A ponderous coach lumbered slowly, almost painfully, along the narrow

road that skirted the base of a mountain. It was drawn by four horses,

and upon the seat sat two rough, unkempt Russians, one holding the

reins, the other lying back in a lazy doze. The month was June and all

the world seemed soft and sweet and joyous. To the right flowed a

turbulent mountain stream, boiling savagely with the alien waters of the

flood season. Ahead of the creaking coach rode four horsemen, all

heavily armed; another quartette followed some distance in the rear.

At the side of the coach an officer of the Russian mounted police was

riding easily, jangling his accoutrements with a vigor that disheartened

at least one occupant of the vehicle. The windows of the coach doors

were lowered, permitting the fresh mountain air to caress fondly the

face of the young woman who tried to find comfort in one of the broad

seats. Since early morn she had struggled with the hardships of that

seat, and the late afternoon found her very much out of patience. The

opposite seat was the resting place of a substantial colored woman and a

stupendous pile of bags and boxes. The boxes were continually toppling

over and the bags were forever getting under the feet of the once placid

servant, whose face, quite luckily, was much too black to reflect the

anger she was able, otherwise, through years of practice, to conceal.

"How much farther have we to go, lieutenant?" asked the girl on the

rear seat, plaintively, even humbly. The man was very deliberate with

his English. He had been recommended to her as the best linguist in the

service at Radovitch, and he had a reputation to sustain.

"It another hour is but yet," he managed to inform her, with a confident

smile.

"Oh, dear," she sighed, "a whole hour of this!"

"We soon be dar, Miss Bev'ly; jes' yo' mak' up yo' mine to res'

easy-like, an' we--" but the faithful old colored woman's advice was

lost in the wrathful exclamation that accompanied another dislodgment of

bags and boxes. The wheels of the coach had dropped suddenly into a deep

rut. Aunt Fanny's growls were scarcely more potent than poor Miss

Beverly's moans.

"It is getting worse and worse," exclaimed Aunt Fanny's mistress,

petulantly. "I'm black and blue from head to foot, aren't you, Aunt

Fanny?"

"Ah cain' say as to de blue, Miss Bev'ly. Hit's a mos' monstrous bad

road, sho 'nough. Stay up dar, will yo'!" she concluded, jamming a bag

into an upper corner.




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