contracted in Europe, he had not spent the money on his family seat. As Helene peeped through the bushes, a slight movement attracted her attention to two persons whom she had not at first noticed--an old man, sitting on a stone seat beside the tank, in the shade of a clump of overgrown myrtles, and a servant, like his master in European dress, lounging against the wall of the house a little behind him. The picture was so pathetic that Helene felt the tears rise to her eyes--the old man sitting there among the ruined glories of his house, his gaze fixed on the dull stagnant waters of the tank. But there was a rustling in the bushes behind her; and turning her head, she saw that a huge fellow in the gorgeous Dardanian dress, his sash bristling with knives and pistols, had tracked her through the wood, and was now within a few feet of her, his cruel eyes gleaming in his fierce face. With a shrill scream she threw herself wildly forward, hoping to find safety in the company of the musing old man, but her foot caught in a briar, and she felt her pursuer’s great hand upon her throat. Her scream had aroused the two occupants of the garden, however, and she saw the old man look round. “What is it that Danilo has found in the shrubbery--a child?” he asked the servant in French, and bewildered and shaken as Helene was, it seemed to her that the voice was familiar. The servant’s reply was inaudible, but she heard the old man say sharply, “Bring her to me, and I will reprove her. I will not have children mauled by these rough fellows.” Helene’s captor released her reluctantly as the servant approached, but it appeared to her that the new-comer helped her up with equal reluctance, and cursed her under his breath. He gave the Dardanian some direction in his own language as he led Helene to his master, but she had no time to think what the words might mean, for it was Cyril who sat on the stone bench--Cyril whose clear blue eyes met hers without a trace of recognition. For a moment she was staggered--it could not be Cyril--but even before he spoke again she had no doubt. Old and white-haired and broken, this was the man to whom her childish devotion had been given. “Do you know, young lady, that you are a trespasser?” he asked her in French. “Doubtless you found your way in by the little door in the wall?” Helene opened her lips to deny this, but he went on without giving her time to speak. “I know one of the servants was going into the town, and they are careless about the door. But you would hardly have gratified your curiosity by entering if you had known that my seclusion here is a matter of life and death.” Helene gazed at him, unable to speak, and he went on.