“How—” she had wished to ask—“How did it happen?” but she could utter only the monosyllable.
“He was killed by one of Cromillian’s band, who mistook him for a spy.”
Something in the man’s voice caused her to gaze at him intently, searchingly.
“Jack!”—and with a glad cry Bertha sprang forward and threw her arms about the young man’s neck.
“Forgive me—that beard—I did not know you—and your voice—I am so glad that you are safe”—and she laid her head upon his shoulder.
“I am sorry for him. He may be better off,” said Jack. “Here are some valuable papers that he had on him wholly relating to yourself, and which you should guard carefully.”
“I hope this is the end, Jack,” she breathed, softly.
“I hope so—of our troubles,” he answered, “but others are in trouble. I must get help for a man whom I found in the road, shot through the lungs. I was not strong enough to carry him. Where is Count Mont d’Oro?”
“He, too, is dead,” said Bertha. “Perhaps Admiral Enright can help you—but what is that?” she cried.
They listened.