'When you warned me to beware of Mattei Guebhard,' said he, 'I could little imagine, or anticipate, all he can be capable of.' 'And I little thought, when we parted at Palenka, to see you again,' said she, with something pathetic in her voice; 'and less than all, under such circumstances as the present.' 'But you do not believe--you cannot believe----' 'About the commission? No--of course not: the idea of your being colonel of a regiment of such wretches as the Black Mountaineers is too absurd! Savages whose tastes for strong waters, the property of their neighbours, and the noses, ears, and even the skulls of their enemies, are proverbial,' she added with a shudder. 'Besides, I understand that you never even heard of Kara Georgevitch?' 'Never before. I knew not there was such a person in existence.' 'How singular! I have met him often at Vienna; danced with him at the palace on the west side of Innerstadt, and know that he--admired me very much,' she added, with a little smile. 'His commission had my name in it, my accusers assert.' 'I do not yet understand the mystery of that--though how it came into your possession is plain enough to me.' 'And to be accused of killing a couple of Montenegrins----' 'Who would have killed you if they could! The concealed paper was a _dernier ressort_, in case you escaped them. Oh, it is all so like the subtle and elaborate villany of Mattei!' 'And how absurd is the accusation that I meant to carry away the King's despatches for the service of Kara Georgevitch or the Turks, when I risked life to defend them!' 'Time will unravel all this--meantime, I shall watch over you, if I can,' said she, almost tenderly, holding out her hand to him ungloved, with a pretty yet imperious air, as if to show its whiteness and beauty, for she was a coquette to the tips of her fingers. He touched it very lightly, but instead of retaining it, as she doubtless expected, drew back--as if to avoid temptation, she seemed to think, for she said haughtily: 'You forget yourself, sir, or me!' 'Would that I could do so!' said Cecil. The gentleness of his tone, the sadness and bewilderment of his air, touched her; she took his hand deliberately in both hers, and kissing him on the forehead with warm and throbbing lips, said: 'My brother's preserver and my brother's friend! I repeat that I have come to serve you and save you, if I may--to see you and comfort you at least, in a land where you are so utterly friendless.' Her voice broke a little. 'By whose permission did you reach me?' asked Cecil hastily, and apparently oblivious of her emotion. 'That of Tchernaieff--he could not refuse me.' 'Who that looked upon your face could refuse you anything!' he exclaimed, more in a spirit of gallantry than anything else. 'I detest compliments; so seek not to flatter me.' 'Nay, flattery exists not in paying praise due to beauty or merit, but in praise misplaced.' After a pause, Cecil said with a smile: