*****
With the first light of dawn came Take Larescu, an unsheathed sword in his hand. The gigantic leader of the hill men was mud-stained and dishevelled, but thoroughly well pleased with himself.
"Not an Austrian remains on the sacred soil of our Ironia," he declared, mopping his brow with a bright silk handkerchief, drawn from his belt, "except a hundred or so who will never go back. And more good news for you, my young friend. A party of my men have burned Kirkalisse to the ground. Everything comes to him who strikes while the iron is hot."
For a moment Fenton said nothing. Then: "Kirkalisse burnt. Miridoff dead. Austrian invasion of Ironian soil. Ironian rout of the Austrians. This is news. It must be got to Serajoz, and that at once."
"As to the raid of the Austrians," replied the brigand chief, "I have already arranged that part of it. Messengers have been sent east, west and south. All Ironia will know within the next twenty-four hours that our country has been invaded, and that means——"
"That war is certain," Fenton finished the sentence spiritedly.
Neither spoke for a second. Then the hill leader drew Fenton closer and whispered to him: "We captured several of Miridoff's men at Kirkalisse."
"Yes. What did you find out?"
"They told us all they knew. One of them was the young gipsy who had been sent with a token—the princess's ring, was it not?—which, as I was able to understand it, was to stop a proposed assassination of Prince Peter. But he had not been able to find his man, to warn him."
Fenton started. In a moment he visualised all that this item of news meant. Was, then, Miridoff's death of no avail?