"Dear lady, but yes. I do not like, though, to fight, for war is what one of your great generals said: it is Hell." "Yet you went into the army?" "Because all my family have for generations done thus. I was born for that, I was brought up for that, and when I came to know"--he extended his palms--"I had to live," he concluded. This was scarcely Muriel's ideal of a soldier. She changed the conversation. "Of course you know Europe perfectly?" she enquired. "Not Russia," answered von Klausen; "but Germany, France, Spain, Italy and England--yes. You will travel much?" Muriel did not know; very likely they would. They would do whatever Mr. Stainton--Mr. Stainton was her husband--elected: she always did, always wanted to do, whatever her husband elected. The young man bowed at mention of Jim's name, as if he were being introduced. "Certainly," he gravely agreed. "Certainly, since he is your husband.--But you must not miss my country, dear lady, as so many foolish tourists miss it. It is the Tyrol, my fathers' country: the Austrian Tyrol. There is scenery--the most beautiful scenery in all the world: superb, majestic. You love scenery? Please." Muriel gave a surprised assent. "Then do not neglect the Tyrol. They call it the Austrian Tyrol, but it is really the only real Tyrol. Come to Innsbruck by the way of Zurich. That will bring you along the Waldersee, and so, too, you pass Castle Lichtenstein and come across the border at just beyond the ruins of Graephang. You will see genuine mountains then, gigantic, snow-capped, with forests as dense as--as what you call a hairbrush--black, impenetrable. To the very tops of some the train climbs; it trembles over abysses. You look from the window of it down--down--down, a thousand feet, fifteen hundred, into valleys exquisite, with pink farmhouses or grey in them, the roofs weighted with large stones, the sides painted with crucifixes, or ornamented statues of the Blessed Virgin." He loved his country and he made it vivid to her. He rambled on and on. Muriel became a more and more fascinated listener. It was not until two hours later that she thought, with a guilty start, of Jim. She excused herself hastily and, leaving the Austrian bowing by the rail, ran to the close stateroom and her husband. He was awake, but still sick. "Don't bother about me," muttered Stainton as she entered--"and _please_ don't bang the door!" She considered him compassionately. His hair fell in disorder over his haggard face; his cheeks were faintly green. "Can't I do something for you?" she asked, stepping forward. Stainton failed in a smile, but feebly motioned her away. "I am afraid not," said he--"unless you stop the ship. All I need is a little rest. You had better go back on deck. Really." Muriel delayed. "A man spoke to me on deck," she breathlessly confessed. "An Austrian diplomat, I think he is. My rug blew, and he rearranged it. Do you mind?"