Then, at the thought of her, he let his reins drop on the mane of his horse, and sinking into reverie--a reverie induced by the stillness around him--left the animal to proceed at its own pace, and even to pause, and crop the herbage by the wayside. Never again, too probably, would the threads of their life cross, even for a moment, for Mary seemed as far removed from him now as heaven from earth. Then it would seem difficult to realise the idea that his life could pass on, unto the end, without Mary in it; and vaguely there would spring up in his heart the wild tumultuous hope that if he strove, even in this new and barbarous land, she might yet be his. How often in the wretched Servian bivouac, through the long hours of weary night, had he lain under the stars communing in bitterness with his own soul, if we may say so; and out of the starlight Mary seemed to come to him vividly in fancy--Mary in her sweetness and loveliness, with all her gentle, soft, and winning little ways--her grace of movement, her tenderness of tone--the Mary that, too probably, he should never meet more. Yet they had been so happy in their secret love of each other--the love that in its flush needs nothing more than to be mutual, 'though marriage seemed distant as death;' and as distant as that the former seemed now, though the risk of death was nearer than he thought. Lost in reverie, he had proceeded thus a few miles, ere he became aware of the unpleasant fact that he had too probably lost his way, for the road tracks diverged and crossed each other so frequently, and he met no one of whom he could make inquiries, till at a turn of the path he came suddenly upon two Montenegrins, who were on foot, under a tree, against which their muskets rested, and who were in the act of taking some food, each with the bridle of his horse over one arm. Both were as repulsive-like men as one could meet, especially in a place so lonely, and the sudden appearance of Cecil seemed to afford them considerable interest. They were evidently two of the 'Black Mountaineers,' belonging to the body which served in the army of Servia, and they bore those arms which their race are never without, even in their most peaceful occupation: a musket, pistols, and yataghan--a short and sharply-curved flat sword, without a guard. They wore old and tattered garments of no particular colour, sandals of raw hide, were black-bearded, cunning, and forbidding in aspect--looking every inch like what the Montenegrins are in reality, savage barbarians, who in battle mutilate the fallen, and who never crave mercy, nor yield it, for when one is severely wounded, to save him from the enemy, his own comrades cut off his head. As the language of these pleasant people is a dialect of the Servian, Cecil had not very much difficulty in making them comprehend the dilemma in which he found himself. They exchanged curious smiles, and then pointed out the way which led, they averred, to Resna.