

At sight of Alicia the young girl paused for an instant as if in doubt; then, seeing that she was alone, and looking about expectantly, she came forward with a brighter smile and a richer color on her really pretty face. The young man, who looked about twenty, raised his hat.

“You are Mees Hasbrouck?” asked the girl, in a strongly accented English.

“Yes,” answered Alicia. “You are Miss Landovski, are you not?”

“Yes; I am Anusia, and zis is my Brother Michael. Our servant will take your valise, and if you will gif to Michael ze ticket he will take care of ze ozzer bagages. You haf had a pleasant voyage?”

Alicia answered pleasantly, and followed the young girl to a carriage drawn by two spicy little horses who saw fit to perform at the sound of the locomotive. They set off briskly, and were soon passing down one of the principal streets of the city, Anusia pointing out the various objects of interest.

Alicia saw that great changes had been effected since her previous visit. The shops and other buildings looked well built and prosperous, the gaps which she remembered between the more modern ones as filled with rubbish and acacia shoots being now occupied by modern edifices, while some of the ancient mosques appeared to have been converted into markets, Christian churches, and even public baths. Ancient St. Sophia, which she remembered as a vast, tumbling ruin, had been restored in places; and as they approached the royal zoölogical gardens she observed that the houses in this more residential section were of wooden construction, with flat roofs, but comfortable in appearance, and surrounded by attractive gardens.

Anusia had pointed out the Landovski establishment as they turned into the Boulevard Dondukoff, and Alicia was pleasantly surprised at its dimensions and up-to-date appearance. A good many people were abroad, and she observed a general air of brisk enterprise which was cheerful and encouraging. The carriage halted finally on the street which approaches the Tomb of Alexander, and turned into an attractive-looking residence inclosed by a high wall.

“Zis is where we live,” said Anusia brightly. “Once before a Turkish gentleman live here. Now he have gone away. Most all ze Turks have gone away.”

Alicia was welcomed by a handsome, elderly woman with a shrewd but kindly face. She spoke English brokenly, but French a little better. She showed Alicia to the room which she was to occupy—a spacious, cheerful apartment, simply furnished, but exquisitely clean, and with two long French windows which looked out upon a charming garden. As Alicia was washing the stains of travel from her face and hands Anusia came in with a tray on which were some cakes, fruit, and a half bottle of excellent wine from the vineyards about Kirk Kilissé which much resembled a good Bordeaux.

“Mother says you are to rest,” said the girl, with the quick smile which reminded Alicia of her Brother Morits. “You must be tired.”

Alicia thanked her, and complimented her upon her English, asking her where she had learned it.

“At the school of the American mission, in Samakov,” Anusia answered. “That, you know, is here in Bulgaria. My Brother Morits went to Robert College. He speaks also very good French and Turkish, as well as most of the Balkan tongues.”

“And what are they?” asked Alicia.

Anusia knitted her dark eyebrows. “Oh, there are several—Serbo-Croatian, Roumanian, Greek, Armenian; Albanian, Kutzo-Wallachian Yiddish, and the Chingéni of the gypsies. But here we speak mostly Bulgarian and Turkish. You may soon learn Bulgarian; it is not difficult, like English. Now you must rest.” And she slipped out, closing the door softly behind her.

When she had gone, Alicia stretched herself out upon the bed to rest and think. The oddity of her position interested and amused rather than dismayed her, as it might have done a woman who had always had a home. But Alicia scarcely knew the meaning of the word “home.” The early years of her life4iad been spent in a French convent; then, after the death of her mother, she had accompanied her father on his extensive travels, serving as his amanuensis in the compiling of his works of geographic description. She had been a dweller in ships and camps, tents, caravans, and native huts. In the great centers they had lived in pensions, furnished lodgings, and, when their means permitted, palace hotels. When in England they had visited or occupied modest lodgings in London.

Sir Despard had never had a settled income, and had spent his money as he made it. Only of recent years had they lived in affluence, this money earned in various promoting schemes to which he had been induced to lend his name and wide acquaintance. He was a brilliant, sanguine man, though often morose of temper, and at times given to a sodden sort of dissipation which had finally robbed his daughter of much of the affection she had felt for him. But he had been shrewd enough to hide his moral lapses from the world, showing it only his more attractive side, and saving the darker one for his daughter. Yet when prosperity came he had been lavish enough in his generosity to her, no doubt enjoying her notoriety as a sportswoman.

Since her eighteenth year Alicia had been encouraged to spend freely, which she had done without thought of the source of their prosperity. She was young, accomplished, and full of the joy of living, and if she had always been careful of herself it was because she had always held herself high, and possessed that innate purity of heart which is a better protection than wise counsels. Certainly none of her father's maxims had ever helped her.

But in the last few years father and daughter had drifted morally and socially apart. The man had coarsened, grown selfish in all ways but the spending of the money to which Alicia now believed they had never had any honest right. He had lent himself to the promulgation of financial enterprises which he had known to be shifty and dishonest. His attitude toward Alicia had become brutalized, and her love for him had suffered its deathblow when he had tried to bring about her marriage to a multimillionaire whom she knew that in his heart he despised. So that when at last he grew careless, and had brought upon himself and others the penalty for dishonest dealing, the pity which she had felt for him was of the head rather than the heart.

And now he was in prison, with the good chance of remaining there for the next decade, and Alicia, the much flattered and, much envied, was the première vendeuse of a Bulgarian dressmaker. The girl smiled bitterly to herself.

“No doubt we've both found our proper levels,” she thought. “People usually do in the end. Poor dad—and poor Alicia! Why couldn't he have been content to write, and leave mines and railroads and land-development schemes to the folk that understand such things?”

There was at least one emotion which for all her varied experience had never touched the girl. She had never been in love, never felt the slightest stir of physical attraction to any living man. Brought up rather as a boy than a girl, she had formed the habit of regarding men from a masculine viewpoint. The thought of love had always rather disgusted her as a mawkish, silly sentiment. Love stories she abominated, and when reading an exciting novel usually skipped over the amorous passages with a curl of her red lip and a sigh of mingled boredom and contempt. She had been good pals with more than one attractive man, only to turn from him with contempt when he had leaned toward a softer relation. Alicia had no love of luxury in her nature, and this lacking quality made her appear cold to some pleasure-loving folk. Perhaps at times she may have been rather hard on the softer members of society and those who were not blessed with her own vigorous health and high vitality. It is difficult for one to be sympathetic who has never suffered, and Alicia had never had an ache nor a pain.

She despised softness and soft folk. Violent sports thrilled her so long as they were actual sports and entailed fair play. Cruelty, on the other hand, roused the fiercest passions which she had ever felt, and supporters of pigeon shoots and rat killings and badger baiting and the like were apt to get the rough side of her tongue. She had once nearly started a riot at a bullfight, and it had taken all of her father's nerve and diplomacy to get them out of the amphitheater unhurt.

Such was Alicia by nature at the time of her coming to Sofia. Of softer qualities it is only fair to say that she was naturally kind to the helpless, with a rich fund of unconscious maternal protectiveness. She had also her full share of tact and charm.

 

Alicia soon became very fond of the Landovskis. She liked their simple honesty, industry, and quiet, natural self-respect. As time wore on, she discovered that these were fundamental Bulgarian qualities, and that these patriotic citizens of a new nation possessed the soul of democracy to a degree which she had never before witnessed. There seemed to be among them no distinctions of caste and class beyond that which was military and for the safety of the state.

She heard King Ferdinand freely criticized for the assumption that he was superior socially to his people, and for his attempts to establish a new national aristocracy. As a matter of fact, he was an autocrat, and the country itself an autocracy, but this the Bulgarians appeared to accept rather as a military necessity. Otherwise they seemed not to comprehend any social distinction. A government official did not consider it beneath his dignity to wait on the customers of his father's café when off duty. All honest professions appeared to be regarded as equally worthy so long as they were honest.

Landovski, the tailor, was respected equally with Ratzchoff, the rich landowner, or Georgevitch, the architect. And little by little Alicia began to find herself imbued with the same spirit of democracy, which would seem at first sight paradoxical in a monarchy. Where at first the Bulgarians had seemed to her brusque and taciturn, almost rude at times, she soon learned to look beneath this uncouthness, and to esteem the qualities of kindness and fair dealing which lay beneath.

Gayeties also were not lacking. There was a good theater which was well patronized, and music of the best was to be heard in the public squares—for the most part the wonderful music of the Chingéni, or Balkan gypsies. Her work was light and agreeable, and she was happy in knowing that she gave satisfaction. And so her life passed contentedly enough for a year, when suddenly the distant rumble of Mars' devastating hurricane bellowed from south and east, and the tempest which for thirty-four years had been gathering and subsiding, only to regather with closer menace, rose black and lurid to the Balkan zenith. The long-expected tempest was about to break.

Chapter V.

Morits found Alicia in the rose garden, staring into the clear water of the Persian fountain as though trying to read therein Bulgaria's destiny and her own. She looked up questioningly at his approach.

“When are you off?” she asked.

“To-night,” he answered, with a smile that failed to hide the eagerness in his face.

“But I thought that your regiment was not to start for two days?”

“That is so. But I have been done a great honor. I start to-night for the frontier, where I am to be given fifty troopers with which to ride south to reconnoiter ahead of the army.”

Alicia's eyes flashed. “But why have they chosen you?” she asked, none too flatteringly. She found it impossible to think of him as a soldier. She had read enough of history to know that such a command demanded a rare combination of judgment and daring, swiftness of decision, and resource which could only come of study and experience.

Morits smiled again. He did not tell her of the warm commendation of his commanding general when he found that Morits had familiarized himself by constant, diligent study of topographical maps with every hectare of ground which might possibly fall within the seat of war; that he knew the depth and width of every river, the height of every hill and mountain, with passes, roads, bypaths, forests, villages, and towns, and had predicted with a quiet confidence which came of a well-based theoretic knowledge the probable course of the Turkish advance, and the sections where food and forage might be obtained in considerable quantities.

So he answered simply: “No doubt the more experienced men were needed elsewhere. There will be plenty of opportunity for all. Besides, I know the country better than some others, and I speak most of the dialects of the Balkans. Turkish I speak as I do Bulgarian.”

“And what do you expect to accomplish?” she asked, but partly convinced that the general knew what he was about.

“Our orders are to locate the possible sources of food supply, to report on different strategic points, and, as far as possible, to reconnoiter the position of the enemy.”

Alicia stared. It seemed incredible, ridiculous even, that the general should send a dressmaker in command of an early and important reconnoissance. Morits read what was passing in her mind, and his color heightened.

“But why locate sources of food supply?” she asked doubtfully. “Surely the army will keep in touch with its supply train?”

“Naturally,” he answered; “but it may prove necessary to dispatch flying columns to this region or that. Our policy is to strike swift, consecutive blows, taking advantage as much as possible of the well-known Turkish lethargy. We wish to secure a foothold in Thrace before the enemy wakes out of his sloth. Probably the first big battle will be fought at Kirk Kilissé—but I hope to connect with the main column in time for that. I am to have picked men and horses, and we shall travel fast.”

Alicia's eyes sparkled, yet she asked incredulously:

“But what do you know about war? Have you ever been under fire?”

“No,” he answered; “but I have studied strategy and evolutions, and I served my year wtih the colors. I passed as second lieutenant of the reserves.”

“But the reserves are not soldiers,” she persisted.

A sudden gleam shone from Morits' clear eyes.

“Perhaps before the war is over you may think differently,” he answered. “We believe that all Bulgarians are soldiers. But, tell me, are you still determined to serve with the Red Cross?”

“Of course I am. Do you think that after studying for the last six months and passing my examination I am going to back out?”

His face softened. “It is not required of you,” he answered. “You are not Bulgarian——”

“I am for the next few months,” Alicia retorted. “Let me tell you something: My own country wants none of me—and no doubt for a good reason. Bulgaria received me and sheltered me and made it possible for me to earn an honest living. Do you think that I am the sort to desert her now in her hour of trial?”

She looked at him with glistening eyes. Morits felt his heart expand. He turned his head away, unable for the moment to speak. Alicia was not watching him. She was staring down into the fountain.

“I have learned a great deal since coming here,” she said presently, in a subdued tone. “I am no longer the little snob that I used to be. It may seem a hard thing to say, but I have got to feel more like a daughter to your father and mother than I ever felt toward my own; and Michael and Yanush and Kasimir and Anusia have treated me like a sister. I never knew before what it meant to have a family. When your father told me that war would be declared, and that you had written to say that you could place me well with Whitefern if I wished, I could have cried. That was the only thing that has ever happened here which made me feel like an outsider. But I am not an outsider. I won't be considered an outsider. I speak Bulgarian now with the others, and I have been trying to forget the old life.”

Morits turned to her eagerly, his face quite pale.

“What you say nearly suffocates me with happiness,” he cried; and there was no mistaking the glow in his eyes. “It is more than I ever dared to hope. And do you really think that you could think of this place always as your home?”

Alicia glanced quickly up, startled at the intensity of his voice. Her eyes met his for an instant, then were turned to the fountain again.

“Yes,” she answered slowly, “as long as I know that you feel toward me as the others do. Listen, Morits—for I am going to call you that if you don't mind. I have learned, among other things, that one may be a dressmaker and yet very much of a man. Your father is that, for he has placed his whole fortune at the disposal of the government, and he actually wept because he was too old to serve. You are that also, because you have given up everything to fight for your country. I can never forget your kindness to me, because I know now that it was out of pure, disinterested kindness that you urged me to come here. If what I said a few minutes ago hurt your feelings I am very sorry, because I did not mean to. It was only that I couldn't get it through my silly head how a man who had been trained to shears and a tape could possibly understand the use of a saber and a bridle rein. Even now I can't, but no doubt I shall learn it, as I have so many things. But there is something for you to learn also.” She raised her head, and her steady eyes looked straight into his glowing ones. “You must learn to think of me as a sister—or not to think of me at all.”

Morits drew in his breath deeply.

“I shall try—Alicia,” he answered chokingly; and, turning on his heel, strode off to the house.

Chapter VI.

With her head swimming from the fumes of anæsthetic in the cabin where the field surgeons were ceaselessly at work, Alicia picked up her hooded cloak, and stepped out into the black, blustering night. There had come a moment's respite in the work until the next ambulance from the front should loom up out of the murk with its groaning cargo.

Alicia stepped under the lee of the cabin, drawing the hood down over her head, for the wind was harsh and raw and filled with a fine, driving mist. The firing had ceased, and the place seemed plunged in gloom and silence. Scattered here and there lights blurred through the windows of the few huts still standing, or flickered up to disappear again from the direction of the tabor. Dull glows in the distance, moving like will-o'-the-wisps, marked the course of an orderly bearing a message to the trenches, and close at hand were pale, quadrangular patches where the light struggled through the sides of the hospital tents.

As Alicia waited, crouched in the lee of the cabin, there came a point of light zigzagging out of the black infinity, followed by a splashing, sucking noise in the mud. A gruff voice and the crack of a whip was borne down to her on a gusty flaw of the wind. It was cold and wet where she stood, but the free air was welcome after many hours of the sickening odors of blood and anæsthetic.

Alicia stepped to the door and opened it. “Here comes the ambulance,” she said to the haggard surgeons.

The vehicle dragged up. heavily through the mud, and stopped, when a dark, cloaked figure swung down from the rear.

“Three,” said he, in Bulgarian. “That is all for the present. There will probably be no more to-night. The firing will not begin again until daylight. It is too dark.”

“Then leave them here, and take the ambulance to the rear,” said the surgeon. He looked at Alicia. “Go back with the ambulance, and get some sleep,” said he. “Doctor Georgeovitch will help me.”

The wounded men were carried into the cabin. With a word of good night, Alicia crawled into the ambulance, and sank down in the corner. She heard the flaillike blows of the whip on the soggy hides of the horses, and the vehicle lurched ahead.

It was some distance to the rear, and Alicia, who in her fortnight of field service had learned the value of snatching sleep when she might, sank off immediately. How long she slept she had no means of knowing, but she was suddenly awakened by the ceasing of the motion. Leaning forward, she looked out. Blackness, utter and impenetrable, weighed down on every side. Not a light, not a single break in the styxlike murk. Not so much as the reflected glint from a puddle. Even the lantern rigged out on a staff from the pole had gone out, and the two horses were standing motionless.

Stepping out into the mud, Alicia walked forward. The driver, huddled in his military cloak, was fast asleep, and snoring heavily. Alicia reached up, found his elbow, and gave it a tug. The man did not move. His head had dropped forward on his chest, and he seemed on the verge of pitching out at the side.

Reaching for the whip, Alicia prodded him violently with the butt. He muttered a little, but did not awake. Alicia realized that his physical exhaustion had reached practically the state of coma, that he had fallen asleep, leaving the horses to wander forward on their own objective, finally to come to a halt; but how far they might have gone before stopping she had no idea.

She knew that they could not have kept their direction to the rear, as in that case they would have struck the main body of the tabor, and come on troops bivouacked in the mud. Neither could they have gone to the front, as in that case they would have been long since halted by a sentry, or, failing this, come upon the trenches. Even on the flanks it was difficult to understand the possibility of wandering outside the lines unless they had been flung much farther out during the night.

Considering it impossible that they could be outside the camp, Alicia finally succeeded in awakening the driver—a heavy, stolid peasant at the best. She was unable to make him understand, whether through his being naturally too stupid to catch the meaning of her limited Bulgarian, or because he was still half insensible from need of sleep. At any rate, he appeared to realize that they were lost, and after a few heavy grunts and a peering stare into the murk he gathered up whip and reins, awoke his sleeping team, and they lurched forward again.

What had happened was this: The driver, on leaving the field dressing station, which was not far from the front, had fallen almost immediately to sleep, when the team, straying blindly in the dark, had struck and followed a road which led to the left flank. On reaching the inner lines, a sentry had halted the ambulance and awakened the driver, who, in answer to the challenge, had answered simply “An ambulance.” The sentry, having verified this fact, had passed him on, doubtless thinking that the driver knew his errand, when the latter, stupid with fatigue, had urged his team on, then fallen to sleep again, The lantern had gone out, and the ambulance had passed the farther outposts, which were more widely drawn, unchallenged and unseen.

Alicia had not awakened the first time that the ambulance had stopped, and, deciding to herself that the driver probably knew where he was going, promptly fell asleep again. Meanwhile the team, a comparatively fresh one, moved ahead patiently on a trail which led toward the foothills of the Istrandja Dagh.

To the average person it might seem impossible that a sleeping man and a sleeping girl could have blundered out through the lines of a sleeping camp and past a double cordon of pickets, no matter how thick the night. But the average person has never experienced that benumbing, drunkenlike condition which is the result of overpowering fatigue due to prolonged physical effort with a minimum of sleep. Persons who have never encountered this can no more understand it than they can the state to which a human being may arrive when too long deprived of food in the face of hardship and physical exertion. The first is a passive state of irresponsibility; the latter a fiercely active one. Even great generals have understood the need of leniency when the conditions have been such that the gravest military delinquency, such as sleeping on guard, has resulted from a condition past the limits of human volition. Bonaparte acted as much from sense as sentiment when he stood the guard of the sleeping sentry.

In any case, the ambulance moved on along the muddy trail, the native horses trained to toil on while the driver slept; and daylight found the equipage on a stony track which mounted gradually toward the first slopes of the high range of hills which separates the plains of Thrace from the Black Sea. Here the tired horses gradually slowed their pace, and began to loiter, cropping at the wisps of yellow grass. Finding that they were no longer urged, they presently began to hunt for better pasture, when the fore wheel of the ambulance struck a rock, and the driver pitched out, landed on his head, and awoke.

The jar had roused Alicia also, and after the first bewildered look she scrambled to the ground. The day was making a gloomy effort to break through a low gray blanket of cloud. The wind was still high, and swept forlornly across a barren, rolling waste, driving with it scattered drops of icy rain. A flock of plover drifted overhead, piping plaintively, and as Alicia stood listening and staring about her there came from the distance a low, muttering rumble that suggested thunder. It died, then rose anew, the detonations blunted and tremulous as borne by the eddies of the gusty wind. Savoff was at work on Adrianople.

Ahead, the road climbed over bare, bleak hills. Below, it had crept up through a gully, and on either side were muddy stones, dried grass, and a few dwarfed trees. Alicia looked at the driver.

“Where are we?” she asked sharply.

He shook his bead. His fall appeared to have stupefied his senses, never sharply alert.

It was plain to the girl that she must take the initiative. She knew that they could not have come far—a few miles at most.

“Wait here, you,” she said to the driver, and started to climb to a small eminence at the right. She had taken but a few steps when she heard behind her the clatter of hoofs. Four troopers were coming up the trail at a smart trot, and, to Alicia's relief, she saw that they wore the uniform of Bulgarian cavalry.

And then a swift and startling thing occurred. At sight of the ambulance they reined up sharply, cast a quick look on all sides, then came on swiftly but warily. Alicia turned and started down the slope to meet them. She was still at a distance of thirty or forty yards when she saw the leader ride up to the driver of the ambulance and ask him some question. The man, who had clambered to his feet, apparently answered, when, without more ado, the trooper whipped out his saber, and thrust it through the body of the peasant soldier, who flung wide his arms and fell with scarcely so much as a groan.

Alicia's knees tottered under her, and she sank to the sodden turf. There was a swift word, and two of the troopers turned sharply, spurring their horses up through the stones to where she stood. As they drew near, she saw that they were swart men, savage of face, lean, but big-boned and muscular. The first reined up within a few paces of her, and drew his saber. Alicia screamed, and shrank back, clasping her hands with terror. Her face was hidden to the eyes in the heavy woolen hood of her cloak.

“Stop—stop!” she cried, forgetting in her terror that she spoke in English. Then, as the man seemed to hesitate, she flung her arm toward the ambulance, and shrieked furiously: “We are of the Red Cross!”

The saber was lowered, and the man thrust out his head, glaring down at her. His beady black eyes glittered like the eyes of some beast of prey. He stared for an instant, then glanced back at his companion, and said a few words in some guttural tongue which Alicia did not understand. The other man stared likewise. He was a burly, muscular ruffian, with a fierce Mongolian face, savage, but not without a certain sinister intelligence. His forehead was low and receding, the eyes set on a slant upward and outward like the eyes of a wolf. His cheek bones were high and prominent, the nose aquiline and hooked over a wide; thin-lipped mouth with a heavy jaw and a pointed chin. Both men had wiry black mustaches drooping at the corners of their cruel mouths.

There was a short argument between the two. Both glanced back toward the plain as they talked. Then the thickset man dismounted, and, striding up to Alicia, took her by the elbow, and said, in Bulgarian:

“Come!”

Alicia tried to twist away, but the man's grip tightened. He said a few words to the others, when one of the ambulance horses was taken from the harness, and a saddle improvised with one of the leather cushions and a looped rein to serve as a stirrup. The burly man picked the girl up as though she had been a child, and set her astride the ambulance horse. Its mate was likewise stripped of all but the bridle, and taken on a leading strap, when the party set off up the slope at a brisk canter.

Fortunately for Alicia, she was not only a perfect horsewoman, but had accustomed herself to ride astride. The man with the Tartar face was eying her keenly, and she had slight doubt but that if she had shown herself unable to stay on she would have been sabered on the spot. What these men were who were armed and uniformed as Bulgarian cavalry she could not imagine, unless they were thieves or guerrillas who had ambushed and killed the troopers to whom the horses and accouterments had formerly belonged.

As they reached the crest of the swelling rise, Alicia looked back. The firing had slightly swelled in volume, but seemed far in the distance. In the growing light, she could see the camp, but indistinctly through the misty haze. It appeared to be about three miles distant across the shallow valley. She could see the white tents against the dull, brownish green, and it seemed to her that there was some movement taking place. Then they began to descend, and the slope of the low hill hid all beyond.

The four ruffians who had captured her appeared to be heading for the mountains, and once the footing became more secure spurred on their horses, traveling swiftly and in silence. Once they made a detour to avoid a village or small town. At another village which was smaller and apparently deserted, they drew rein in front of a tavern, and one of them, dismounting, disappeared, presently to emerge, dragging an old man behind him as one might drag a sack of grain. Flinging him against the wall, the trooper drew his saber, and, with the point against the throat of the old peasant, began to question him. But, either through stubbornness or lack of information, the unfortunate man seemed able only to shake his head and mumble. The voice of the trooper grew more menacing, and suddenly the old man screamed. Alicia turned away her head, and a dark mist seemed to gather before her eyes. She swayed slightly on her makeshift saddle, fighting hard to keep from falling. Just what happened she could not have told, but a moment later there was a sharp order, and they were again in action. Alicia dared not look back.

Presently her senses cleared, and she looked about her hopelessly. The trail had turned abruptly to the south, and they appeared to be skirting the foothills of a wild and lofty range of mountains. The flying clouds had thinned, and at times the sun gleamed coldly through a rift in the eastern sky. The view of the plains of Thrace was shut off by a long, low ridge, and from the bottom of the wide valley to the west came the glint of a small, winding river. Here and there across the bleak, desolate stretch small habitations were to be seen, sometimes singly, sometimes in groups; but there was no sign of any living being except occasional flocks of wild fowl passing overhead, or a lonely jackal slinking from a heap of stones.

Alicia's captors rode swiftly and in silence—first the broad-shouldered, sinewy man whom she took to be the leader, then he of the Tartar face, herself, followed closely by a small, wiry man who led the spare horse, and at a little distance in the rear the fourth of the party, who occasionally struck the led horse with the end of a lariat which he carried, Tartar fashion, on the pommel of his saddle.

No word had been spoken to her since her capture, but several times Alicia had gone suddenly faint and sick at the sidelong glances thrown her by one or the other of the party, and which seemed charged with an evil admiration. She dared not think what fate might be reserved for her, and thought bitterly of the little automatic pistol which for the first week of the campaign she had carried in the pocket of her skirt. But for the present, however, the party seemed bent on getting away from the region with all possible dispatch, and Alicia thought it probable that they were aiming for some fastness in the mountains, the higher peaks of which, white with new-fallen snow, were beginning to appear as the low, storm clouds lifted.

The girl was growing faint with hunger, and the horses beginning to lag, when there appeared ahead and slightly below them a little hamlet on the banks of the river. The leader drew rein, and studied it intently. From a single house there rose a column of thin blue smoke, and on the edge of the stream was a woman driving a bullock hitched to a clumsy-cart. At a sign from the leader they advanced again, presently to draw rein before the house from which the smoke was issuing. It appeared to be a dilapidated inn, for there was a slight inclosure in front of it, over the gate of which hung a lantern with a roughly painted sign in Turkish characters.

As they drew up before this gate the leader dismounted, and, turning to Alicia, scowled, and laid his finger on his lips, then motioned for her to get down. She obeyed, when the others, at a sign from the leader, also dismounted, and hitched their horses to the fence. As they did so, there appeared in the doorway a woman in a dark cloak who eyed them suspiciously, veiling the lower part of her face with a fold of the shawl which was over her head.

The leader said a few words in what Alicia took to be Turkish, at which the woman appeared to be reassured, for she called back over her shoulder, when a sharp-featured boy slipped out and led the horses to the rear of the house. The party entered, the woman giving Alicia a curious look as she passed. Apparently she asked the leader some question concerning her, for when he answered she shot at Alicia a look which seemed to hold a faint expression of pity.

The party sat down at a rough table, Alicia being motioned to her place on the bench between the leader and the big man. The woman disappeared, presently to return with a loaf of black but nutritious bread, black olives in oil, onions, a piece of cheese, and a pot of coffee. The men ate wolfishly, and Alicia took what the woman offered her, seeming again to intercept that fugitive look of pity. She had thrown back the hood of her cloak, but instantly regretted it as she noticed the character of the glances bestowed on her bright hair. But her courage, naturally high, returned to some extent under the stimulating effect of the food.

The meal finished, the men produced small silver tobacco boxes, and rolled their cigarettes, talking together in low, guttural voices, with occasional glances through the open door, where the small, bright-eyed boy was keeping watch at the gate. Occasionally they looked slantingly at the captive. Alicia stared back stonily, fighting hard to preserve a boldness of front. Some instinct told her that the only chance of salvation lay in showing no outward sign of fear. It was plain that her captors were puzzled in regard to her. In their staccato conversation she caught certain words which led her to think that she was being held with some idea of ransom, for the word “lira” was frequently repeated with numericals prefixed. She began to think that these bandits—for she had come to the conclusion that such they must be—were inclined to believe her some woman of rank who had seen fit to lend her efforts to the work of caring for the sick and wounded. The idea gave her a certain courage, and made it possible for her to preserve her attitude of haughty defiance.

It is possible that her captors were discussing the price which she might bring in a slave market of Asia Minor. As they argued among themselves, the Turkish woman passed in and out, and once lent her voice to the conversation. Alicia felt that she was advising the men to leave her at the inn, but if so the plea met with disapproval.

The halt may have lasted for an hour, when the horses were led out, and the march resumed. The road had improved, and they pushed on steadily, making speed as the condition of the ground permitted. From the position of the sun, Alicia saw that they were traveling south. Villages were no longer avoided, and late in the afternoon they arrived at a hamlet on the edge of the plain, where they drew rein before an inn. It was a spot which would have been attractive to one visiting it under different circumstances, situated on the lower slopes of a range on the edge of broad, flowing plains which had recently been cultivated in wheat, maize, and tobacco. A first glance showed it to be a Turkish village, and on the outskirts was a picturesque mosque, from the minaret of which the muezzin was uttering the call to prayers as they rode up. The cry—or, rather, chant—in its long, quavering cadences fell wildly on Alicia's ears: “Allahu Akbar—Ashadu an lah ilaha ill 'llah—Ashandu anna Mohammadan rasulullah—Hayya 'ala 's-salati—Hayya 'ala'l-falah—Allahu Akbar.” (“God is most great—Great One, I confess there is no God but God—I avow Mahomet to be His Prophet. Come to prayer. Come to salvation. Save our souls. God is great. There is but one God, and only God.”)

The call had just begun as Alicia's captors reined up in front of the khan, or inn, a clean and pleasant-looking place, for the village was a prosperous one in times of peace. Few people were in sight, but the four men dismounted quickly, and, flinging their cloaks upon the ground, knelt, facing the east, and performed their devotions. Not far distant were two Mevlevee dervishes, the one a sheik, as designated by his green turban, the other in a tall yellow cap without terk or turban. Aside from these, no able-bodied men were to be seen, for a Turkish recruiting caracole had stripped the place of its military material immediately on the declaration of war by Montenegro, which had occurred nine days before Turkey declared war on Bulgaria and Servia.

Alicia's heart seemed for a moment to stop its beating as the leader arose from his devotions, and, with a scowl, motioned for her to enter the khan. The night would soon be there, when she would find herself alone with these murderous men, who she was now convinced were escaped Turkish prisoners, captured at the fight at Kurtkale, when the Bulgarian advance had taken that place.

Already several loiterers, among them the dervishes, were approaching to question her captors, taking them for Turkish troopers on witnessing their response to the call of the muezzin, and probably never having seen a Bulgarian uniform. The leader did not wait to speak with them. Turning angrily toward Alicia, who was leaning, faint and sick, against the high gatepost, he took her by the shoulder roughly, and thrust her forward toward the black, open door.

Chapter VII.

There was nobody in the room but a loutish, unwashed youth with the air of an imbecile. He was standing with his back to a smoldering fire, and stared at the newcomers from under his shaggy hair with his lower lip sagging and his head pitched forward. The leader gave him a contemptuous look, then pushed Alicia toward a bench. She sank down wearily, yet managed to meet the look of her captor with a certain proud defiance. He glowered at her for an instant, then turned on his heel, and went out.

The idiot mumbled to himself, and followed. Left alone, Alicia cast her eyes about like some trapped animal. Through an open door in the rear of the room she could see out into a court, and, acting on a sudden impulse, she sprang to her feet, and, crossing the room stealthily, went out. There was nobody in sight. Next door to the inn was a small dwelling, closely shuttered, and apparently deserted, like most of the habitations of the region. A ragged fence separated its garden from the yard of the inn, and, acting entirely on impulse, Alicia climbed over it, and looked about.

She had scarcely done so when she heard an angry cry and the clatter of boots from the inn. A clamor of voices followed, and into Alicia's hunted fright there came a desperate idea. The horses were standing before the inn, and it occurred to the girl that if she could slip along behind the fence she might be able to dart out, mount one of them, and make her escape. Even if she were killed in the attempt, that would be preferable to what might otherwise be in store for her.

Slipping out of her cloak, she stole along behind the fence, which, fortunately for her, was thickly covered with vines. The fence ended in a wall of stones and clay. Alicia ran to the gate, which was not locked, and looked out. The four horses were standing with drooping heads in front of the inn, that of the leader being nearest her, and not more than twenty feet away. In front of the gate was a group of idlers consisting of two old men, a woman, and three children. Some distance farther beyond were the dervishes, who had started to walk away, but had paused to listen to the clattering and curses proceeding from the inn.

There was not a moment to lose, so Alicia stepped boldly out of the gate, and walked swiftly up to the leader's horse. So sudden and unexpected was her appearance that before the thick-witted spectators thought of raising an alarm, or attempting to interfere, she had flung the reins over the animal's head, and put one foot in the stirrup. Then one of the dervishes emitted a howl, and, staff in hand, sprang forward to seize her; and in so doing played directly into her hand. For the horse, tired though it was, took fright at the wild, gesticulating figure, and shied away even as Alicia was swinging herself into the saddle. No doubt also her fluttering skirt alarmed the animal, for, with a frightened snort, he bolted back over the road which they had just come.

But Alicia's handicap was a narrow one, for even as she seated herself and turned to look back over her shoulder she saw the leader rush through the gate and fling himself onto the bare back of the led horse. Her heart sank, for she knew that this horse, not having carried any weight throughout the day, would naturally be fresher than the one she rode. Neither had she whip or spur, but as she turned in her saddle to gather up the end of the reins she made a thrilling discovery. In the holster attached to the saddle bow was a loaded army revolver. She drew it out, cocked it, and looked back over her shoulder.

Urging on his horse with heel and hand, and bent low on the neck of the beast, came the leader, He had not seemed to have shortened the distance between them, for Alicia's horse was the swifter, and, alarmed at the fluttering skirt, ran like a deer, ears back, eyes bulging, and nose straight out. But Alicia knew that he could not hold the pace, for she was herself of good weight, and the horse was tired. Also, the other three men had mounted, and were following fast, and it was possible that when it came to a race one of their horses might prove faster than her own. Determined to save the last cartridge for herself, she swung about in her saddle, aimed as well as she could at the head of the leader's horse, and fired.

Startled at the report, her own horse sprang forward gamely. Her shot had missed, however, and its only effect on her pursuers was a savage yell. Ahead, the road curved sharply down into a gully at the bottom of which flowed a small stream. The descent was short, but steep, and Alicia shoved the revolver back into its holster, and gathered up her reins, for she remembered that the place was slippery and cobble strewn.

Onward she flew, not daring to look back, for the gully opened ahead. Reining in, she made the descent in safety, swerved sharply, splashed through the shallow water, and was dashing up the opposite side between the steep banks when her horse snorted and checked its pace in a series of short bounds. Alicia glanced up, and screamed. Deployed on either side was a row of crouching figures, and ahead the trail was blocked by a cluster of men.

Alicia felt herself swaying in the saddle. She saw that these were soldiers, and whether friends or enemies it mattered little. She was staring wildly from side to side, when there came the crash of hoofs behind her, followed by a harsh order from the top of the bank. Then there came a man rushing up to seize her horse, and as her eyes fell on him she saw that it was Morits. She felt herself drawn from the saddle, supported in a pair of strong arms.

“In the name of God, what are you doing here?” said a voice in her ear; but before she could answer there came the sound of a scuffle, a curt command to halt, and men were swarming down the bank. Morits, holding her with one arm, was giving swift orders.

“Who are these men?” he demanded. “And how did you get here?”

Alicia rallied her strength.

“They are bandits, Morits. They killed the driver of the ambulance. We got lost last night, and these men captured us. They would have killed me, too, if they had dared——”

“Sergeant, line those men up against the bank,” said Morits. “I think they are the ones we had orders to look for. Strip and search them.”

The captives submitted in sullen, fatalistic resignation. Only the leader kept his glittering, beady eyes fastened on Alicia.

“Take the lady up the bank, and let her rest for a moment. Spread out some cloaks.” Morits' voice sounded to Alicia quiet and comforting. “I will join you in a moment,” he said to her. “I must question these men.”

Assisted on either side by a sturdy trooper, Alicia climbed the bank, where at a little distance she saw the horses in charge of their tenders. Morits had heard her shot and the yell which followed it, and, the place being favorable to await whatever might be coming, had quickly dismounted, and deployed his men on either side of the road. It was a disposition of his small command of fifty troopers which might easily have checked the advance of a squadron. Alicia sank down on the cloaks quickly spread for her, and the troopers questioned her eagerly. She was describing what had happened in her broken Bulgarian to her admiring listeners when the voice of the sergeant called crisply:

“Down here, a corporal and six men.”

There was a scramble over the edge of the bank. A moment later Morits appeared. Alicia looked up questioningly.

“If you feel able, we will ride on,” said Morits. “It is getting dark.”

He assisted her to mount. There was a curt command or two, and a minute later the troop was in motion. In column of fours they crossed the gully, and proceeded at a rapid walk toward the village. When they had gone a little way Alicia turned to Morits, who was riding silently beside her, with a subdued, expectant manner, as though listening for something.

“What were those men?” she asked.

Before he could answer there came from behind them a muffled volley. Then silence, broken by the croak of a heron which rose heavily from a marshy spot on their left. Alicia turned her startled face to Morits.

“What was that?” she whispered.

“They were spies,” he answered quietly.

“Spies!”

“Yes.”

“Turks?”

“Turkish spies. I think that they were Crim Tartars. They had general passes from the Ottoman commander in chief to pass in disguise through all the Turkish lines. I ordered them shot.”

Alicia said nothing, and they rode on in silence. Presently Morits said:

“I don't see how I am going to get you back to the base. My orders are to ride south toward Lule Burgas, then reconnoiter the country along the Tchorlu River. There is a Turkish party somewhere between us and Kirk Kilissé, and I learned an hour ago that there is a column of the enemy moving toward Adrianople from Sarai. It may not be true, but if so its advance guard might be in a position to cut you off if I were to try to send you back with a squad to Kirk Kilissé. Besides, I have no authority to lessen my force except as I need couriers.”

“Then you will keep me with you?”

Morits twisted the-end of his incipient black mustache. “I'm afraid there is no other way,” he answered regretfully.

“You don't seem very keen about it,” said Alicia.

“I'm not. Do you realize that we have got to go right through the heart of the enemy's country, working our way between Turkish columns and cavalry squadrons and reconnoitering parties like our own?”

“I'm not afraid as long as I'm with you.”

Morits said nothing. He was thinking of some of the sights he had seen in the wake of a Turkish column composed largely of the wild and savage Kurds from Asia Minor. Alicia, glancing at him expectantly, noticed for the first time that he wore a captain's chevrons.

“You've been promoted!” she exclaimed.

He smiled slightly. “Promotions come quickly in such a war as this,” he answered, not seeing fit to mention the high praise which he had received on coming in from the end of his first ten days' reconnoissance. “We shall spend the night here,” he continued. “Let us go in. I want to hear what happened to you.”

They dismounted, and Morits turned to the sergeant.

“Take a squad, and forage what you can,” said he. “Let the men sleep here in the khan, and a stable guard with the horses. Post your sentries at least a kilometer down the road on either side.”

They entered the inn, where they found two frightened Turkish women, who, at a few curt words, set about to prepare two of the upper rooms and to get what food the place could offer. As Alicia was bathing her face and hands there was a knock at the door, and she opened it to find Morits with a bundle under his arm.

“It is going to be very rough for you,” he said.

“I have roughed it before. Please don't bother about me.”

“Here is a uniform,” he said. “You had better put it on, since you've got to ride a troop horse with an army saddle. It appears to be clean and new.”

“Thank you,” said Alicia. She did not dare ask the source of the uniform. She thought that she could guess. As a matter of fact, the sergeant had stripped the four spies before having them shot.

Morits and Alicia supped together by the light of an oil lamp. He listened with silent amazement to the story of the day's adventures.

“You are wonderful!” he said, when she had finished. “The chances are that you would have escaped even if we had not been there. That was a good horse you rode. Now you must sleep, for we march at daylight, and you are exhausted. Take the lamp. I have a tallow dip.

“But I want to hear about yourself,” pleaded Alicia.

“To-morrow will be time enough for that. You must sleep now.”

 

It seemed to Alicia that she had scarcely closed her eyes when Morits was rapping at the door to say that it was time to get up. He lighted her lamp, then went out, and presently one of the Turkish women appeared with a jug of hot water. Alicia bathed and dressed, shuddering a little as she drew on the heavy trousers and tunic over the clothes she already wore. She slipped her feet, shoes and all, into the clumsy cavalry boots, first getting Morits to wrench off the heels of her shoes. When she came out, fully equipped, he gave her a glance of approval.

“You will pass muster,” he said, with his slight smile.

After a breakfast of black bread, eggs, and coffee they went out to find the men already in the saddle. Alicia, at her urgent request, was given the strong, wiry little horse on which she had made her escape, and which she promptly christened “Tartar.” No time was lost, and they swung off under the stars, now glittering brightly, and a pale light glimmering in the east.

Presently, when it grew lighter, they left the road, and turned out across the open plain; and now Alicia discovered that the little troop did not travel in a solid column, but with small squads thrown out perhaps a mile in front and rear and on the two flanks, these communicating by a simple system of signals devised by Morits himself; and given with the cap held at arm's length.

Alicia observed also that the troopers were carefully chosen for their quickness, intelligence, and horsemanship, and the horses for speed and endurance. Most of the troopers were small men, light in weight, but wiry and muscular. Their discipline also appeared to be perfect.

“My sergeant,' Morits said, “is a barber of Sofia. His father is a rose farmer of Kazanlik, but before that he raised horses, and the boy grew up in the saddle. One of the corporals is a famous driver of trotting horses in the races at Presbourg, in Austria, and also at Vienna; the other is the son of a rich importer of rose attar in New York. He returned to serve in the war, bringing with him a donation of five thousand dollars from his father. He is a wonderful revolver shot, but does not speak Bulgarian as well as yourself. Very few of these men are peasants. They are chiefly clerks, waiters, agents, and the like. There is also another tailor besides myself. We had two more, but they were both killed when we joined the column to attack Mustafa Pasha.”

Alicia looked at him remorsefully. “I told you I had learned that it does not take nine tailors to make a man,” she said, “and that I expected to learn that a tailor might make a soldier, too. But I did not expect to find one the trained soldier that you appear to be. I cannot understand it.”

Morits smiled. “You said something also about reservists,” said he. “These men are all reservists, though carefully chosen ones. I like them better. The regular soldier takes fighting as part of the day's work for which he is paid. Most of these chaps would pay to fight. That is, in fact, their chief drawback. They would rather engage than observe, and we are out to do the latter.” He glanced at her with the quick, flashing smile that so lighted his rather melancholy face. “For my part, I «would much rather observe. The science of war is fascinating as a theory, but its practice is terribly sad.”

For a while they rode on in silence, both busy with their thoughts. The dawn had brightened from pale silver to a faint flush of rose and amethyst, but the sun was slow in coming, as though reluctant to lend its light to another day of strife and slaughter. The high gale overhead of the day before had swept away the dark clouds of evil portent, as though to offer an example to the sons of men, and a soft breeze from the south stirred the wisps of yellow grass and whispered among the sear leaves of the scant dwarf oaks a promise that one day they should live again in their posterity. Hares leaped from beneath the horses' feet, and bounded off across the plain, while from overhead came the flutelike whistle of snipe and plover rising from the marshy pools and flying to welcome the sun, whose rosy promise was reflected from their breasts in tongues of flame.

Then up over the broken rampart to the east there rose a glowing segment, which grew and swelled as its darting rays swept wide to smear the plain in swimming crimson. The slopes of the mountains awoke and clad themselves in mauve and purple.

Alicia looked at Morits. He was riding at her side, and the bright rays struck full upon his face. It seemed to the girl that some new and thrilling quality invested the young man. Whatever it was, she felt that she shared in it by virtue of a clearer comprehension born within the last few hours. She was conscious of a sudden timidity in his presence. She wanted to speak to him, to call his attention to the beauty of the morning and the joyousness of living. War and its turmoils seemed infinitely remote in the sweet peace of that rosy sunrise. Alicia's heart swelled, and she wondered what it was that thrilled even while it soothed her. She was conscious of something precious found, some vital lesson learned, and as she looked at Morits she felt that he alone could explain this glorious awakening.

But Morits seemed oblivious to her. He was staring intently to the left, and as Alicia followed his gaze she saw on a distant rise two small gyrating bodies which seemed to swim and eddy like motes against the glowing orb of the newly risen sun. Morits raised his arm.

“Look!” said he. “The outriders are signaling.”

Chapter VIII.

The signal, which was a single downward sweep of the arm to the right, signified a discovery. Morits swung his horse sharply to the left, and, with Alicia at his side, rode straight toward the sun. Hardly had he done so when there came, as it seemed, from the ground beneath their horses' feet a low, muttering rumble, which swelled and died and swelled again. Marsh birds in the shallow pools about them took to flight, filling the air with their plaintive cries. Morits looked at Alicia.

“Savof's guns opening on Adrianople,” said he.

Urging their horses forward, they soon reached the outriders, who were sitting motionless, awaiting them. As they came up they saw that the soft turf was cut by the tracks of many horses which had been traveling in a direction parallel to their own. Morits dismounted to examine them.

“These have passed since the rain,” said he, looking at the sergeant.

“Less than two hours ago, captain,” answered the former barber of Sofia. “Yonder is the proof. The traces are scarcely cold.”

Morris nodded. “Their number is about the same as our own,” said he, “and they were traveling at a trot, as you can see from the way the hoofs have cut the turf.”

“Captain,” said one of the corporals, “these horses were not shod in Bulgaria, and some of them are not shod at all.”

“You are right. It is probably a small detachment, like our own, which has been reconnoitering our advance on Adrianople, and is now on its way to report to the Turkish western army. I wish that we might cut it off.”

“I do not think they number over thirty,” said the sergeant, looking hungrily ahead. “It is probable that they have been traveling through the night, and will soon halt to eat and rest.”

“That is my own idea,” said Morits. “Sergeant, take ten men, and follow this trail at a good pace. Keep your eyes open, and if you see anything of this detachment send a man back to report. We will follow about a mile behind you. Don't attack under any circumstances, and if you should be attacked yourself fall back on us. Do you understand?”

“Yes, captain.” The sergeant saluted, and quickly picked out his men, starting off on the trail at a brisk trot. The rest of the party proceeded slowly after them in the same formation as before.

“I should like to cut off this party,” Morits repeated, looking at Alicia. “No doubt it is carrying important information as to our movements. Besides, it would be a good lesson not to reconnoiter our position too boldly.”

“Then why not push on with all your force?” asked Alicia.

“Because in that case the enemy might take alarm, and try to check us, sending on a courier or two. I do not want to let a man escape to carry any news, and if they have been traveling all night, as I believe, we ought to be able to accomplish this. Ten men will not alarm them, and they might even drive them back. If they do so we will spread out and attempt to surround them.”

“Do you think there are no more than the sergeant said?”

“I think that there are nearer fifty than thirty. I compared the tracks with that of our own thirty-eight. Ours were the smaller.”

“But they may push on without stopping until they reach their own lines.”

“They can scarcely do that if they have already traveled throughout the night. I think that we will come upon them before noon.”

“And there will be a fight?”

“It is probable. In that case, you must remain in the rear, and wait until I send for you.”

“But I want to fight, too. I can shoot.”

Morits shook his head. “You will stay in the rear,” said he quietly, yet with finality. “For one thing, you are a woman; and for another, you are a member of the hospital corps, and as such a noncombatant. If through any accident you should fall into the hands of the enemy, slip off your soldier tunic and show the red cross on your blouse. But if you were to fall into the hands of any of the Asiatic troops: you had better put the muzzle of your revolver to your head, and pull the trigger.”

“I meant to do that yesterday if I were caught,” said Alicia, in a low voice.

“Please God, we may soon drive those hellhounds back to Asia, never to return,” said Morits, so fiercely that Alicia was startled. She threw him a quick glance. Morits' face had turned suddenly pale, as the girl thought, with passion. In reality, he was thinking of women he had seen in a Macedonian village through which he had passed in the wake of a Kurdish column.

Presently he turned and gave the order to trot, when the horses moved forward with the easy, gliding gait which made the use of the stirrup unnecessary. For an hour they advanced at a good pace, few words being spoken. The day brightened and grew warm.

“We shall soon strike a river,” said Morris, “one of the many tributaries of the Tchorlu.”

The ground had risen slightly, and the scattered habitations began to grow more frequent. Here and there across the plain, and higher up on the lower slopes of the mountains, were small villages, while the country itself looked fertile and productive. They were crossing a field from which the corn had been recently harvested when over the crest of a low ridge there appeared a horseman riding rapidly to meet them. As he drew near, they discovered it to be one of their scouts. Reining up in front of Morits, he saluted, and said breathlessly:

“Captain, the party ahead has crossed the river and turned east, heading directly into the mountains.”

“How many are there?”

“About fifty men. They look to be regular Turkish cavalry.”

“They have struck a road on the other side of the river, have they not?”

“There appears to be a rough trail. The river is not deep, coming only to the bellies\of the horses.”

“Did they discover you?”

“I do not think so. We dismounted under the brow of the hill, and crept up to the top on hands and knees.”

“How far are they ahead, and how fast are they traveling?”

“They are about two miles ahead of us here, and after crossing the river they pushed forward up the hill at trot.”

“Good! They are probably going to Media. It is useless to follow them farther. We cannot get around them in the pass, and might simply fall into some trap.”

The eager faces of the troopers fell. Morits was about to give the order to proceed when over the rise ahead appeared another trooper, coming at a gallop. He dashed up with a salute.

“Captain,” said he, “the party which we have been following has met with another, about a hundred strong, and they are returning. The second party appears to be regular cavalry also, but has a light fieldpiece. They must be crossing the river even now.”

Scarcely had he spoken when up came the others, and confirmed the report, the sergeant expressing the opinion that it was the advance guard of a Turkish column disembarked at Media.

Morits glanced quickly about him. They were skirting the rolling plain at the foot of the lower slopes of the Istrandja Dagh, the range of mountains which rise from the eastern boundary of Rumelia and follow the coast to the Bosphorus. It crossed Morits mind that the party which they had been following had probably been sent to reconnoiter ahead of the advancing Turkish column, with the advance guard of which it had just joined. But before dispatching couriers with this information to Kirk Kilissé and the Bulgarian army investing the region about Adrianople, he wished to discover the character and strength of the approaching enemy.

Westward, the plains of Thrace stretched away to the blue horizon. Eastward, the ground rose brokenly to the Istrandja Dagh. Not more than half a mile distant in this direction was a long, low ridge, behind which the little troop might disappear, to slip away like a pack of wolves to the higher slopes. But there was no time to be lost. Their tracks, of course, would betray them, but there was no choice between this method and a hasty retreat on the trail which they had come—a retreat which in the face of overpowering numbers might easily become a flight.

Morits acted quickly. Indicating to the sergeant a high, forest-covered plateau, he told him to take half the command, ride back on their trail for a couple of miles, then in single file strike straight for the mountains, keeping under cover as much as possible, to join him at the spot indicated. Instructing his own men to keep each in the tracks of the man ahead, he put the two small bands in motion, he himself leading the way to the low ridge to the left.

Once under cover, two men were left to observe the movements of the enemy as soon as it should come in sight, while Morits led the main party up through a narrow defile which soon broadened into a little sheltered valley planted in tobacco. Skirting the northern slope of this, they plunged into a growth of beech and oak, through which they made their way to the higher ground. Coming out presently on a still verdant meadow which suggested to Alicia one of the mountain pastures of the Alps, Morits left his band on the edge of the woods, and rode to a point whence he could reconnoiter the plain beneath.

From this point the view was extensive. The plain rolled off like a sea to the blue distance, its only feature the river which wound across it like a silvered tape. Directly beneath were low, irregular ridges cut and serried by the torrential wash of the spring rains. But aside from the scattered habitations, which for the most part appeared deserted, their occupants having fled into the hills at the prospect of being caught between the grinding millstones of the Christian and Moslem armies, there was no sign of active life.

Morits could see the ford where the party which he had been pursuing had crossed the river, and where, according to the reports of his scouts, they must have recrossed with the advance guard of the approaching Turkish column; but of the body itself there was not the slightest sign. Morits stared about, baffled and perplexed. What had become of them? He could see on the far side of the river a trail which wound along the roughly washed bank through a growth of willows, scrub oaks, and occasional tall sycamores, finally to disappear in a ravine.

He was staring in that direction when a small, rapidly moving object on the near side of the river caught his eye. Fixing it with his glass, he saw a mounted trooper who he knew must be one of the two men he had left to observe the movements of the enemy galloping along a sandy gully which twisted between two long, bare mounds not far from the rivers edge. As he watched, the trooper disappeared in a willow copse, but almost at the same instant the other came in sight, working his way up the side of the slope to the higher ground.

Morits suddenly understood. The enemy must have crossed the river at the ford, then turned upstream, marching along the bank, and hid from his sight by a low but steep bank. In this he proved to be correct, for presently there emerged into plain view a cavalry column proceeding in ragged order, owing to the inequality of the ground, and apparently heading for some point higher in the hills. As he watched them through his glass there came in sight a team of four horses hauling what at first he took to be a gun. But, to his surprise, on focusing carefully, he discovered it to be a gun carriage without the gun itself.

Morits was completely puzzled. Here was a force about one hundred and fifty strong, dragging an empty gun carriage, and making apparently for some place in the hills quite outside the zone of war, and of absolutely no strategic value. It had come apparently on the road through the mountains from Media, where the Ottoman army was disembarking troops, and then, instead of proceeding toward the scene of war, appeared to be intent on crawling back into the Istrandja Dagh. Moreover, the road which it was taking was not one which any column would be apt to follow for any reason which Morits could imagine. Also, why the empty gun truck?

As he watched its enigmatic movements, the head of the straggling array turned sharply from the river, and disappeared in a gorge. Observing narrowly, Morits could see that it was following a rough, stony trail which appeared to have shifted its course at different times, owing to the exigencies of spring freshets. The tail of the column followed, and the whole party passed from sight behind the brow of an intervening hill.

Morits sat down upon a stone, rolled a cigarette, and pondered. Even supposing that a party of some one hundred and fifty troopers saw fit to attempt a flank movement on the Bulgarian force massed about Kirk Kilissé, either to make a reconnoissance or to cut off possible supplies from the north, why go about it so laboriously? No unit of any importance would think of attempting such a laborious route when it might just as well land, to begin with, at some point like Sveti Stefan, and make a single traverse of the Istrandja Dagh.

He was turning this problem in his mind when one of the scouts came in—the man whom he had seen picking his way up through the gullies to the higher ground.

“They crossed the river, captain,” said he, “then turned back up this bank.”

“I saw them,” Morits answered.

“My comrade is still watching them,” said the man. “I came to report. Where the devil are they going, Morits?”

The trooper, a music teacher of London, and a member of Morits' club, mopped his face with his handkerchief. He had climbed the last quarter mile on foot, dragging his pony after him.

Morits smiled. “I'm sure I don't know, Gustaf,” said he. “Get back to the troop, and tell the corporal to send me two active, intelligent men who will not get lost.”

“But I——”

“Obey orders! You drink too much beer.”

The trooper obeyed. He was an ardent young man, who in London had rather looked down upon his dressmaking compatriot. But things had changed. Gustaf had seen the quiet ladies' tailor send his best friend packing back to the base as incompetent for this particular service, and the self-indulgent musician did not care to risk a similar fate. So he merely saluted, albeit with a faint shade of irony which was lost on Morits, and retired.

The two young men who presented themselves in answer to Morits' summons were of a different stamp. One was the shipping clerk of a Berlin toy manufacturer who had a large custom in the Balkans; the other was the son of a swine raiser whose herds roamed the beech and oak forests on the slopes of the Shipka Pass. This young man had spent his life in the woods, and had the sense of location of a hound.

Morits took them to the precipitous edge of the slope, and showed them where the Turkish detachment had disappeared.

“I do not know where they are going, or what their object may be,” said he. “That is for you to find out. Follow them warily, at a good distance, and if they halt let one of you remain and the other report to me.”

“Where will you be, captain?”

“I shall wait here until noon; then, if no column appears, I shall follow the trail of the party which has just passed. Now, go; and if you discover anything of interest let one of you report with all haste.”

The two young man returned to their horses, mounted, and disappeared in the woods. Morits ordered that the other animals be unbridled, girths loosened, and allowed to graze. The troopers stretched themselves out on the sunny sward, and slept. Presently the sergeant with the other half of the command arrived. They had seen nothing of the enemy, but in passing a deserted. farm whence the occupants had fled on their approach they had managed to forage a sheep and some poultry. Morits ordered that these be cooked immediately.

Alicia had followed the example of the troopers who had done sentinel duty the night before, and, with her head pillowed on her cloak, was sleeping like a child. Morits' eyes softened as he glanced at her. He noticed that the troopers hushed their voices when passing near her. All of these keen civilian soldiers were already devoted to the plucky English girl who had thrown in her lot with their cause. Not a man but would have sheltered her life with his own.

The horses cropped the succulent mountain grass which the frost had not yet withered. Small fires were kindled, and a meal prepared under the direction of a chef who before the war had been employed in one of the large hotels in Paris. Morits sat on the springy turf, smoked cigarettes, and watched the plain beneath. The still air vibrated almost continually with the distant rumbles of heavy detonations from the direction of Adrianople.

Two or three hours passed, when the sleepers were awakened to eat. Alicia roused herself, rested and refreshed, drank deeply from the canteen of a trooper who had found a spring of sweet mountain water, then attacked with good appetite the liver wing of a chicken brought her by the smiling chef. Then the remnants of the food were gathered up, the horses bridled, girths tightened, and Morits gave the order to mount. A moment later the party was in motion, picking its way down through the beech woods to strike the trail of the Turkish cavalry.

Detaching two troopers to follow a couple of miles in the rear, Morits led his command up a winding, rocky trail which appeared to traverse the narrow range. Alicia, riding at Morits' side, struggled a while in silence with her curiosity, then asked:

“Where are we going?”

“I wish to find out what this Turkish detachment is up to. The only thing which occurs to me is that it may be sent to convoy a herd of cattle hidden away somewhere up in the hills.”

“And what if that is so?”

“I may try to ambush them on the way down, and break up the expedition.”

“But we are outnumbered nearly three to one.”

“Much can be accomplished by a surprise, especially as we could attack from a strong position on either side of the trail. In such a place as this”—he glanced up at the sides of the steep, narrow gorge which they were traversing—“a force like ours could hold a regiment in check.”

Alicia's blue eyes glowed at him. She was rapidly becoming acquainted with this new Morits, who seemed to have utterly no relationship to Landovski, the fitter of Whitefern's. And yet the young man's manner was in no wise changed. He went about this business of war in the same quiet, confident way that he might have undertaken the fitting of a tailor-made suit. Alicia began vaguely to realize that, after all, it was merely a question of material and environment.

Morits adjusted the material with which his commanding general had supplied him to the result he desired to accomplish precisely as he might have cut a lot of valuable goods to make it go its farthest, and with the minimum of waste for the object to be achieved. Such base fabric as he might not be able to use he would discard with as little emotion as he might throw useless odds and ends into the waste hamper. Rubbish which might impede his movements would be quickly and effectually disposed of. Alicia had seen an example of this the evening before. She thought of it and shuddered.

She turned in her saddle, and regarded thoughtfully the serene profile at her side. Morits fine brows were drawn down slightly as he studied the trail ahead, with occasional quick, comprehensive glances on either side. Alicia had already discovered that he seemed scarcely conscious of her presence at his side. He rarely spoke to her except when she directly addressed him, then answering with a polite and quiet terseness. He gave no sign that her presence hampered him, nor did she believe it did. She had a conviction that he would proceed with the work in hand precisely as though she were not there. For this dressmaker there appeared to be but a single objective—to serve his cause as best he might with what power was vested in him.

Alicia pondered on the emotion, almost of repugnance, which she had felt when Morits first greeted her on his arrival in Sofia when she could not help but read his feeling toward her in the starved, hungry glow in his eyes and the expression of his face as she gave him her hand. Certainly there was none of that repugnance now. She stole a slanting look at his clear-skinned, resolute face, and her heart for some reason began to beat furiously, while a soft color stole into her cheeks. To her confusion, he felt the glance, and turned with a swift, questioning look. But, to her relief, and perhaps a little to her regret, he failed apparently to read what was passing in her mind, for he remarked briefly:

“You are looking better. The rest did you good.”

“Yes,” she answered. “I have had very little sleep for the past fortnight.”

He twisted the tip of his black mustache. “It is too bad that you should have been thrown into such a situation as this.”

“I am glad,” she answered. “I love to see you at your work—and there is no doubt that this is it.”

“This is merely circumstance. My real work is dressmaking.”

“But don't you find this more to your taste?”

“No,” he answered. “I do not like to kill and wound and cause bloodshed and suffering. But it could not be otherwise. The real cause of this conflict is not, as many people believe, for a greater Bulgaria, for mere conquest. It is a holy war, a sort of crusade, and its object is to free our fellow Christians in Macedonia from Moslem persecution. The faith of Islam has been the shame and the curse of eastern Europe. It has got to go once and for always, and no matter at what cost.”

“But don't you find war thrilling and inspiring? Deep down in your heart, don't you find that it supplies some craving of your nature? Because if ever a man was a born soldier, you are.”

Morits turned to her with his faint smile. “There are many things which one craves which one must try to deny oneself,” he answered. “The lust for strife is inborn in us, and ought to be kept under the same control as any other primal passion. I should never think of taking up war as a profession. What is a soldier, anyhow? Merely a paid killer. But there are occasions when it becomes a sacred duty, and this is one of them. Just now it is agreeable to ride up through these hills with a troop of good fighting men at our heels. But to-morrow half of them may be dead, and there may be mourning in five times as many hearts.”

Alicia did not answer. They rode on in silence broken only by the clatter of hoofs among the loose stones. Suddenly Morits raised his hand, and the little company halted.

“Somebody is coming down the ravine,” said he. “It is probably one of my scouts.”

Chapter IX.

The surmise was correct, for a moment later there appeared a trooper riding swiftly but carefully down the rough, stony trail.

“The enemy has halted by an old ruin at the top of the pass, captain,” said he. “The horses are picketed, and the men are eating and resting.”

“How far away?”

“Another hour. Josef and I hid our horses, and crept up among the rocks to examine them. The place is an ancient castle on a high plateau, and one can look down on the sea in the distance. There is a small Christian village, but the people have fled. Near the castle there is another ruin which appears to be that of a temple, or something of the sort, as some of the columns are still standing. The officers were poking about among the stones as if searching for something. Josef has remained there to watch.”

“Did you see any cattle?”

“The Turks were driving a few bullocks from the village.”

“Does this road go down to the sea on the other side?”

“Yes. It is not very far to the sea. Three hours' ride at most.”

Morits turned to the sergeant. “What do you make of it?” he asked. “If they have not gone after cattle, then what are they after? If they came from the eastern army and were going to Media they would have taken the customary road to the south. The force is too small to be of any consequence as a military unit, and, besides, there is nothing to be accomplished up in these hills. And why should they be lugging an empty gun carriage?”

The sergeant shook his head. “One thing is plain,” said he; “they did not march up here merely to take the view.”

“It is possible,' said Morits, “that they have come to make a reconnoissance with the idea of landing troops on the beach below, crossing the mountain here, and executing a flank movement on our troops. But this would seem a foolish thing to do when they might so much better cross from Media. No, this party has come up here with some secret object which is connected with that gun carriage. The first detachment which we followed this morning was sent out to make sure that none of our troops were in the neighborhood before turning into the pass. We will follow them cautiously, and see what we can discover. Send two scouts on ahead, and give the order to march.”

The little company proceeded slowly on up the winding trail. As they moved along the low rumble in the distance continued unintermittently.

“Our French guns are still hammering at Adrianople,” said Morits. “They are good guns; our king chose them seven years ago. Some of them he saw made at Creusot.”

“Are you going to attack the Turks ahead of us?” Alicia asked timidly.

“Not if it can be avoided. They are no doubt regular cavalry, and in numbers too strong for us. If it should come to a fight, you must keep well out of it. I wish that I could find some suitable place to leave you.”

Alicia glanced at him quickly to see if he were joking, but her first look showed her that he was quite serious. A little tremor of fear passed through the girl. For the first time in her life she experienced the sensation of being an absolutely negligible quantity. She knew that at the slightest breach of discipline on her part she would be disposed of as a refractory child. Morits would quietly weigh the pros and cons of her welfare, and make his decision accordingly, and to this decision there would be no appeal.

Alicia struggled with mingled sentiments of resentment and the thrill which comes to a woman who finds at length her master, especially when she knows this master to be kind. Morits continued to scribble in his notebook. The willing horses picked their own way up the steep incline. The road emerged from the gorge, and entered a narrow, fertile valley on the farther slopes of which was a herd of sheep. Morits fixed in his mind their location. Higher up they entered the beech woods, where in spots the ground was cut and furrowed by rooting swine. These at least were safe from the foraging of Osmanli soldiers.

Presently the scout who had returned with the news of the enemy's position said that they were drawing near the top of the divide, and that the next turn of the road would bring them in sight of the ruined fortress. Morits turned in his saddle, motioning to the right, and the troop slipped like wolves into the forest.

“Dismount, and wait here,” said Morits, and motioned to the scout to accompany him on foot.

“Take me to where you left your comrade,” said he.

Toiling up the wooded slope, they saw presently a thinning of the trees ahead, and a moment later came out on a bare, bleak plateau, not over a mile in width, but stretching away brokenly to the north to lose itself in the forest. Far beneath stretched a sweeping expanse of pale-blue water, which rose flawless and unsullied by smoke or sail to the white horizon.

At a distance of not more than a quarter of a mile from where they stood there rose from the dwarfed, straggling trees which covered the plateau a huge, quadrangular pile of ruins, which Morits judged to be the remains of one of the medieval Roman, or Venetian, or Genoese fortresses such as one finds throughout the length of the Balkan coast. Under the scrub oaks surrounding it the Turkish troops were bivouacked, their horses picketed or hobbled, and the smoke from a number of small fires was wafted to Morits' nostrils with a pleasant, spicy, resinous odor.

The keep of the castle was still in a fair state of preservation, and one tower was standing. The other four had crumbled down, demolishing a part of the great walls; but it was evident that there was still enough of the ancient pile intact to shelter a regiment. The soldiers appeared to prefer the open air, though a few men were passing in and out through the arched entrance. From the limb of one of the trees hung a freshly slaughtered bullock, and at some distance out upon the plain were some mounted men driving in a few scattered sheep.

But what interested Morits even more than the fortress was a peculiar-looking ruin which stood upon a low mound to the left of the fortress, and surrounded by a thick growth of very ancient cypress trees. It had been at one time circular in shape, as was shown by a few fragments of Ionic columns which were still standing. Apparently it had never possessed walls, or if so they had been within the columns, and had long since crumbled.

“That is the ruined temple of which I spoke,” said the scout. “The officers were holding a consultation when I left to report to you. The other man is there where the cypresses touch the forest. His horse is back in the woods.”

“And where is the village?”

“Just over the brow of the hill, behind the fortress. There are only a few small houses of shepherds and herders. It can be seen from farther to our right.”

To Morits it was apparent that the Turkish force intended to bivouac where it was for the night, as some of the troopers had thrown off their tunics and were cutting cypress boughs as if for couches, while others were hacking with their sabers at dried branches for the evening's supply of firewood. Apparently they had no expectation of attack, as, indeed, it would seem that there was little need, for they did not appear to so much as have posted sentries. It looked to Morits as though the spot had been selected as a place of rendezvous.

“Let us question the other man,” said he.

Passing quietly through the undergrowth, they made their way to the edge of the cypress grove, where the trooper imitated the note of a Balkan partridge. The call was answered immediately, and a moment later the watcher approached from the shelter of the dense shrubbery.

“What have you seen?” Morits asked.

“Nothing of importance, captain; but on creeping as close to this ruin in front of us as I dared, I heard the sound of men digging. They are still at it, though what they are after God only knows.”

“How close is it possible to get without danger of being discovered?” Morits asked.

“The place is surrounded by a ruined wall about six feet high. One can creep up and look over the top without much risk.”

“Then wait for me here,” said Morits.

Making his way cautiously through the gnarled cypresses, he came presently to the wall referred to, which surrounded the temple at a distance of about fifty feet. As he crept up to look over the top he heard a confused clamor of excited voices, and occasionally a sharp command, with the ringing of iron on stone. Selecting a spot where a low bough came down to the top of the wall, Morits found a foothold in a crevice, and looked over.

In the circle of broken columns were perhaps a score of men, several of whom were officers; and as one of these—a bearded, venerable-looking old Turk in the uniform of a colonel—turned in his direction, Morits received a shock of surprise. For the elderly officer was none other than Sami Pasha, whose former house in Sofia was the one in which Morits' family lived. He noticed also that the old man appeared much excited, and was strenuously haranguing the men about him. Morits could hear also the panting of the diggers as they toiled at the work of excavation.

Another thing which Morits was quick to observe was that the empty gun carriage which had already puzzled him had been brought to the gate of the inclosure. The space inside the wall appeared to have once been a little court or garden, for the flagging showed in spots through the vines and briers, and there were broken fragments of statues which had fallen or been thrown from their pedestals.

As Morits watched, completely baffled at what was afoot, there came a sudden shout, which was echoed the next instant by a dozen voices. Followed a wild, excited clamor, in which the name of Allah was frequently repeated, but in tones suggesting joy and congratulation. Sami Pasha, the dignified and scholarly old Turk, had drawn himself erect, and was standing, tense and watchful; and as Morits stared in wonder he saw one after the other of the officers step up and salute him in the graceful Turkish manner, with a gesture of the hand to the ground, the forehead, and the breast. To these apparent congratulations the old man replied in kind, his face wreathed in smiles.

Then, to Morits' bewilderment, a rough derrick was rigged, and the soldiers manned a primitive tackle. Some heavy object was apparently being raised from the newly dug excavation. Morits was able to look directly into the place, but whatever was being raised was hid from his sight by the surrounding group of soldiers. Up it came, was landed on the level of the floor, when once more there arose an absolute frenzy of excitement. So great was the uproar that it reached the troops about the fortress, many of whom dropped their tasks, and came running across the open ground, only to be turned back by a sharp order from one of the officers.

Morits' curiosity was unbounded. He knew of Sami Pasha as a profound scholar, archæologist, and deep student of ancient lore. Unquestionably he had located something of great interest and value in the temple, and had obtained permission to take a detachment of troops to go in search of it. But what this might be, aside from actual treasure, Morits was unable to imagine.

Then as he watched the gun carriage was backed up to the crumbling steps of the temple, and a mass of men which completely hid the object they handled appeared to be hoisting it onto the truck. Morits caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a fieldpiece in a tarpaulin gun cover. The procession moved off in the direction of the fortress.

Morits slipped down from the wall, and walked slowly back to where he had left his two men.

“Whatever it is,' said he to himself, “I've got to have it.”

Chapter X.

On returning to where he had left his command, Morits called the sergeant aside, and gave him concise directions. The ex-barber of Sofia listened with many shakes of the head, and his eyes turned often to his captain with a look of admiration. But he made no protest, merely nodding as he fixed his instructions in his memory.

“You are a brave man, Morits,” he said, when his superior had finished. The two had played together as children, “I doubt that you will be able to manage it. Would not Sami Pasha remember you?”

“No,” Morits answered. “He has not seen me since I was a child, and then he would not have noticed me. When you attack, the lady will be left with the horses.”

“Your orders shall be followed strictly,” replied the sergeant. “God be with you, Morits.”

Morits made his way to where Alicia was sitting at the foot of an oak. She looked up questioningly.

“I am going to leave you for a few hours,” he said. “I have a plan for splitting up this Turkish detachment. While I am gone, you will obey the orders of the sergeant, who is in command.”

Alicia glanced up at him, and her color faded.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I cannot stop to explain my errand now, as I have no time to lose. Do precisely as you are told, and ask no questions. Good-by, and God keep you.”

He turned on his heel, and mounted his horse, which had been led up by a trooper. Alicia rose, and stared after him with a pale face as he picked his way down the rough hillside under the trees. The sun was getting low, and the shadows in the forest were beginning to darken. The air was still, and it was growing colder as the evening approached.

A little farther down Morits came out upon the trail, when he turned sharply and rode back up the slope for the Turkish camp. Drawing near, he spurred on briskly, and, rounding a corner of rock, saw ahead a Turkish sentinel standing in the road.

The man had apparently heard his approach, for he had come to the port arms.

“Halt!” he challenged. “Who goes there?”

Morits drew rein. “A messenger for his excellency, Colonel Sami Pasha,” he answered, in Turkish.

“Advance,” ordered the sentinel, and passed the word for the binbashi of the guard.

Morits approached at a walk. The soldier eyed him curiously.

“You are in Bulgarian uniform,” said he.

“You wear woolen clothes,” retorted Morits, “but that does not make you a sheep.”

“T'chk—t'chk—here is the binbashi.”

Morits dismounted. “I have a message for Sami Pasha,” said he. “Is he here?”

“Follow me,' said the binbashi curtly.

He led the way to the entrance of the ruined fortress, where an orderly was standing at attention. Passing through what had been the guardroom, they came to a small antechamber, where a group of officers were sitting on fallen blocks of stone, engaged in conversation. Morits came to attention, and saluted. At sight of his uniform the Turks looked at him sharply.

Sami Pasha, a distinguished type of the Osmanli Turk of the orthodox class, examined Morits closely with his keen, deep-set eyes. The colonel must have been seventy years of age, but was still of strong, erect frame, with the thoughtful, benevolent face of a philosopher.

“Who are you?” he asked quietly. “And what is your errand here?”

Morits took from his pocket a wallet, from which he drew a piece of folded parchment paper.

“Here are my credentials, your excellency,” said he.

Sami Pasha took the paper, and held it to the light. It was a general pass through all the Ottoman lines for one Ahmed, the son of Ali, a spy, and signed by Nazim Pasha himself. It stated that the bearer was acting under orders from headquarters, and was not to be detained. This pass, with other papers, had been found on the leader of the four spies whom Morits had ordered shot the previous day.

Sami Pasha handed the pass to another officer, and looked up at Morits.

“And what is your message?” he asked.

“I come from Nazim Pasha with verbal orders for your excellency,” said Morits. “I had also a letter, but this I was ordered to destroy if in danger of falling into the hands of the enemy. This happened not three hours ago. There is a troop of Bulgarian cavalry encamped on the river at the foot of the pass. I managed to slip around them, but, fearing capture, I destroyed the letter, according to orders.”

Sami Pasha and his staff exchanged quick glances.

“And what was the verbal message?”

“The verbal message was that you were to return at once before it was too late, and that the object of your expedition might be accomplished from the sea.”

Sami Pasha began to play with the little rosary of beads which, like most of his class, he carried in his pocket.

“Do you yourself know the object of this expedition?” he demanded suddenly, with a keen glance at Morits.

“Yes, your excellency. It was to reconnoiter the pass with a view to the landing of troops from the Black Sea and striking the Bulgarian advance on the left flank.”

Sami Pasha nodded. “You appear to be an intelligent man,” said he. “Now, about this Bulgarian troop that you avoided. What do you think it to be?”

“I think that it is a reconnoitering party which has fallen on your trail, and will try to cut you off, attacking either to-night or early to-morrow morning. But, as your excellency no doubt observed in coming up the pass, there is a spot about a mile from the plain where the road leads through a narrow ravine. If your excellency was to dispatch a hundred men immediately they could ambush themselves at this point, and not a man of the enemy's detachment would escape.”

Sami Pasha's eyes glowed. He nodded slowly to himself.

“You think the enemy numbers about a hundred?”

“Possibly more. It is probable that there are two full troops. I hid my horse, and observed them from the rocks on the side of a hill.”

Sami Pasha looked with fatherly approval at the upright figure of the young man.

“You are a worthy soldier. What is your rank?”

“I am a sergeant of reserves. At present I am detached for special duty, owing to my knowledge of the country and the fact that I speak Bulgarian even better than my own tongue. My father is a Bulgarian Ottoman.”

“And what are your orders after reporting to me here?”

“With the permission of your excellency, I shall eat and sleep, then return to Media by the coast. I have not slept for many hours.”

“Then I will not detain you. You say that these two troops are bivouacked near the mouth of the pass?”

“They are just above the ford, where the road passes under the high bank. That is why I think that they mean to come up the pass.”

“Good! You may go. I shall remember you in my report.”

“Your excellency is very kind.” Morits saluted and withdrew.

“For the love of Allah,” said he to the binbashi, as he went out, “give me something to eat and a place to sleep. For thirty hours I have scarcely been out of the saddle.” He stretched his arms above his head and yawned. Indeed, he had slight need to affect fatigue, as his service of the past two weeks had been arduous in the extreme, though of a far more wholesome character than that of his comrades with the main army, who were fighting constantly. Morits, as a matter of fact, was reaping the benefit of his two years of preparation and study.

The binbashi furnished him with food—a chunk of nutritious black bread and a joint of fat mutton. He was eating wolfishly, occasionally pausing to answer the questions of the curious troopers, when a Turkish bugle sounded the assembly. The sun was perhaps an hour from the horizon, and a delicate new moon was in the southwestern sky.

Immediately the camp was in commotion. The troop horses were driven in from the field, where they had been grazing, and quickly saddled. Morits had already observed that these were trained troops, and there were none better to be found in any of the armies of the world. Stretched out beside the smoldering embers of a camp fire, he saw Sami Pasha come out, cloaked and gauntleted, and ready for the field. Morits was glad of this, for he had conceived a positive affection for the fine old Ottoman. The success of his daring project had amazed him. He had expected a rigid cross-examination in which one slip might have proved fatal not only to his plans, but to his life, as the passport which he had presented put him outside the rights of a prisoner of war. His greatest danger had been in saying that he was sent by Nazim Pasha—first because he did not know exactly where the commander in chief was located, and secondly because he could not be sure that Sami Pasha was acting under his immediate orders. But this latter surmise seemed to have been justified, and Morits' bold and confident statements had done the rest.

Of the gun carriage and its mysterious charge Morits had seen nothing; nor had he asked any questions of the soldiers for fear of being led into a conversation which might have resulted in arousing suspicion. He had wisely played the rôle of an utterly exhausted man to whom all things were secondary to the need of food and sleep.

Stretched out now beside the fire, he watched the troopers falling into ranks, and his heart beat high. He had been afraid that Sami Pasha might try to force a passage with the whole of his command, and convoying the treasure; but it soon became apparent that only one troop was being ordered out, leaving perhaps eighty or ninety men in camp.

Nothing could have suited Morits better. It was, in fact, precisely what he had counted upon. It would take the attacking party at least three hours to get down to the foot of the pass. The guard left in the camp, knowing that it could not be approached except by the road which their comrades had just taken, would be utterly unprepared for the assault of Morits' party, which, according to the orders given the sergeant, would fall swiftly and unexpectedly once the departed troop was well away. Morits counted on being himself able to slip off into the woods and lead the attack in person. In the completeness of the surprise, he doubted that he need lose a man of his command.

But a surprise lay in store for Morits as well. Crouched in the shadow, feigning to be asleep, he watched the attacking party file out quickly and quietly, while Sami Pasha, enveloped in his cloak, stood watching their departure. Scarcely had they gone when Sami Pasha spoke to a young officer at his elbow, and a moment later the remaining troop proceeded to saddle. Four gun horses were harnessed and driven into the ruined keep of the fortress, to reappear immediately, dragging the gun carriage. The binbashi came to where Morits was lying, and shook him by the elbow.

“Come!” said he. “You will have to sleep in the saddle, brother. We are going to march.”

Morits clambered to his feet and yawned. Sami Pasha, who was standing near, turned to him with a benevolent smile.

“Come here,” said he.

Morits obeyed with a salute. The old man pointed to the gun carriage.

“Dost thou know what is there?” he asked.

“No, Baba,” answered Morits, purposefully employing the “affectionate diminutive” used by the Turkish peasant redifs to their chief. He rubbed his eyes as he spoke.

Sami Pasha patted him upon the shoulder. That sleepy “Baba” had warmed the heart of the old man. He had been a lieutenant under Osman Pasha in seventy-eight; a reluctant survivor of the “Regiment Pensa” which lost at Plevna in the second of the four great battles two thousand out of three thousand men in a twenty-minute engagement. The simple inscription commemorating this event may be seen to-day, and reads, with unconscious grandeur: “Sacred to the Memory of the Regiment Pensa, Which Lies Buried Heres”

Sami Pasha was one of these silent heroes. In his time he had replied to Osman Pasha even as this young Osmanli patriot now replied to him: “Baba.” It warmed his soul, and his heart went out to the young man.

“My son,” said he, “on that gun carriage rests a great treasure. Do I say great?” He smiled and tugged at his snowy beard. “It may pay the cost of war against these vile giaours for a week.”

Morits stared at the gun carriage. An orderly approached the old man.

“The column is ready to march, excellency,” he said.

Sami Pasha turned to his horse. With one foot in the stirrup, he looked back at Morits.

“You may ride beside me,” he said. “I see that you are a young man who has been well brought up. Your sleep will have to wait. We never slept at Plevna. Mount!”

The troop swung into the saddle. Sami Pasha rode ahead, with Morits at his flank. The old colonel glanced toward his captain.

“Put the column in motion,” said he.

An instant later the troop filed out upon the road, and in open order turned toward the sea. Morits tried to fall back, but Sami Pasha recalled him to his side.

“You shall be my eyes when it grows dark,” said he. “Once my sight could rival that of an eagle of the Despoto Dagh, but now I am his peer only in my silvery head and my love for my native mountains. And so you are an Osmanli of Bulgaria, and yet a patriot?”

“Yes, excellency,” answered Morits, in a low voice; and the lie seemed to choke him.

“Call me 'Baba.' I think of my soldiers always as my children, and my heart warms to you. You are not like many of the subjects of our Padishah in Bulgaria who have refused their allegiance, and remain to till not only their own fields, but those of their giaour neighbors. Is your father alive?”

“Yes, Baba.”

“I hope that you revere him. He must be proud of you, for your service is a dangerous one. If you were to fall into the hands of the enemy you would soon be sent to the bosom of the Prophet. War is terrible.”

He stroked his snowy beard, then glanced at Morits.

“I shall recommend that you be given rank and an order if we come through in safety with that which follows us.” He glanced over his shoulder at the gun carriage, which was lurching at their heels, two dismounted troopers braking when the steepness of the road made it necessary. “You would never guess what was there. I will tell you, for you have rendered a distinguished service. It is the life-sized statue of a pagan goddess, the Artemis of the early pantheistic Greeks, wrought in solid gold.”

Morits gasped. “A statue in solid gold!” he exclaimed.

“Yes. Long ago I discovered its existence in my readings of ancient lore. It was first cast from gold taken in Persia by Alexander, from a statue by one Praxiteles, a sculptor of Athens, who lived five centuries before the coming of the Christian prophet, Jesus Christ. Later it was captured by the Athenians, and was hidden by a doge of Venice in a temple within a fortress known as La Rocca at a place called Asolo, not far from Venice. But this doge was driven out, and brought the statue with him here, where he erected the fortress which we have just quitted, and built hard by a temple for the Artemis. For ten years I have suspected that it was hidden there.”

“But why did you not go in search of it, excellency?”

“For a double reason. In the first place, I did not care to profane a temple of any kind. There is good in all religion, just as there is a curse to him who has none. Secondly, I had no need of wealth, being blessed of Allah in money and estates. Then this war came. The government of the Padishah is poor, and I thought to get this statue and turn it into money to feed my children—the soldiers—and to furnish them with clothes.”

Morits did not answer. His heart seemed to have turned to lead in his bosom. Back there in the forest his men were even now astir, and as soon as darkness fell would slip out like timber wolves on the trail of the unsuspecting Turkish troop, who marched in a false security, thinking their retreat to be safely covered. Morits knew that his scouts would fall like wolves on the little band, and that perhaps in two hours' time the venerable Ottoman beside him would be trodden under many hoofs. His soul turned sick.

Yet whither did his duty lead? There was but one way—the way of the sword. A life-size statue of solid gold! A deep sadness filled him.

Sami Pasha babbled on with the garrulity of age: “When I asked our commander in chief for an escort to fetch the treasure, he thought that I was in my dotage. It was difficult to convince him that I was not stricken with madness. A life-size statue of a woman in solid gold. Let us suppose that such a woman in the flesh would weigh one hundred and forty pounds. Taking flesh to be of the specific gravity of water, which it nearly approaches, and the specific gravity of gold to be nineteen, it is easy to compute the approximate value in Turkish lira. I have estimated it at over one hundred thousand.”

Morits' heart gave a bound. Nearly one hundred thousand pounds sterling was bumping at his heels on the gun carriage. He thought of what this sum would mean to Bulgaria at the present crisis, and tried to harden his heart. War was war, and sentiment had no place therein. He knew that the venerable patriot riding at his side and talking to him in the tones of a father would lay down his life a dozen times rather than see this contribution to his cause wrested from him by the hands of the infidel enemy. Then he glanced quickly at the face of the old man, and his heart swelled again.

“Nazim Pasha laughed at me,” continued Sami Pasha, “but because of our ancient friendship he gave me the troops. He should have given me a squadron. But for you—who knows?—all might have been lost. It is not much—but it may feed my children for several days.”

Morits turned in his saddle and looked behind him. Broad bands of crimson were searching the zenith, but the slim crescent of the moon was nearly quenched in the lurid flame from the west.

Chapter XI.

The rocky trail wound along the precipitous face of the mountain, now bathed in purple shadow, and far below the sea breathed softly from its dark, sleeping bosom. The night was falling fast, and as the darkness deepened the stars twinkled forth from a sky of smoothest velvet. The road shouldered the little troop almost over the brink, then widened to dip into a narrow valley filled with mist and sweet odors of the night. A noisy torrent was forded, the troopers pausing to let their horses drink.

The troop was thus disposed when from the rear came the noise of many hoofs. A sharp challenge rang out: “Dur! (halt) Who goes there?”

For answer a volley crashed through the stillness, and was hurled back from the mountainside. Bullets whistled through the murk, and the air was torn with shrill, savage yells. Horses struck by bullets plunged to the stones, or, maddened with fright and pain, bolted wildly, their riders struggling to restrain them and draw their weapons, In an instant the troop was thrown into indescribable confusion, when into the whirling vortex swept a mass of wild riders, dealing death on every side.

Morits had been prepared. At the first shock of the fight he had spurred against the horse of Sami Pasha, and, before the aged colonel could recover himself, had snatched the revolver from his holster, and flung it to the ground. Tearing the reins from the old man's hands, Morits flung them over the horse's head, and, urging his own beast ahead, rushed across the valley and clear of the fight. No one checked his flight, for they were well in advance of the column, and the troopers following were occupied in a frenzied effort to form and repulse the attack.

At a distance of a hundred yards or more Morits drew rein and looked back. Sami Pasha had drawn his saber, and was rocking back and forth in the saddle, thundering maledictions. It is doubtful if he realized that he had fallen into the hands of an enemy. To the confused mind of the aged warrior, Morits' motive in rushing him out and away from the fight seemed to be entirely one of protection, and the rage of the sturdy old hero of a dozen stricken fields at being so treated was beyond all bounds.

It must, therefore, have been a considerable shock when Morits swung suddenly about and covered him with his revolver.

“Surrender, Sami Pasha!” said he. “I am a Bulgarian officer.”

“What!” bellowed Sami Pasha. “You are of the enemy? You have led me into this trap?”

“Yes,” Morits answered. “Put up your saber. You are my prisoner.”

Deprived as he was of his reins, and covered by Morits' revolver, the old Ottoman was, indeed, helpless. But Sami Pasha was of a fiber which preferred death to disgrace. He had been tricked and humiliated, but at least he could die. With a shout, he drove home his spurs, and as his horse plunged forward Sami Pasha slashed furiously at Morits, who barely saved himself by turning the blow with his revolver, which was knocked spinning from his hand. His horse recoiled, and for the instant he was beyond the reach of the raging old soldier. Morits whipped out his own blade.

“Traitor!” “roared Sami Pasha. “You have blackened my face——”

Again he spurred forward and struck, and again Morits parried the blow. Sami Pasha's horse, wheeling at the pressure of its rider's knee—for the beast was trained—jerked the reins from Morits' hands. Sami Pasha flung himself forward and recovered them. Morits might easily have cut him down as he stooped, but he could no more have slashed at that silvery head than he could have smote his own father. Swinging his horse to the side, he spurred back into the fight.

The Turkish troop, taken by surprise as it was, had lost heavily in the first shock of the encounter. But these were trained soldiers, and not to be routed at the first setback. Clamoring one to another, they snatched their sabers from the scabbards, and swung to meet the rush. The daylight had gone, but the stars twinkled brightly. There was light enough to distinguish an Ottoman fez from the military caps of the attacking party.

As Morits plunged into the mêlée a man lashed back at his face. He caught the blow, then thrust, recovering in time to parry a blow from the other side. A revolver flashed, and his horse groaned and sank under him. As he flung himself clear, a saber whistled over his head, and a heavy body pitched down upon him, pinning him to the ground. Morits wormed from under it, and struggled to his feet. Over him towered Sami Pashi, beset by men of Morits' troop. The old man's fez was gone, and his silvery hair and beard glistened frostily as he hacked and hewed. At Morits side a riderless horse, overborne by the shock of contact, scrambled to its feet and stood snorting. Morits flung himself across its back, and as he did so Sami Pasha reined in upon him with a shout.

“Death to you, traitor!” he thundered, and swung up his dripping blade. Then, poised in the act to strike, he seemed to reel; the blow fell wide, and the aged hero of Plevna lurched forward in his saddle, and toppled to the ground.

Suddenly a silence fell. Morits looked about him. Horses were standing riderless, their heads low. Mounted figures were weaving back and forth, calling as they went. At a distance stood a dark group of dismounted men with four troopers towering above them. Near at hand was the gun carriage, standing where it had stopped. One of the team was lying on the ground; the others were spread out with their noses together. The truck had bogged down almost to the hubs in the spongy turf.

The fight was over. Dark figures, some groaning, strewed the ground. Several of his troopers crowded up to Morits as he stood looking about him.

“We have them, captain,” said one. “Thank God you are not killed!”

It was the voice of the sergeant. Morits passed his hand across his face. He felt the hot tears in his eyes, and was conscious of an inexpressible depression.

“Muster the troop, and see how many we have lost,” he said harshly. “Who are all these men?”

“Ours, captain. Our losses have been very slight. I myself ran the commander through. He was about to cut you down as you climbed into the saddle.” The voice of the barber had a hard, jubilant ring.

“God forgive you!” muttered Morits. “I wanted to save his life. And where is the lady?”

“I left her in the care of a woman in the village.”

“Good! Assemble the troop.”

“According to orders, captain. We have not done badly—and captured a gun into the bargain. It is just as well that I kept my patience and waited for a place like this to attack. On the mountainside some of us might have got crowded over the edge. And when you make your report, Morits, don't forget that it was I who killed the colonel. As he swung up, I thrust him under the shoulder blade——”

Morits turned on him savagely.

“You are not cutting hair now,” said he. “Make your muster, and be quick about it!”

The troop was quickly assembled. It had lost but four men killed outright, and the wounded—who numbered fifteen—were all able to sit their horses, though there were four or five in a serious condition from loss of blood. The Turks had lost nearly half their number killed, owing to the unexpectedness of the attack. Morits quickly inspected the wounded and those who had surrendered. To these latter he gave orders to bury their dead and depart with their own wounded to the next village. Then for a moment he stood with uncovered head beside the body of Sami Pasha. The sight of that pallid but serene face robbed him of the joy of victory.

“Take the body of your colonel with you,” said he, in Turkish, to the silent group of prisoners, “and see that he be given a burial befitting to his rank. So may the God of us all, whether it be yours or ours, give you peace, and look with mercy upon your shortcomings.”

He turned to his troop, gave the order to mount, and, a fresh horse haying been harnessed in the place of the one killed in the team which drew the gun carriage, the party turned back up the slope. Morits rode in advance, his chin upon his chest. At times his lips moved in prayer.

“I tried to save him,” he muttered to himself; “but God ordained it otherwise. No doubt he is happier than if he had survived the loss of the Artemis. Perhaps, too, I may join him before the night is over.”

At the steepest part of the ascent, two more horses were hitched to the gun carriage, and, urged by Morits, the party pushed on rapidly. The wounded men rode uncomplainingly, though two had to be held in their saddles by their comrades. Morits pushed on relentlessly, and before long they reached the village at the top of the divide. Not a light showed from any of the poor cabins of the place. Morits called the sergeant.

“Where is the lady?” he asked.

“I left her at that first house on the right, captain.”

“Listen,” said Morits. “When the party which was sent down to the foot of the pass discover that there is no enemy they will probably suspect some trick, and return. But they will scarcely be able to get back before midnight, and it is also possible that they may remain there, sending back messengers to say that the road is clear. Station sentries down the trail, and rouse some of these villagers, and get forage for the horses. Tell the men that we shall march at midnight.”

“And how about the wounded, captain? There are three men who are unable to ride.”

“We shall have to get a cart, and take them with us.”

“Then you mean to attack the party below?”

“We shall have to fight our way through. I do not dare remain here, as the Turkish prisoners whom we liberated below will report what has occurred, and we do not want to be caught between two fires. Feed the horses, let the men rest, and be ready to march at midnight.”

“According to orders,” said the sergeant.

Morits dismounted, and strode to the house where Alicia had been left. As he approached the door there came from within the baying of a dog. Drawing his saber, Morits rapped heavily with the hilt. The baying grew clamorous, and he could hear the dog hurling its great bulk against the door.

“Open!” shouted Morits, in Turkish. “And fasten your dog.”

There was no answer, but from inside the dog tore furiously with claw and fang at the stout oak. Morits renewed his hammering, and presently a quavering voice which sounded like that of a woman answered: “Who is there?”

“Open if you do not want a torch put to your house!” roared Morits furiously.

There was the sound of scuffling within. The dog whimpered, and there came the shock of blows. Then the door opened, and a woman with her head muffled to the eyes peered out.

“Where is the woman who was left here?” Morits demanded.

“She is gone, effendi.”

“Gone where? Why did you let her go?”

“Four soldiers came here and took her away.”

“Were they Osmanlis?”

“Yes, effendi. They were of those who rode away down the pass. The four were sent back with a message. They took the woman, and rode back down the pass.”

Morits turned away with a sinking heart. There was no doubt that the terrified woman told the truth. It was not difficult to guess at what had happened. The Turkish party had found the traces of Morits' troop farther down the trail, and had sent back couriers to put Sami Pasha on his guard. Learning that a Bulgarian party had emerged from the forest and taken his trail, they had turned back, taking Alicia with them. The girl was a prisoner, and there was no longer any hope of a surprise. Only one thing remained to Morits, and that was to fight his way through.

Chapter XII.

Now that the enemy knew of the existence of an armed force somewhere between their divided party, there was no longer any hope of a surprise. Morits was outnumbered, hampered with wounded and the golden Artemis, and cut off from his own army.

For an instant he was tempted to return on the road leading to the sea, skirt the mountains at their base, and try to find another route back to the plain. But a moment's thought showed him the folly of this. Below were Turkish villages where the alarm would already be spread, and with so small a company he could not hope to force his way through. There seemed to be but one choice, and that was to wait for the dawn, and then attempt the passage to the plain.

For Alicia's safety he had no great fear. Her captors were Osmanli Turks of the best class, the troopers honest peasants, and the officers gentlemen. Morits knew the chivalrous attitude of such as they toward womankind, and he did not doubt that the girl would be courteously cared for. As a lady, and belonging to the Red Cross, she would meet with every consideration. These were not like the savage redifs of Asia Minor, who gave themselves to such atrocities as had already occurred in Christian villages.

Calling the sergeant, he told him what had occurred, and that it would be necessary to wait for the light before attempting the passage to the plain, as at night the entire troop could easily fall into an ambush from which not a man might escape alive.

“We had better bivouac in the fortress,” he said. “It is possible that they may attack or return to join the other troop.”

This plan was carried out, and the night passed without alarm. At dawn one of the wounded men died, and was buried in the keep. The brief ceremony over, Morits ordered his command to fall in. An araba, or native cart, had been found in the village, and this, filled with hay, made a possible mode of conveyance for the wounded.

“We have no such play ahead of us as that of last night,” said Morits to his men. “There is soldier's work waiting for us below. Let every man of you keep his head, and waste neither bullets nor blows, and remember that you can reach farther with your revolvers than with your sabers. Now, let me tell you something: What you see on this gun carriage is not a fieldpiece or machine gun. Come here and look for yourselves.”

The men clustered about him curiously. Morits cast off the turns of rope about the tarpaulin, then flung it aside. A cry of astonishment burst from the assembled troopers. Stretched out upon the gun carriage in an attitude which had in it something curiously wanton lay the nude golden figure of the Artemis. Perfectly proportioned, and of a figure which combined lightness with strength, the goddess lay shimmering in her golden beauty in the first pale light of the dawn, and it seemed to Morits as he looked at the upturned face that it held a weirdly lifelike expression of scorn and mockery.

The statue had naturally been molded to stand erect, the weight poised on the left foot, and the left arm slightly raised. In the recumbent position, this gave a startlingly lifelike expression, as though the figure were on the verge of action. The beautiful face, with its expression of haughty chastity, held some sinister quality of menace which struck a chill through those who regarded it. Several of the troopers crossed themselves instinctively.

“The saints protect us!” muttered the sergeant. “What is it?”

“It is a pagan. goddess, the Artemis of the early Greeks, and it is cast in solid gold. Sami Pasha unearthed it from the temple yonder. You can see that it is a treasure of great value. Now cover it up, and let us march.”

He drew the cover back over the mellow golden figure, and secured it in place. The troopers turned to their horses, muttering to themselves. Morits had shown them the statue to impress them with the great intrinsic value of their charge. But as he turned away he felt that he had made a mistake. A curious chill appeared to have fallen on the troop. Girths were tightened in silence. It was as though the virgin goddess had cast some evil spell upon these puny mortals who had profaned her image. Men were saying to one another that Sami Pasha had not long survived her conquest.

Overhead the sky was clear, but in the southeast was a bank of huge, billowing clouds, and into these the sun rose from the still, blue sea in a wild riot of flaming color. Morits rode slowly to the head of his troop, and gave the order to march. They moved out under the frowning arch of the ancient gate, and turned into the trail. As they did so a flock of crows winged heavily from the edge of the forest, and flew across their path with hoarse croakings. The troopers crossed themselves.

Down the steep descent they rode, the horses scuffling among the loose stones. They reached the lower level, traversed the valley, and saw ahead the narrow opening of the gorge. High overhead a gray film was drawing itself across the sky, and the shadows cast in front of them were growing vague and indistinct.

Morits halted his troop, and carefully studied the sides of the gorge through his glasses. No sign of life was visible, and he was about to give the order to proceed when from a heap of loose bowlders fifty feet above the trail there came a single pale gleam. It disappeared immediately, but the secret was betrayed. That single flash of thin sunlight on a weapon raised incautiously above a rock told all that was necessary. Up there among the loose stones the Turks were ambushed like tigers, waiting for their enemy to pass.

The gorge, about a hundred yards in width, marked the ancient course of the river, which of later years had shifted its bed, due perhaps to an avalanche of earth and stones obstructing its earlier passage. It now expanded in the valley to form a little lake, then flowed off to the south through a marshy tract, to find its way to the plain through a wide ravine. Morits doubted that this route would be possible for mounted men, and least of all for the gun carriage with its heavy burden, but there was no alternative. It would be suicidal to attempt to drive the enemy from the rocks where it was lodged.

Proceeding at an angle, as though to reconnoiter the gorge before entering, the place was presently hid from view by the projecting shoulder of the hill on the southern side. Once out of sight of the enemy, Morits turned off sharply to the left, and gave the order to trot. The troop moved swiftly across the spongy turf of the valley, skirted the foot of the hill, and struck the river, which at this point flowed over a broad, sandy bed. On either side the banks were steep, and cluttered with stones and débris; but the river bed itself was passable, though for how long a distance Morits had no means of knowing.

Turning in his saddle, he gestured to his little band to follow, and rode out into the stream. The water was but knee-deep, and the bottom composed of sand and cobbles. Onward they plunged over rifts and bars, the wiry team in the gun carriage struggling gamely with their load. They rounded the low eminence which formed the southern confines of the gorge, and fell upon a rapid where the river narrowed to foam down over rough bowlders. Morits trembled for the wheels of the gun carriage.

The wounded men in the araba endured their jolting without a murmur, much of the shock being taken up by the loose straw on which they lay. But the trial was not for long, as presently the river widened again, flowing along the edge of a sandy meadow. Morits, glancing to the left, saw that they had passed around the narrow part of the gorge.

But he knew that the enemy would not long remain in ignorance of his altered course, and, not wishing to sustain an attack while down in the river bed, he presently found a spot where the bank sloped, and, quickly harnessing four more horses to the gun carriage, soon had it up the bank and on the solid ground. A mile away across the rolling sand hills lay the trail, and, anxious to reach it before the enemy could ride down to cut him off again where it narrowed below, he urged his party ahead with as much speed as the character of the ground permitted.

The troop was perhaps halfway to a point where the trail again disappeared in a ravine, when, glancing back over his shoulder, Morits saw a dark swarm of mounted men pour out from the opening of the gorge, and, evidently divining his purpose, head straight for the ravine, less than a mile from where they emerged. Morits' party was considerably nearer. It was instantly evident to every man of the troop that should the Turks be able to reach the place in time to dismount and deploy in the rocks their passage would be barred. Morits rose in his stirrups, and shouted the order to charge.

Then began a race on the two sides of a triangle of which the apex was the goal. The advantage was slightly with the Turks, for although they had slightly farther to go their road was better, being hard and level, whereas Morits' troop labored over rough ground broken by wide, shallow gullies. But the Bulgarians were light men on picked horses, and as the two parties converged it became evident that they were destined to meet before arriving at the objective point. The gun carriage and the araba conveying the wounded were abandoned; but three of the less seriously wounded clambered from the cart, mounted the saddled horses attached to the vehicle, cut them free, and rode on after their comrades.

As the distance between the two hostile parties rapidly lessened, Morits saw that in numbers they were nearly equal, and that the fight was destined to be that most sanguinary of encounters which terminates only when all of one side are killed and wounded. He knew that his own men would never yield, and he was also aware of the stubborn fighting qualities of the well-trained, well-commanded Ottoman soldiers. Here was a case where every man must kill his man or lose his own life, and as the surrounding conditions favored neither party the struggle was destined to be swift and savage.

Both parties had strung out in the race, and as they drew together it was as though individual champions had sallied forth to do battle separately. Drifting closer with every stride of the racing horses, men began to choose their personal antagonists. At a distance of a hundred yards, the firearms began to speak, and two or three horses were down on either side. And then, as if moved by a mutual impulse, both sides abandoned the goal, and swerved in sharply to meet.

In such a conflict, men turn instinctively to steel. At the first clash, Morits found his saber in his hand as he spurred his horse to meet a swarthy, scowling Turk no less eager to come to grips. Morits swerved slightly to avoid the other's direct rush, parried the eager blow, recovered quickly, and thrust. He heard the smothered “Allah!” as the cold steel plunged home, and saw the flash of the white teeth. The trooper swayed in his saddle, struck again blindly, and fell.

A horse struck that of Morits on the flank, knocking the beast nearly off its feet, and Morits twisted in his saddle barely in time to stop a slashing blow which numbed his arm to the elbow. His antagonist swept past with a yell, and Morits saw him lift in his stirrups to hew down fearfully on the defenseless head of one of the Bulgarian troop engaged with another enemy. The sight maddened him, and as the soldier fell, cleft to the eyes, he spurred forward, and cut down his slayer with the relentlessness of one exercising on the parade ground.

Not a shot was being fired, but the clashing of steel from all about rose with a cadence almost musical. The combatants had drawn more closely together, and as Morits plunged to the aid of another of his troopers who was hard beset it seemed to him that there were none but enemies on every side. Horses screamed as the blows fell on head or flanks, but the men fought almost in silence. Hoarse panting rose from every side, and the dull shock of falling bodies.

All about the little battle was being fought grimly, silently, in small groups or individual combats; but as these found fatal issue the victors turned to hurl themselves on the nearest enemy at hand, he sometimes engaged already with two others. The result of this was that the fight was taking on a denser formation, drawing in, as it were, to a central point, and into this vortex Morits flung his horse, using his blade scarcely except to parry, while the dripping point bit deeply and often. In such a combat one good swordsman is worth a dozen clumsy sabers, and Morits was a master of his weapon. He had fought himself into a deadly calm, for it was evident at a glance that the Turks, heavier and stronger men, were more than a match for the small civilian troopers. Many saddles had been emptied, but often into these there clambered unhorsed men but slightly wounded, who had been flung to earth by the shock of contact or ill-delivered blows.

“Use your points!” roared Morits. “You can do nothing with the edge. Thrust, you Bulgarians—thrust!”

“Thrust yourself, my friend!” called a mocking voice at his elbow, and Morits swung about to see a Turkish officer bearing down upon him, a savage grin under his black mustache. At sight of Morits' face the Ottoman's eyes opened wide.

“Mashallah!” he cried. “The spy!” And he spurred his horse against that of Morits, cutting lightly at his head.

Morits caught the blow, and lunged. The officer slightly turned his body, evading the blow; then, before Morits could recover, his saber whistled down, and Morits flung himself back in bare time to escape a slash which would have bitten deeply into his neck. As it was, the point tore through his tunic, laying open the muscles of his chest. The sharp pain acted as a spur. He saw that he had to do with an able swordsman and a splendid horseman, well mounted, for the Turk controlled his little Arab entirely by the pressure of the knee. A Turkish trooper, his face streaked with blood, bore down on Morits, who turned quickly from the officer, and ran him through.

“This dog bites deep!” said the officer, and pressed him hard again.

Morits was twice wounded, once from a cut across the forehead, and once by a thrust in the thigh. His eyes were half blinded with blood, but he bided his time, defending himself as best he might until there came the chance for which he had been waiting. His saber passed through the sword arm of the Ottoman, whose blade dropped from his hand.

“Strike!” said he, smiling.

But Morits swung his horse aside, and, pausing to wipe the blood from his eyes, a voice said at his shoulder:

“We are getting the worst of it, Morits.”

“Draw clear and shoot,” panted Morits. “Our men are too light for this work. Pass the word for them to draw clear and shoot.”

His own revolver was empty, and there was no time to load, so he spurred back into the fight again, noticing as he did so that the Turks whom he encountered now stood entirely upon the defensive. There was no dust, and in the intervals of action men had seen how their comrades fared with the swift, eager Bulgarian captain. Presently a sharp report clove the clash of steel, then another, and the firing became general. Wounded and dismounted men were beginning to bethink them of their firearms.

The combatants had thinned appallingly, but Morits did not notice this. Intent upon his own separate struggles, he did not pause to look about. Moreover, his vision had clouded, and there was a humming in his ears, while the blood which ran down into his eyes from the wound upon his forehead made it difficult for him to see at all. His fighting had grown automatic, and he seemed imbued with unnatural strength and skill, and when a man fell beneath his saber some mechanical tally registered subconsciously: “One less.” It struck him also in a vague way that his opponents were less formidable than at first, that their blows lacked force and direction, while his own needed but slight effort to be effective. A nausea seized him, and he wondered sickly how long the shambles would last.

Then presently it seemed that there was no one with whom to engage. He wiped the sticky blood from his eyes, and looked about. To his half-stupid amazement, he discovered that he was practically alone. Here and there riderless ponies were standing, and close by was a mounted Turk slumped down in his saddle, his chin upon his chest, as though asleep. As Morits watched him curiously he swayed slightly, then fell forward on his pony's neck, and slipped to the ground, grotesquely sprawled.

Underfoot the damp, sandy turf looked as though freshly plowed, and Morits, casting his heavy eyes on all sides, saw that it was strewn with dead and dying men. Here and there huddled groups appeared to be conversing wearily. Some of the horses were lying down; others had strayed clear of the bloody zone and were browsing quietly on the tufts of yellow grass. There in the distance where he had left them were the gun carriage and the araba, the latter with but one horse attached of the four which had drawn it.

Morits' vision cleared a little. Almost at his feet were the sergeant and two Turks, all three dead. Turkish and Bulgarian uniforms appeared to be mingled indiscriminately. As he looked a great wonder and awe fell upon Morits.

“God be merciful! The sowing of the Dragon's Teeth,” he said aloud, in English.

From his left a weary voice answered, in the same tongue:

“You are right, effendi. It is a full harvest.”

Morits turned sluggishly in his saddle, and his burning eyes fell upon the Turkish officer with whom he had been engaged. He was sitting with his back against a dead horse, a cigarette between his blue lips, and a handkerchief bound tightly about his arm.

“I began to wonder if you, too, were dead,” observed the Turk. “In that case I should have considered myself the victor.”

Morits slid from his horse. Things were getting rapidly darker, and drums were beating in his ears.

“You may yet claim that honor,” said he, and lurched heavily to the ground.

When he recovered consciousness it was to find that he was lying with his head on the officer's knee and the sensation of cool water on his face. Around him were crouched several of his own men, all pallid of face and variously wounded. They had crawled up apparently to discover if their leader still lived.

“Feeling better?” asked the Turkish captain, in perfect English. “That is a pity. I should enjoy the pleasure of your company on the next march. I have a bullet through the body, and doubt that I shall see the sunset. That is the worst of this detached skirmishing—a wounded man has no show. But you Bulgars can fight.”

“You Osmanlis are good teachers,” Morits answered.

“You are a master of the sword,” said the young man, speaking with some difficulty. “I am Ahmed Hussein Bey. By whom have I the honor to be vanquished?”

“My name is Morits Landovski, and I am by profession a dressmaker.”

The Turk stared, then his lips parted in a feeble smile.

“My word—a dressmaker! You Bulgars are wonderful. I think that you will succeed. A dressmaker! At least you know how to cut clothes. My arm is witness to that. And the sergeant yonder—he was a good swordsman, too. Also a dressmaker?”

“No; he was a barber of Sofia.”

“A barber!” The young man laughed, and his features writhed in pain. “Well,” he panted, “the barber also understood his work. I lay here on the ground and watched him part the hair of several of my troopers before he was killed. Listen, my friend. It is all the work of that accursed statue. I had a feeling that the wench would ransom herself in blood——”

He closed his eyes, and leaned back wearily. The cigarette dropped from his lips. His face grew livid, but a moment later he roused himself. Morits reversed their positions, taking the head of the dying man upon his knee. The captain opened his eyes and smiled.

“Tell Sami Pasha that his grandson, Ahmed, died like a soldier,” said he,

Morits bowed his head. “He shall soon know it,” he answered. “Will you tell me something, effendi? Where is the young English girl that your men took from the house in the village? The——”

“The golden goddess——” murmured the officer. His eyes closed wearily.

“The nurse of the Red Cross.”

“I know. I called her 'the golden goddess.' They looked alike. She is very beautiful. She is very——”

“Where is she?” asked Morits, seeing that the end was near.

“Where? She went—she—went she——”

The voice strangled in his throat. A tremor shook his strong, lithe body. His head fell limply to the side.

Morits lowered him gently, and struggled to his feet. There was much for him to do. From all about came the feeble plaints of the wounded.

Then as he stood fighting for the strength which refused to come the light faded before his eyes. The moving hills swam and rolled in front of his vision. The drumming rose louder in his ears, and, cleaving it, he heard the voice of Alicia calling from a great distance: “Morits! Morits!” He felt himself falling—falling, aş it seemed, into infinity.

“This is death,” thought Morits; “and I am glad.”

Chapter XIII.

A jouncing and swaying, accompanied by racking pain in his wounded thigh, recalled Morits from hours of an unconsciousness due to loss of blood.

He put out his hand, and found that he was lying upon straw. Opening his eyes, he looked straight up at the star-lit heavens. All about him was a sound of moving bodies. Something stirred at his side, and a weak voice asked:

“Have you regained consciousness, captain?”

“Yes,” Morits answered, almost inaudibly.

“Then I must call the lady.”

“What lady?”

“The lady of the Red Cross. She came on the field after the fight, and got us into the araba with the assistance of some of those who were not so badly wounded. We marched for several hours, and on the plain fell in with a Bulgarian squadron. They are convoying us to the base. But I should call the lady——”

“Wait!” said Morits. “How many of us are there left?”

“About fifteen, all badly wounded but three or four. The others are following in carts found in the neighborhood. The lady arrived just in time to keep the peasants from killing or plundering us. I myself helped until overcome by weakness. Here is the lady——”

Morits saw a white face bending over him.

“Alicia!” he muttered.

“Oh, Morits, are you conscious again?” Alicia's voice broke.

“Yes. Tell me what happened.”

“I watched the fight from a little distance. Morits, you were terrible!” Her voice shook. “Men fell wherever you passed. I saw you fight with Ahmed Hussein Bey. I met him once in London when he was attached to the embassy. When the fight began the men who were guarding me ran to join, so I watched from the distance. After it was over I rode up, and found you unconscious, with your head on Ahmed's knee. He told me to gather some canteens and ride to the river to fill them, and when I got back he was dead, and you were still unconscious. How do you feel now, Morits, dear?”

“I am very weak. I lost a lot of blood.”

“I know—oh, I know! I bound up your wounds the best I could. Oh, Morits, what an awful fight!”

“What happened afterward?” he asked feebly.

“Some Turkish peasants came along the trail with three carts. They were making for the hills before our army. They were ugly at first, but the Turkish soldiers who were less badly wounded frightened them into doing what I said. We put the wounded in the carts and came away. I had them bring the body of the sergeant and Ahmed Bey.”

“Were did we meet our squadron?”

“Not far from the river. We are to camp soon, and then I will make you some broth. Now you must rest.”

 

The wounded, with their convoy, fell in with the main column near the village where Morits had rescued Alicia. Here they bivouacked for the night. Thence the pitiful little handful of survivors of one of those savage encounters of which partisan warfare is so filled, and so few of which are ever chronicled, was sent on to the base, later to be invalided home.

The golden goddess here passes out of the story. Perhaps a replica of her was made in the interests of art, but it is more likely that she went straight to the melting pot, which fate, it will be admitted, she most richly deserved in atonement for her sacrifice of Christian. and Moslem blood. It is to be hoped, however, that the precious metal of which she was cast was duly exorcised before its coinage into many thousands of gold pieces which are of themselves, without the curse of a pagan deity, a source of ever-present danger to the souls and bodies of the sons of men.

To Morits the ultimate fate of the goddess was a matter on which he did not care to think. There was another goddess, and a Christian one, at that, of whom the substance was far more precious to him than that of the Artemis of Praxiteles. The shrine of this goddess was in his heart, and as the days of his convalescence proceeded he worshiped her daily with added fervor. And if she was to him a goddess, then for her he also represented something rather more than a man, which some fool has said requires nine tailors for the making.

It was on this same question of tailoring that Morits and Alicia came one day to a serious discussion. It was Alicia who began it, for it seemed to her that the gallant survivor of a stricken field ought scarcely return to the cutting of clothes for pampered dolls whose estimate of character was no more subtle than to be biased by a string of tape and a pair of shears.

“You are a born soldier, Morits,” said she, “and after this war you can surely have what you ask for in Bulgaria's army. God knows there will be vacancies enough.”

Morits' pale face was lighted by its swift smile, but the look of melancholy, did not leave his eyes. He was thinking of other vacancies in hearts and homes, for he had recently learned that two of his brothers had fallen before Adrianople.

“I have tried to do my duty as a soldier, Alicia,” he answered. “I must now think of my duty as a son. This war has brought my father to a low ebb of finances, as it has so many others. My earning capacity as a dressmaker is far greater than my earning capacity as a general. It is probable that by the time I am fit for the field again this war will be over. Whitefern's will be glad to get me back again.”

Alicia stared down at her feet. “Then you mean to return to London?” she asked.

“That is best. We Bulgarians will not have much to spend on our bodies these several years to come. In time we shall be more prosperous than ever before, but not for a number of years. As for you——”

“I shall go with you. You said that you could get me something there.”

“But your old associates——”

“My old associates can go hang!” she cried hotly. “What do they know of dressmaking and war and——”

Morits' face turned suddenly pale. His eyes glowed, up at her yearningly.

“And what, Alicia——” His voice trembled.

“And love——” she whispered, stooping to gather him in her strong young arms.