The George Barr McCutcheon MEGAPACK ®. George Barr McCutcheon

mighty lurch.

      Dragging herself from the corner, poor Beverly Calhoun, no longer a disdainful heroine, gazed piteously out into the shadows, expecting the murderous blade of the driver to meet her as she did so. Pauloff had swung from the box of the coach and was peering first into the woodland below and then upon the rocks to the left. He wore the expression of a man trapped and seeking means of escape. Suddenly he darted behind the coach, almost brushing against Beverly’s hat as he passed the window. She opened her lips to call to him, but even as she did so he took to his heels and raced back over the road they had traveled so precipitously.

      Overcome by surprise and dismay, she only could watch the flight in silence. Less than a hundred feet from where the coach was standing he turned to the right and was lost among the rocks. Ahead, four horses, covered with sweat, were panting and heaving as if in great distress after their mad run. Aunt Fanny was still moaning and praying by turns in the bottom of the carriage. Darkness was settling down upon the pass, and objects a hundred yards away were swallowed by the gloom. There was no sound save the blowing of the tired animals and the moaning of the old negress. Beverly realized with a sinking heart that they were alone and helpless in the mountains with night upon them.

      She never knew where the strength and courage came from, but she forced open the stubborn coachdoor and scrambled to the ground, looking frantically in all directions for a single sign of hope. In the most despairing terror she had ever experienced, she started toward the lead horses, hoping against hope that at least one of her men had remained faithful.

      A man stepped quietly from the inner side of the road and advanced with the uncertain tread of one who is overcome by amazement. He was a stranger, and wore an odd, uncouth garb. The failing light told her that he was not one of her late protectors. She shrank back with a faint cry of alarm, ready to fly to the protecting arms of hopeless Aunt Fanny if her uncertain legs could carry her. At the same instant another ragged stranger, then two, three, four, or five, appeared as if by magic, some near her, others approaching from the shadows.

      “Who—who in heaven’s name are you?” she faltered. The sound of her own voice in a measure restored the courage that had been paralyzed. Unconsciously this slim sprig of southern valor threw back her shoulders and lifted her chin. If they were brigands they should not find her a cringing coward. After all, she was a Calhoun.

      The man she had first observed stopped near the horses’ heads and peered intently at her from beneath a broad and rakish hat. He was tall and appeared to be more respectably clad than his fellows, although there was not one who looked as though he possessed a complete outfit of wearing apparel.

      “Poor wayfarers, may it please your highness,” replied the tall vagabond, bowing low. To her surprise he spoke in very good English; his voice was clear, and there was a tinge of polite irony in the tones. “But all people are alike in the mountains. The king and the thief, the princess and the jade live in the common fold,” and his hat swung so low that it touched the ground.

      “I am powerless. I only implore you to take what valuables you may find and let us proceed unharmed—” she cried, rapidly, eager to have it over.

      “Pray, how can your highness proceed? You have no guide, no driver, no escort,” said the man, mockingly. Beverly looked at him appealingly, utterly without words to reply. The tears were welling to her eyes and her heart was throbbing like that of a captured bird. In after life she was able to picture in her mind’s eye all the details of that tableau in the mountain pass—the hopeless coach, the steaming horses, the rakish bandit, and his picturesque men, the towering crags, and a mite of a girl facing the end of everything.

      “Your highness is said to be brave, but even your wonderful courage can avail nothing in this instance,” said the leader, pleasantly. “Your escort has fled as though pursued by something stronger than shadows; your driver has deserted; your horses are half-dead; you are indeed, as you have said, powerless. And you are, besides all these, in the clutches of a band of merciless cutthroats.”

      “Oh,” moaned Beverly, suddenly leaning against the fore wheel, her eyes almost starting from her head. The leader laughed quietly—yes, good-naturedly. “Oh, you won’t—you won’t kill us?” She had time to observe that there were smiles on the faces of all the men within the circle of light.

      “Rest assured, your highness,” said the leader, leaning upon his rifle-barrel with careless grace, “we intend no harm to you. Every man you meet in Graustark is not a brigand, I trust, for your sake. We are simple hunters, and not what we may seem. It is fortunate that you have fallen into honest hands. There is someone in the coach?” he asked, quickly alert. A prolonged groan proved to Beverly that Aunt Fanny had screwed up sufficient courage to look out of the window.

      “My old servant,” she half whispered. Then, as several of the men started toward the door: “But she is old and wouldn’t harm a fly. Please, please don’t hurt her.”

      “Compose yourself; she is safe,” said the leader. By this time it was quite dark. At a word from him two or three men lighted lanterns. The picture was more weird than ever in the fitful glow. “May I ask, your highness, how do you intend to reach Edelweiss in your present condition. You cannot manage those horses, and besides, you do not know the way.”

      “Aren’t you going to rob us?” demanded Beverly, hope springing to the surface with a joyful bound. The stranger laughed heartily, and shook his head.

      “Do we not look like honest men?” he cried, with a wave of his hand toward his companions. Beverly looked dubious. “We live the good, clean life of the wilderness. Out-door life is necessary for our health. We could not live in the city,” he went on with grim humor. For the first time, Beverly noticed that he wore a huge black patch over his left eye, held in place by a cord. He appeared more formidable than ever under the light of critical inspection.

      CHAPTER IV

      THE RAGGED RETINUE

      “I am very much relieved,” said Beverly, who was not at all relieved. “But why have you stopped us in this manner?”

      “Stopped you?” cried the man with the patch. “I implore you to unsay that, your highness. Your coach was quite at a standstill before we knew of its presence. You do us a grave injustice.”

      “It’s very strange,” muttered Beverly, somewhat taken aback.

      “Have you observed that it is quite dark?” asked the leader, putting away his brief show of indignation.

      “Dear me; so it is!” cried she, now able to think more clearly.

      “And you are miles from an inn or house of any kind,” he went on. “Do you expect to stay here all night?”

      “I’m—I’m not afraid,” bravely shivered Beverly.

      “It is most dangerous.”

      “I have a revolver,” the weak little voice went on.

      “Oho! What is it for?”

      “To use in case of emergency.”

      “Such as repelling brigands who suddenly appear upon the scene?”

      “Yes.”

      “May I ask why you did not use it this evening?”

      “Because it is locked up in one of my bags—I don’t know just which one—and Aunt Fanny has the key,” confessed Beverly.

      The chief of the “honest men” laughed again, a clear, ringing laugh that bespoke supreme confidence in his right to enjoy himself.

      “And who is Aunt Fanny?” he asked, covering his patch carefully with his slouching hat.

      “My servant. She’s colored.”

      “Colored?” he asked in amazement. “What do you mean?”

      “Why, she’s a negress. Don’t you know what a colored person is?”

      “You mean she is a slave—a black slave?”

      “We