SPARKLING sunshine and a clear blue sky reminding him poignantly of the glory of the Indian Summer of his own land, greeted Morton upon his arrival at the neat and attractive terminal of Kronstadt—his present goal and the town that was to be his Rubicon. Kronstadt once behind him, and he on his way south, his adventure would have begun. He thought of Khartoum, recalling an earlier experience when this furthest bulwark of civilization had been his last outfitting station before going into the unknown regions of Africa, and experienced a similar sensation now that he had felt then— Was it a good omen?
The questions and doubts which had beset him so frequently during the tedious and solitary railway journey across Italy, Austria and Hungary again assailed him. He tried to put them out of his mind. There would be no turning back for him. The prudent caution of the Mortons died hard, but the Randolphs won out in the end. Of course, he was a fool, but it was good to be a fool among so many wise ones of the earth—good to be this kind of a fool.
Deeply occupied as he was with these and other thoughts—thoughts of the instructions Count Rondell had given him—he was yet sufficiently diverted by the glorious day, the novel and stimulating sights, to enjoy the short ride from the station to the St. Aloysius Rectory. He admired the well-paved beautiful avenue leading from the railway station to the town nestling among the green and brown hills, which stood out clearly against the ultramarine background of bold mountains.
Equally attractive was the town itself with its quaint and quiet square, its clean gravel walks and the groups of religious statuary guarded by massive chains hanging from moss-covered stone pillars.
The red-faced cabby, who looked like a character in a musical comedy, stopped his vehicle before a narrow, red brick building somewhat retired from the square, flanked by the gray walls of a nondescript church. He pointed with his whip-handle to the small stone-faced door above which was a tarnished cross and grunted something that John could not for the life of him make out. Above the door, in a circular panel, he made out the words, “St. Aloysius.” This was the place, no doubt. Dismissing the cabby, he walked up to the door and gave a vigorous pull at the bell-handle. After waiting a few minutes, he heard steps along the corridor within and the grating in the door slowly opened revealing the wizened features of an old woman who peered inquiringly out at him. He spoke to her in German and inquired after Herr Reverend Moskar. The little woman, after a prolonged and careful examination of Morton, evidently found him satisfactory, for she opened the door and begged him to enter.
He was ushered into a darkened sitting room and had scarcely time to look around him, when a door communicating mysteriously with the interior of the house was opened and there entered a heavily built, stout man in cassock and mitred cap. The features were grave and imposing; but when Morton gave his name, he was pleased to notice the face relax and glad to grasp the fleshy palm extended to him in welcome.
“You are most welcome, Herr Morton, as any friend of the noble Count Arnim is. I have already seen your servant, Mr. McCormick, and received the letter you sent by him.” Had the gracious gentleman, however, brought any letters from his noble patron the Count, the priest humbly asked.
John handed him a letter from Rondell and showed the ring. Immediately the priest’s attitude took on an even more friendly and courteous manner.
“If you are not too tired after your lengthy journey, perhaps you will come upstairs where we can be more comfortable and private.”
Morton bowed. The priest led the way back to the foyer and whispered a few words to the old woman who was standing near the door with her withered hands complacently folded. She retired at once.