"Who on earth are you?" the voice repeated. And then into it came recognition. "I've seen you before. I believe you're the little man I saw last week at the Black Bull. Be so good as to explain why you want to murder me?" Explanation was beyond Dickson, but his conviction was being wofully shaken. Saskia had said her enemy was as beautiful as a devil--he remembered the phrase, for he had thought it ridiculous. This man was magnificent, but there was nothing devilish in his lean grave face. "What's your name?" the voice was asking. "Tell me yours first," Dickson essayed to stutter between spasms of nausea. "My name is Alexander Nicholson," was the answer. "Then you're no' the man." It was a cry of wrath and despair. "You're a very desperate little chap. For whom had I the honour to be mistaken?" Dickson had now wriggled into a sitting position and had clasped his hands above his aching head. "I thought you were a Russian, name of Paul," he groaned. "Paul! Paul who?" "Just Paul. A Bolshevik and an awful bad lot." Dickson could not see the change which his words wrought in the other's face. He found himself picked up in strong arms and carried to a bog-pool where his battered face was carefully washed, his throbbing brows laved, and a wet handkerchief bound over them. Then he was given brandy in the socket of a flask, which eased his nausea. The cyclist ran his bicycle to the roadside, and found a seat for Dickson behind the turf-dyke of the old bucht. "Now you are going to tell me everything," he said. "If the Paul who is your enemy is the Paul I think him, then we are allies." But Dickson did not need this assurance. His mind had suddenly received a revelation. The Princess had expected an enemy, but also a friend. Might not this be the long-awaited friend, for whose sake she was rooted to Huntingtower with all its terrors? "Are you sure you name's no' Alexis?" he asked. "In my own country I was called Alexis Nicolaevitch, for I am a Russian. But for some years I have made my home with your folk, and I call myself Alexander Nicholson, which is the English form. Who told you about Alexis?" "Give me your hand," said Dickson shamefacedly. "Man, she's been looking for you for weeks. You're terribly behind the fair." "She!" he cried. "For God's sake tell me all you know." "Ay, she--the Princess. But what are we havering here for? I tell you at this moment she's somewhere down about the old Tower, and there's boatloads of blagyirds landing from the sea. Help me up, man, for I must be off. The story will keep. Losh, it's very near the darkening. If you're Alexis, you're just about in time for a battle."