"Ah, he was wonderful, Miss Calhoun. I fought him to keep him from surrendering. He beat me, and I was virtually his prisoner when we appeared before the tribunal."
"It's no wonder she loved him and—married him."
"He deserved the best that life could give, Miss Calhoun."
"You had better not call me Miss Calhoun, Colonel Quinnox," said she, looking back apprehensively. "I am a highness once in a while, don't you know?"
"I implore your highness's pardon!" said he gaily.
The riders ahead had come to a standstill and were pointing off into the pass to their right. They were eight or ten miles from the city gates and more than half way up the winding road that ended at the monastery gates. Beverly and Quinnox came up with them and found all eyes centered on a small company of men encamped in the rocky defile a hundred yards from the main road.
It needed but a glance to tell her who comprised the unusual company. The very raggedness of their garments, the unforgetable disregard for consequences, the impudent ease with which they faced poverty and wealth alike, belonged to but one set of men—the vagabonds of the Hawk and Raven. Beverly went a shade whiter; her interest in everything else flagged, and she was lost in bewilderment. What freak of fortune had sent these men out of the fastnesses into this dangerously open place?
She recognized the ascetic Ravone, with his student's face and beggar's garb. Old Franz was there, and so were others whose faces and heterogeneous garments had become so familiar to her in another day. The tall leader with the red feather, the rakish hat and the black patch alone was missing; from the picture.
"It's the strangest-looking crew I've ever seen," said Anguish. "They look like pirates."
"Or gypsies" suggested Yetive. "Who are they, Colonel Quinnox? What are they doing here?" Quinnox was surveying the vagabonds with a critical, suspicious eye.