The George Barr McCutcheon MEGAPACK ®. George Barr McCutcheon

hopelessly. A puzzled expression came into his face. Then his smile deepened and his eye took on a knowing gleam.

      “Ah, I see,” he said, gaily, “your highness prefers not to speak the language of Graustark. Is it necessary for me to repeat in English?”

      “I really wish you would,” said Beverly, catching her breath. “Just to see how it sounds, you know.”

      “Your every wish shall be gratified. I beg to inform you that we have reached the Inn of the Hawk and Raven. This is where we dwelt last night. Tomorrow we, too, abandon the place, so our fortunes may run together for some hours, at least. There is but little to offer you in the way of nourishment, and there are none of the comforts of a palace. Yet princesses can no more be choosers than beggars when the fare’s in one pot. Come, your highness, let me conduct you to the guest chamber of the Inn of the Hawk and Raven.”

      Beverly took his hand and stepped to the ground, looking about in wonder and perplexity.

      “I see no inn,” she murmured apprehensively.

      “Look aloft, your highness. That great black canopy is the roof; we are standing upon the floor, and the dark shadows just beyond the circle of light are the walls of the Hawk and Raven. This is the largest tavern in all Graustark. Its dimensions are as wide as the world itself.”

      “You mean that there is no inn at all?” the girl cried in dismay.

      “Alas, I must confess it. And yet there is shelter here. Come with me. Let your servant follow.” He took her by the hand, and led her away from the coach, a ragged lantern-bearer preceding. Beverly’s little right hand was rigidly clutching the revolver in her pocket. It was a capacious pocket, and the muzzle of the weapon bored defiantly into a timid powder-rag that lay on the bottom. The little leather purse from which it escaped had its silver lips opened as if in a broad grin of derision, reveling in the plight of the chamois. The guide’s hand was at once firm and gentle, his stride bold, yet easy. His rakish hat, with its aggressive red feather, towered a full head above Beverly’s Parisian violets.

      “Have you no home at all—no house in which to sleep?” Beverly managed to ask.

      “I live in a castle of air,” said he, waving his hand gracefully. “I sleep in the house of my fathers.”

      “You poor fellow,” cried Beverly, pityingly. He laughed and absently patted the hilt of his sword.

      She heard the men behind them turning the coach into the glen through which they walked carefully. Her feet fell upon a soft, grassy sward and the clatter of stones was now no longer heard. They were among the shadowy trees, gaunt trunks of enormous size looming up in the light of the lanterns. Unconsciously her thoughts went over to the Forest of Arden and the woodland home of Rosalind, as she had imagined it to be. Soon there came to her ears the swish of waters, as of some turbulent river hurrying by. Instinctively she drew back and her eyes were set with alarm upon the black wall of night ahead. Yetive had spoken more than once of this wilderness. Many an unlucky traveler had been lost forever in its fastnesses.

      “It is the river, your highness. There is no danger. I will not lead you into it,” he said, a trifle roughly. “We are low in the valley and there are marshes yonder when the river is in its natural bed. The floods have covered the low grounds, and there is a torrent coming down from the hills. Here we are, your highness. This is the Inn of the Hawk and Raven.”

      He bowed and pointed with his hat to the smouldering fire a short distance ahead. They had turned a bend in the overhanging cliff, and were very close to the retreat before she saw the glow.

      The fire was in the open air and directly in front of a deep cleft in the rocky background. Judging by the sound, the river could not be more than two hundred feet away. Men came up with lanterns and others piled brush upon the fire. In a very short time the glen was weirdly illuminated by the dancing flames. From her seat on a huge log, Beverly was thus enabled to survey a portion of her surroundings. The overhanging ledge of rock formed a wide, deep canopy, underneath which was perfect shelter. The floor seemed to be rich, grassless loam, and here and there were pallets of long grass, evidently the couches of these homeless men. All about were huge trees, and in the direction of the river the grass grew higher and then gave place to reeds. The foliage above was so dense that the moon and stars were invisible. There was a deathly stillness in the air. The very loneliness was so appalling that Beverly’s poor little heart was in a quiver of dread. Aunt Fanny, who sat near by, had not spoken since leaving the coach, but her eyes were expressively active.

      The tall leader stood near the fire, conversing with half a dozen of his followers. Miss Calhoun’s eyes finally rested upon this central figure in the strange picture. He was attired in a dark-gray uniform that reminded her oddly of the dragoon choruses in the comic operas at home. The garments, while torn and soiled, were well-fitting. His shoulders were broad and square, his hips narrow, his legs long and straight. There was an air of impudent grace about him that went well with his life and profession. Surely, here was a careless freelance upon whom life weighed lightly, while death “stood afar off” and despaired. The light of the fire brought his gleaming face into bold relief, for his hat was off. Black and thick was his hair, rumpled and apparently uncared for. The face was lean, smooth and strong, with a devil-may-care curve at the corners of the mouth. Beverly found herself lamenting the fact that such an interesting face should be marred by an ugly black patch, covering she knew not what manner of defect. As for the rest of them, they were a grim company. Some were young and beardless, others were old and grizzly, but all were active, alert and strong. The leader appeared to be the only one in the party who could speak and understand the English language. As Beverly sat and watched his virile, mocking face, and studied his graceful movements, she found herself wondering how an ignorant, homeless wanderer in the hills could be so poetic and so cultured as this fellow seemed to be.

      Three or four men, who were unmistakably of a lower order than their companions, set about preparing a supper. Others unhitched the tired horses and led them off toward the river. Two dashing young fellows carried the seat-cushions under the rocky canopy and constructed an elaborate couch for the “Princess.” The chief, with his own hands, soon began the construction of a small chamber in this particular corner of the cave, near the opening. The walls of the chamber were formed of carriage robes and blankets, cloaks and oak branches.

      “The guest chamber, your highness,” he said, approaching her with a smile at the conclusion of his work.

      “It has been most interesting to watch you,” she said, rising.

      “And it has been a delight to interest you,” he responded. “You will find seclusion there, and you need see none of us until it pleases you.”

      She looked him fairly in the eye for a moment, and then impulsively extended her hand. He clasped it warmly, but not without some show of surprise.

      “I am trusting you implicitly,” she said.

      “The knave is glorified,” was his simple rejoinder. He conducted her to the improvised bed-chamber, Aunt Fanny following with loyal but uncertain tread. “I regret, your highness, that the conveniences are so few. We have no landlady except Mother Earth, no waiters, no porters, no maids, in the Inn of the Hawk and Raven. This being a men’s hotel, the baths are on the river-front. I am having water brought to your apartments, however, but it is with deepest shame and sorrow that I confess we have no towels.”

      She laughed so heartily that his face brightened perceptibly, whilst the faces of his men turned in their direction as though by concert.

      “It is a typical mountain resort, then,” she said, “I think I can manage very well if you will fetch my bags to my room, sir.”

      “By the way, will you have dinner served in your room?” very good-humoredly.

      “If you don’t mind, I’d like to eat in the public dining-room,” said she. A few minutes later Beverly was sitting upon one of her small trunks and Aunt Fanny was laboriously brushing her dark hair.

      “It’s very jolly being a princess,” murmured Miss Calhoun. She had bathed her face in one of