Trusia: A Princess of Krovitch. Brinton Davis

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      Meanwhile the boniface, who had achieved a partial composure, hurried forward to greet the travelers.

      "I am sorry, messieurs," he said in excellent French, "that every bed, every table, in my inn is engaged. I am overwhelmed. The 'Lion' doubtless loses noble guests," and he fetched a fat sigh as his keen little eyes apprised the worldly stations of the two strangers. Evidently revolving some question in his mind he hit upon, to him, a happy solution to it.

      "The castle," he said, with a significant wink accompanied by an upward jerk of a pudgy thumb, "the castle, messieurs, is but two miles further along this road. Perhaps, if milords have friends there, they can find accommodations."

      "While I admit, Monsieur of the Lion," said Carter, "that I would like few things better than a good square meal just now, I would forego that gratification for information regarding the whereabouts of a gentleman of these parts."

      The Gray Man drew nearer as this was said. A subtle change flickered across the wide expanse of the innkeeper's face, while a tinge of suspicion added a chill to his immediate inquiry.

      "Monsieur would pay well doubtless?" He eyed the tourist narrowly. "Who is it, monsieur?"

      "I'd give ten golden florins to know where to find Count Paul Zulka. Do you know him?"

      The boniface gasped and grew apoplectic. "I never heard of him," he said, which, in the face of his perturbation, was manifestly a lie.

      The Gray Man stepped to the fore at this juncture.

      "In the public squares of Schallberg, monsieur will doubtless gather much information," he said ironically and with a covert meaning at that moment not appreciated by Carter. "Monsieur must travel that way. He should not turn back," and with a nod of his head he indicated a troop of cavalry guarding the way along which the travelers had approached.

      The significance of this was not lost on Carter who was now convinced that this was an army of Krovitzers and that his innocent inquiry had brought him under some sort of suspicion. Though he was burning up with curiosity to learn if it was the patriotic army, he wisely refrained from asking. With a short laugh he turned back to the Gray Man.

      "I never turn back," he said. "The road toward Schallberg is better, I hope?"

      "It is easier traveling, monsieur," the fellow replied insolently with an unchanging smile.

      Carter was satisfied from this that if he used discretion he would be permitted to reach Schallberg or the army probably investing it. He gave the necessary orders to Carrick and without undue haste while in the vicinity of the inn the automobile proceeded on its quest.

      When out of earshot of the hostelry, the Cockney, who had been a silent observer of the controversy, gave a prodigious sigh of relief.

      "I wouldn't trust that grinning ape with a dead pup. 'E's a sly one. 'Opes we don't run into 'im again."

      "I don't like him, either. I have a feeling, though, that we'll meet him again soon and like him less."

      V

      I AM THE LADY TRUSIA

      "I hope she's not dead," Carter said fervently as he bent over the unconscious girl. He beckoned to his chauffeur. "You can't catch her horse, Carrick. No use trying. Just hand me my flask."

      As he forced the brandy through the pale lips he inwardly cursed his own lust for speed which had been the cause of the possibly fatal catastrophe.

      Tempted by a bit of road, straight and smooth, full power had been put on in a feverish desire to interpose as much space as possible between the automobile and the Gray Man at the inn, repugnance for whom seethed in Carter's soul. As the touring car had neared a turn in the way, its two occupants had been horrified to see a spirited black horse, ridden by a beautiful girl, swing at a sharp gallop directly in their path. A rare presence of mind on Carrick's part had prompted an instant application of the brakes which had undoubtedly prevented a collision although it had very nearly hurled him and his companion from their seats. The steed for a fraction of a second had been petrified with fear. Then it had reared violently, thrown its rider, and panic-stricken, had turned and fled in the direction of its coming.

      Carter, kneeling, gently placed the girl's head against his shoulder, while he passed an arm around her the better to support the relaxed body. He looked helplessly at the Cockney.

      "Wasn't there some one with her?" he inquired, with the memory of a meteoric vision of another rider fleeing back along the road on a plunging, squealing steed.

      "Yes, Mr. Carter, a young chap in uniform. 'Is 'oss bolted too, sir. 'E stuck on all right though. We've certainly 'ad a bad day for a start, don't you think, sir?"

      Calvert did not answer; he was bending anxiously over the still face, praying for a sign of life. He was appalled by the girl's beauty and a twofold fear possessed him. He feared she was dead. Scarcely less than this, if fortunately she was alive, he dreaded the necessity that would require his laying desecrating masculine hands upon her for her better resuscitation.

      "Is she dead, sir?" asked Carrick, bending above them as he noted Carter groping blindly for her pulse. "She looks like a queen," he added in a voice husky with the awe inspired by the marble stillness of her face.

      Hesitatingly Carter's finger rested on her wrist. A lump leaped to his throat, he could have shouted with joy as he found that the pulse still stirred.

      "She is not dead," he said in a voice vibrant with thanksgiving. His eyes sought the Cockney's for a responsive gleam of gratitude.

      His trembling fingers awkwardly loosened the habit about the round white throat. The unavoidable contact with the satiny skin caused his head to whirl and his face to crimson. Finally controlling himself he began to watch patiently for the sign of returning consciousness. During the ages it appeared to take, he inventoried the beauty of the face, the perfect ensemble of which had impressed him as she rode into view.

      A shapely little head of wavy black hair lay in the crook of his elbow. The loosened strands breeze-blown against his cheek seemed light as the sheen of a spider's craft. These waved to the rhythm of beauty above a low white forehead veined in an indefinite tint of blue. The eyebrows were fine and daintily arched. Black lashes long and up-curling swept the unexplainable curve of her cheek, at the present time apparently masking eyes too rare for the vision of man. The nose, thin and ever so slightly bridged, was an epitome of aristocracy.

      The mouth, just beginning to quiver with reanimation, was curved in the curl of flowers in bud, and sweet and kind as the animate soul of a rose. A womanly chin turned, none could say where, into the matchless sweep and curve of the throat and breast, a glimpse of which he had had vouchsafed in such a breathless vision.

      "Where's her hat, Carrick?" Carter asked, not because there was any immediate use for that article of apparel, but with the instinct of an orderly man to keep all things together. After a considerable search the chauffeur picked up something from the gutter by the side of the road and handed it to his master.

      "This must be it, sir," he commented. It was a broad felt hat with one side of the brim looped up with a jewel a la cavalier while a fine black plume curled about it. For the first time, attracted doubtless by the head covering, Calvert noticed that the girl's was not the conventional costume one sees on equestriennes either in the Park or along the Row. Nevertheless the habit itself was elegantly plain.

      Across from the right shoulder passing to the waist at the left was stretched a broad ribbon as СКАЧАТЬ