Part 4 (1/2)
”I am very grateful to find that you are not brigands, believe me,” said Beverly. ”Pray tell me who you are, then, and you shall be sufficiently rewarded for your good intentions.”
”I? Oh, your highness, I am Baldos, the goat-hunter, a poor subject for reward at your hands. I may as well admit that I am a poacher, and have no legal right to the prosperity of your hills. The only reward I can ask is forgiveness for trespa.s.sing upon the property of others.”
”You shall receive pardon for all transgressions. But you must get me to some place of safety,” said Beverly, eagerly.
”And quickly, too, you might well have added,” he said, lightly. ”The horses have rested, I think, so with your permission we may proceed. I know of a place where you may spend the night comfortably and be refreshed for the rough journey to-morrow.”
”To-morrow? How can I go on? I am alone,” she cried, despairingly.
”Permit me to remind you that you are no longer alone. You have a ragged following, your highness, but it shall be a loyal one. Will you re-enter the coach? It is not far to the place I speak of, and I myself will drive you there. Come, it is getting late, and your retinue, at least, is hungry.”
He flung open the coach door, and his hat swept the ground once more. The light of a lantern played fitfully upon his dark, gaunt face, with its gallant smile and ominous patch. She hesitated, fear entering her soul once more. He looked up quickly and saw the indecision in her eyes, the mute appeal.
”Trust me, your highness,” he said, gravely, and she allowed him to hand her into the coach.
A moment later he was upon the driver's box, reins in hand. Calling out to his companions in a language strange to Beverly, he cracked the whip, and once more they were lumbering over the wretched road. Beverly sank back into the seat with a deep sigh of resignation.
”Well, I'm in for it,” she thought. ”It doesn't matter whether they are thieves or angels, I reckon I'll have to take what comes. He doesn't look very much like an angel, but he looked at me just now as if he thought I were one. Dear me, I wish I were back in Was.h.i.+n'ton!”
CHAPTER V
THE INN OF THE HAWK AND RAVEN
Two of the men walked close beside the door, one of them bearing a lantern. They conversed in low tones and in a language which Beverly could not understand. After awhile she found herself a.n.a.lyzing the garb and manner of the men. She was saying to herself that here were her first real specimens of Graustark peasantry, and they were to mark an ineffaceable spot in her memory. They were dark, strong-faced men of medium height, with fierce, black eyes and long black hair. As no two were dressed alike, it was impossible to recognize characteristic styles of attire. Some were in the rude, baggy costumes of the peasant as she had imagined him; others were dressed in the tight-fitting but dilapidated uniforms of the soldiery, while several were in clothes partly European and partly Oriental. There were hats and fezzes and caps, some with feathers In the bands, others without. The man nearest the coach wore the dirty gray uniform of as army officer, full of holes and rents, while another strode along in a pair of baggy yellow trousers and a dusty London dinner jacket. All in all, it was the motliest band of vagabonds she had ever seen. There were at least ten or a dozen in the party. While a few carried swords, all lugged the long rifles and crooked daggers of the Tartars.
”Aunt f.a.n.n.y,” Beverly whispered, suddenly moving to the side of the subdued servant, ”where is my revolver?” It had come to her like a flash that a subsequent emergency should not find her unprepared. Aunt f.a.n.n.y's jaw dropped, and her eyes were like white rings in a black screen.
”Good Lawd--wha--what fo' Miss Bev'ly--”
”s.h.!.+ Don't call me Miss Bev'ly. Now, just you pay 'tention to me and I'll tell you something queer. Get my revolver right away, and don't let those men see what you are doing.” While Aunt f.a.n.n.y's trembling fingers went in search of the firearm, Beverly outlined the situation briefly but explicitly. The old woman was not slow to understand. Her wits sharpened by fear, she grasped Beverly's instructions with astonis.h.i.+ng avidity.
”Ve'y well, yo' highness,” she said with fine reverence, ”Ah'll p'ocuah de bottle o' pepp'mint fo' yo' if yo' jes don' mine me pullin' an'
haulin' 'mongst dese boxes. Mebbe yo' all 'druther hab de gingeh?” With this wonderful subterfuge as a s.h.i.+eld she dug slyly into one of the bags and pulled forth a revolver. Under ordinary circ.u.mstances she would have been mortally afraid to touch it, but not so in this emergency. Beverly shoved the weapon into the pocket of her gray traveling jacket.
”I feel much better now, Aunt f.a.n.n.y,” she said, and Aunt f.a.n.n.y 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.”