"I feel much better now, Aunt Fanny," she said, and Aunt Fanny gave a
vast chuckle.
"Yas, ma'am, indeed,--yo' highness," she agreed, suavely.
The coach rolled along for half an hour, and then stopped with a sudden
jolt. An instant later the tall driver appeared at the window, his head
uncovered. A man hard by held a lantern.
"Qua vandos ar deltanet, yos serent," said the leader, showing
his white teeth in a triumphant smile. His exposed eye seemed to be
glowing with pleasure and excitement.
"What?" murmured Beverly, 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.