“You see he is after the same thing. Let us hurry to the train. First come first served, you know. And there may be but one,” remarked Alick. They pressed forward to the railway platform; found a guard and showed him their tickets and—a crown piece to hurry his movements. Guard touched his hat, opened a door and popped our party into a roomy carriage with eight comfortable seats. “The only wholly vacant one on the train, sir, I can assure you,” said the guard, pocketing his crown piece, touching his hat and closing the door. “Ah!” whispered Alexander, rubbing his hands, “I told you so.” It was such a satisfaction for him to think he had been beforehand with the unlucky Austrian, who would therefore be compelled to distribute himself and his suite promiscuously through the carriages. He had no idea that another carriage would be attached to the train especially to accommodate Prince Ernest and his suite. Yet such was the case. The train started. It was the express, and it went on at a tremendous rate. Houses, streets, suburbs, fields, woods, towns flew behind it. How did our travelers pass the two or three hours of their journey? They were going down by the express, for the avowed purpose of engaging in a mortal combat. It might be supposed that their time would be spent in sorely troubled thought. Will it be believed that it was passed in—sleep? Yet so it was. Human nature must sleep. The condemned criminal sleeps the night before his execution; the victim on the rack has been known to sleep in the intervals between each turn of the screw; the agonized mother drops asleep in the interims of her travail. Alexander was going to kill or to be killed; Francis Tredegar was going down to help him meet either fate. Yet these by no means hardened sinners, really slept. Worn out by want of rest, and affected by the swift motion of the train, they slept soundly—waking up only once in a while, when the train would stop at some unusually noisy way station. Doubtless on these wakings both would realize with a pang of recollection the horror of the business upon which they were traveling. But if so neither gave a sign. If either spoke it would be to make some commonplace remark, as: “_Ah-yah!_ I do believe I have been asleep! This dancing until four o’clock in the morning does use a fellow up confoundedly,” from Francis Tredegar; or: “Quite a pretty little village this where we are stopping now,” from Alexander. But not one word of the grave matter that occupied both minds. And as soon as the train started they would cease talking, and soon after, fall asleep again, and sleep until the next stoppage at the next noisy station. Thus the hours passed swiftly. At length they were waked up by a very unusual bustle, and found themselves at a very unusually large station. “This is a considerable town. I wonder what it is,” said Francis Tredegar, yawning and looking out of the window.