"Your Highness, within the hour I shall hang the signal of victory within the window of the castle!" He carried her hand to his lips, even as he had done on the memorable night so far across the waters. But this time the fingers were burning, and the slim flower of a hand was not drawn away! "God be with you!" she answered softly, and crossed herself. The Kentuckian watched her silently, a thousand mad thoughts whirling behind the calm and resolute brow. She slowly ascended the stairs and returned to her room. He murmured tenderly under his breath: "Highness ... Highness ... now, I understand how titles fit!" A new noise came to his ears, and he listened without a tremor or movement of his body. It was the click of a revolver cock! The Kentuckian knew this sound too well to be deceived. Slowly he turned about, toward the large table on which stood the solitary oil lamp of the room. He began to unfold his overcoat, which had been hanging over his left arm. Then he started whistling the first rippling bars of that good old Southern battle-song "Dixie." Slowly he walked toward the lamp, apparently examining his overcoat. The man drew out from the shelter of the arch, and the revolver was pointed straight at his back. Suddenly the overcoat flew from the American's hands, covering and extinguishing the glass lamp, which fell with a crash in the darkness. There was a portentous pause--it seemed hours; its length was the bare fraction of a second. Two shots rang out, and scurrying feet were the only indication of life within the room. Another shot sent its tongue of blood-thirsty flame into the black void. There was a groan of anguish. Then footsteps advanced to the door. The cheery tune of "Dixie" was continued in the moonlight! XVI AS IN DAYS OF OLD "Rusty! You lazy coon! Get on that horse of yours and hike along to the castle. See--the moon is helping us!" "Yassir. I was jest finishin' another hunk of po'k-chops dat I forgot an' put in my pocket. Won't you have a bite?" "No. I want to eat up something worse than pork to-night," and Jarvis swung into the saddle with the lithe skill acquired from childhood days on the backs of Blue-Grass thoroughbreds. "What was dat gun-play, Marse Warren?" asked Rusty, after he had calculated that they had ridden a respectful distance for inquiries. Rusty had a certain inherited pride! Jarvis laughed, and the dull glow of his cigarette tip was discernible. "Oh, Rusty, why worry over history? Leave that sort of thing to these 'spigotties'--that's all they have to think about over here. It was just a question of being 'pinked' or 'pinking' a certain gentleman who was working beyond union hours." "Huh!" snorted Rusty. "I'll bet de razor I has in my jeans dat he was moh red dan pink when you-all got finished wid dat cannon o' yourn, Marse Warren. It runs in de fambly ter shoot straight!" "Well, Rusty, let's ride straight for a while. We must go up this road to the turn."