bend of the mountain road.

George did not wait to be asked twice. He quickly put his mule into a trot and overtook her the next instant.

A very familiar relation had already been formed between him and the young lady. Edith liked the somewhat rough but comical and zealous fellow, saw in him her lover's former play-fellow rather than his subaltern, and had instantly granted his entreaty that she would address him with the "Du" used in his native Tyrol. George, on his side, was not a little proud of this confidential position, and felt an even more enthusiastic admiration for his lieutenant's fiancée than for the lieutenant himself.

They rode up the mountain for about ten minutes, then reached the main road again, and were now far ahead of the others. Edith stopped her mule, and George did the same.

"I suppose we are to wait here for the lieutenant?" he asked.

The young lady cast a glance backward. Her anger had already vanished, but she wanted to punish Gerald for his lack of gallantry by compelling him to ride with Danira.

She knew that he had a positive aversion to her foster sister and that the feeling was mutual, for he and Danira avoided each other whenever they could. So Edith found much amusement in the idea of the vexation of both, if they were condemned to a longer tête-à-tête.

"No, George," she said. "As we are in advance, we'll get to the fort first--that is, if you'll go with me."

"I, Fräulein--to Krivoscia, if you order me!" exclaimed George, whose tongue always seemed to have an attack of cramp whenever he uttered the ominous word.

"Well, we won't go quite so far to-day, but I know how to appreciate this proof of your devotion. In your eyes, Krivoscia is the incarnation of everything horrible. So much the better. You won't run the risk of carrying home one of the Krivoscian girls and making her the future mistress of the Moosbach Farm."

The young Tyrolese, in his horror, dropped the mule's bridle and crossed himself.

"St. George forbid! I should first have to lose my senses and my head to boot. I believe my father would leave the whole farm to the monastery if I should bring home such a savage, and he would do right."

"Your father of course expects you to bring him one of the Tyrolese girls for a daughter-in-law?"

"No one else would ever suit!" replied George solemnly, "No other girls can compare with those in the Tyrol. They are better than all the rest in the world put together."

"I'm quite of your opinion, especially as I'm a Tyrolese lass myself, and who knows--if I were not already betrothed, I might have a chance of being mistress of the Moosbach Farm."

"Yes, that might do!" said George, honestly. "I should have no objection, I'd take you on the spot, Fräulein--but it can't be."

Edith burst into a merry laugh. "No, it certainly can't be, but your offer is very flattering to me, and I will consider it seriously. Now let us ride on, the animals have rested long enough." She urged her mule forward and George followed. He respectfully remained a few paces behind the young lady, but could not help feeling a little regret that "it couldn't be."

Meantime Gerald and Danira pursued their way alone. The latter, it is true, had paused a moment and asked: "Shall not we follow?"

"I think not," replied Gerald, so coolly that it was evident he did not feel at all inclined to submit to his fiancée's whim. "The path is steep and stony. I at least prefer to ride along the comfortable road."

"And give Edith a lesson," Danira added in a low tone.

"Edith must learn to take more interest in my profession; that is essential in a soldier's wife."

"Certainly. I only fear that, with this mode of teaching, you will accomplish nothing."

"Why not? Edith Is still half a child, and children must be taught. Yet, if you desire to give me any advice on this point, I shall be grateful." There was unconcealed mockery in this appeal for counsel to the girl of seventeen, but the cold, sullen glance that answered the scoff showed that it had failed to reach its mark. The young Slav was no longer a child; the dark shadow on her brow betrayed how far she had already advanced into womanhood.

"Edith can be influenced in only one way," she replied. "Then she can be swayed completely--but the appeal must be made to her heart."

"And you think I have not understood that?"

"You have apparently not desired to do so. The tutor will gain nothing from this spoiled child--the lover everything."

Gerald bit his lips; he felt the justice of this reproach, but he also felt a touch of Edith's irritability when she was reproved. Now it was his turn, and he could not even find a fitting answer.

As they approached the summit of the mountain the road began to ascend in steeper curves. Danira rode close to the edge; though her mule had just shown its untrustworthiness, she seemed perfectly fearless. Gerald could not help noticing how steadily the animal now trod upon the loose stones, and how firmly the slender hand held the bridle; she evidently had perfect control of the beast, so the incident appeared all the more incomprehensible.

They had just reached a broader, rocky projection, when Danira suddenly drew rein and bent down to her saddle.

"Has anything happened?" asked Gerald, whose attention was attracted.

"Nothing of any importance. Something about the saddle must have been disarranged by the mule's sudden jump. I did not notice it until now."

The young officer instantly stopped and dismounted, but his companion swung herself out of the saddle so quickly that she was already standing on the ground when he approached. He saw that she wished to avoid his assistance, and therefore, without a word, instantly turned to the animal. The damage was trifling; the saddle-girth had loosened. Gerald tightened it again, and then straightening himself, said:

"I think we will let the mules rest a little. They have had a sharp climb, and the fort is still some distance off."

He knotted the bridles loosely together, and then stepped out upon the point, where Danira was already standing, gazing into the distance.

The landscape they beheld was both magnificent and peculiar, a picture whose wide frame contained the most abrupt contrasts. Desolate rocky wastes, and green, smiling shores, white hamlets glimmering in the brightest sunshine, and gloomy ravines where scarcely a ray of light penetrated, the luxuriance of the south and the rude solitude of the north, but all lay as if transfigured in the clear, golden radiance of the morning.

Yonder appeared the city, with its harbor and citadel, picturesquely located on the coast, and beyond the rocks, bare dark-gray stone, towering higher and higher, growing more and more desolate, till they at last ended in jagged, riven peaks. Far below gleamed the bay in its strange, curving outlines, which sometimes seemed to seek and meet each other, then to recede far asunder. The surface of the water flashed under the rays of the sun like a glittering metal mirror, and the same tide lay black and motionless in the shadow of the lofty cliffs, which actually rose out of it, and whose steep sides were washed by the waves.

But the eye roved over rocks and waters to the open sea. Yonder on the horizon it gleamed, mist-veiled, sun-illumined, the blue expanse seeming to stretch into infinite distance, for at the point where sea and sky met it blended with the