"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

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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.




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