John sat with the ladies, helpful and cheerful as always, telling tales of his life in the Soudan. It was his business to keep them in good spirits, and he acquitted himself admirably.
The sun sank lower, the shadows lengthened, the blue of the sky deepened; there was not a cloud on the horizon. Helène had begun to enter into the spirit of the adventure, and felt quite proud of being in the confidence of their leader.
Towards evening the packing began, and every article was gone over with great care and deliberation. John was everywhere, calm and quiet, seemingly seeing everything, the men accepting his absolute authority as a matter of course.
The fast sinking sun found them ready, their work finished. Papiu went forward up the lane, taking his place as sentinel. Donald took up his post as watch in the wood to the north, while Mihai retired to his quarters to sleep.
John approached the ladies, who had now retired to their cozy sleeping apartment, and begging permission came to the door.
“We are in good luck, ladies; we shall start shortly after midnight. Everything is in order. Get some sleep now, as there may not be an opportunity for another rest for many hours. I will call you at eleven for a little supper before we start.”
The girls thanked him for his advice, and, after a hearty “Good night,” John withdrew.
Left alone, the two girls made themselves comfortable and settled down to sleep and rest, lying together in close embrace. The Princess was soon fast asleep, but Helène could not sleep. Her thoughts kept her awake. Through her brain coursed the events that had happened, the dangers yet before them, and the strange circumstances in which she now found herself. Where would she meet her father? Where would they live? How would she find him? The Princess, she knew, would eventually go to the Court of Saxe-Weimar—but what would she, the daughter of an ex-Minister, do there? She did not long for life at Court—and what position could her father occupy in a foreign land—himself a stranger?
What did it mean? And what was Mr. Morton’s relation to her father and to this affair? These questions puzzled her again and again! She could not rest.
Stealthily she lowered her limbs to the floor, scarcely disturbing the covers, and crept from the bed. Slipping into her fur slippers—she tiptoed into the far corner to the tiny lamp that shed a bright light upon the diminutive table. She drew up a stool and took from her blouse the letter from her dear father Morton had delivered to her. She read it again slowly, studying each sentence. No, there was nothing there of his plans, and not a word about himself. He simply said he could not come in person.