The George Barr McCutcheon MEGAPACK ®. George Barr McCutcheon

not be alarmed. We are quite safe now. The royal bed-chamber has come to grief, however, I am sorry to say. What a fool I was not to have foreseen all this! The storm has been brewing since midnight,” he was saying to her.

      “Isn’t it awful?” cried Beverly, between a moan a shriek.

      “They are trifles after one gets used to them,” he said. “I have come to be quite at home in the tempest. There are other things much more annoying, I assure your highness. We shall have lights in a moment.” Even as he spoke, two or three lanterns began to flicker feebly.

      “Be quiet, Aunt Fanny; you are not killed at all,” commanded Beverly, quite firmly.

      “De house is suah to blow down. Miss—yo’ highness,” groaned the trusty maidservant. Beverly laughed bravely but nervously with the tall goat-hunter. He at once set about making his guest comfortable and secure from the effects of the tempest, which was now at its height. Her couch of cushions was dragged far back into the cavern and the rescued blankets, though drenched, again became a screen.

      “Do you imagine that I’m going in there while this storm rages?” Beverly demanded, as the work progressed.

      “Are you not afraid of lightning? Most young women are.”

      “That’s the trouble. I am afraid of it. I’d much rather stay out here where there is company. You don’t mind, do you?”

      “Paradise cannot be spurned by one who now feels its warmth for the first time,” said he, gallantly. “Your fear is my delight. Pray sit upon our throne. It was once a humble carriage pail of leather, but now it is exalted. Besides, it is much more comfortable than some of the gilded chairs we hear about.”

      “You are given to irony, I fear,” she said, observing a peculiar smile on his lips.

      “I crave pardon, your highness,” he said, humbly “The heart of the goat-hunter is more gentle than his wit. I shall not again forget that you are a princess and I the veriest beggar.”

      “I didn’t mean to hurt you!” she cried, in contrition, for she was a very poor example of what a princess is supposed to be.

      “There is no wound, your highness,” he quickly said. With a mocking grace that almost angered her, he dropped to his knee and motioned for her to be seated. She sat down suddenly, clapping her hands to her ears and shutting her eyes tightly. The crash of thunder that came at that instant was the most fearful of all, and it was a full minute before she dared to lift her lids again. He was standing before her, and there was genuine compassion in his face. “It’s terrible,” he said. “Never before have I seen such a storm. Have courage, your highness; it can last but little longer.”

      “Goodness!” said the real American girl, for want of something more expressive.

      “Your servant has crept into your couch, I fear. Shall I sit here at your feet? Perhaps you may feel a small sense of security if I—”

      “Indeed, I want you to sit there,” she cried. He forthwith threw himself upon the floor of the cave, a graceful, respectful guardian. Minutes went by without a word from either. The noise of the storm made it impossible to speak and be heard. Scattered about the cavern were his outstretched followers, doubtless asleep once more in all this turmoil. With the first lull in the war of the elements, Beverly gave utterance to the thought that long had been struggling for release.

      “Why do you wear that horrid black patch over your eye?” she asked, a trifle timidly. He muttered a sharp exclamation and clapped his hand to his eye. For the first time since the beginning of their strange acquaintanceship Beverly observed downright confusion in this debonair knight of the wilds.

      “It has—has slipped off—” he stammered, with a guilty grin. His merry insolence was gone, his composure with it. Beverly laughed with keen enjoyment over the discomfiture of the shame-faced vagabond.

      “You can’t fool me,” she exclaimed, shaking her finger at him in the most unconventional way. “It was intended to be a disguise. There is absolutely nothing the matter with your eye.”

      He was speechless for a moment, recovering himself. Wisdom is conceived in silence, and he knew this. Vagabond or gentleman, he was a clever actor.

      “The eye is weak, your highness, and I cover it in the daytime to protect it from the sunlight,” he said, coolly.

      “That’s all very nice, but it looks to be quite as good as the other. And what is more, sir, you are not putting the patch over the same eye that wore it when I first saw you. It was the left eye at sunset. Does the trouble transfer after dark?”

      He broke into an honest laugh and hastily moved the black patch across his nose to the left eye.

      “I was turned around in the darkness, that’s all,” he said, serenely. “It belongs over the left eye, and I am deeply grateful to you for discovering the error.”

      “I don’t see any especial reason why you should wear it after dark, do you? There is no sunlight, I’m sure.”

      “I am dazzled, nevertheless,” he retorted.

      “Fiddlesticks!” she said. “This is a cave, not a drawing-room.”

      “In other words, I am a lout and not a courtier,” he smiled. “Well, a lout may look at a princess. We have no court etiquette in the hills, I am sorry to say.”

      “That was very unkind, even though you said it most becomingly,” she protested. “You have called this pail a throne. Let us also imagine that you are a courtier.”

      “You punish me most gently, your highness. I shall not forget my manners again, believe me.” He seemed thoroughly subdued.

      “Then I shall expect you to remove that horrid black thing. It is positively villainous. You look much better without it.”

      “Is it an edict or a compliment?” he asked with such deep gravity that she flushed.

      “It is neither,” she answered. “You don’t have to take it off unless you want to—”

      “In either event, it is off. You were right. It serves as a partial disguise. I have many enemies and the black patch is a very good friend.”

      “How perfectly lovely,” cried Beverly. “Tell me all about it. I adore stories about feuds and all that.”

      “Your husband is an American. He should be able to keep you well entertained with blood-and-thunder stories,” said he.

      “My hus—What do you—Oh, yes!” gasped Beverly. “To be sure. I didn’t hear you, I guess. That was rather a severe clap of thunder, wasn’t it?”

      “Is that also a command?”

      “What do you mean?”

      “There was no thunderclap, you know.”

      “Oh, wasn’t there?” helplessly.

      “The storm is quite past. There is still a dash of rain in the air and the wind may be dying hard, but aside from that I think the noise is quite subdued.”

      “I believe you are right. How sudden it all was.”

      “There are several hours between this and dawn, your highness, and you should try to get a little more sleep. Your cushions are dry and—”

      “Very well, since you are so eager to get rid of—” began Beverly, and then stopped, for it did not sound particularly regal. “I should have said, you are very thoughtful. You will call me if I sleep late?”

      “We shall start early, with your permission. It is forty miles to Ganlook, and we must be half way there by nightfall.”

      “Must we spend another night like this?” cried Beverly, dolefully.

      “Alas, I fear you must endure us another night. I am afraid, however, we shall not find quarters as comfortable as these of the Hawk and Raven.”