MISS ETHEL ROWRER TO MLLE. DE GROJEAN
“On board the Columbia.
“You’ll have to hang yourself, my valorous Yvonne, for we have had our battle without you! The truth is, we have narrowly escaped being spitted and roasted. That’s a promising beginning, isn’t it? Grand’mère will be delighted that you were not there; but you will regret it if you read my letter to the end. I say ‘if,’ for it’s a whole history. Excuse my writing feverishly, on the gallop; I am in a hurry to tell you. I promised you an adventure in Morgania—and here is one. Only I am not its heroine, alas! For it is a story of heroism, and that of the purest. As for me, I feel the need of crying aloud my admiration for that noble young girl. Are you curious? It is Helia; you understand—Helia! You remember her? She was one of those who ‘don’t count’!
“I come to the facts.
“We have left Semavat Eli—a Heavenly House, wherein we were eaten up by vermin, and served by good monks who amused themselves teaching thrushes to whistle. The next day, from early morning, as soon as they had let us down,—by the window, if you please, in great wicker baskets (for in this country monasteries have no doors),—Suzanne seated herself on my kodak, Helia and I on our valises, Will and Phil straddled their horses, and—forward, march! over pointed rocks to Thermopylæ! that is, to their Thermopylæ, which is the defile of the Moratscha. It was a kind of pilgrimage we were doing—five in all, not counting our escort of ballet-dancers, who were waiting for us at the monastery. By that, I mean soldiers with fustanelle skirts, armed to the teeth, very white teeth in black faces, quite like wolves!
“The evening before we’d climbed up all the way to see the sorceress—I ought to say the prophetess, and you must not laugh, I entreat you, for it would give me pain. I was never so affected in my life. From that place to Semavat Eli the country is flat, except for the horrible road. After that, we had to go down and down to the defile along the river Drina. We crossed impetuous torrents where there was not enough water for a water-color sketch, and forests dry as firewood, all bristling with thorns, so that we could not go near without leaving bits of our gowns. It was the abomination of desolation,—and down we came, down and down toward the plain; and through the plain we came back. For that matter there is nothing to see but ill-cultivated fields and dilapidated houses.
“It is a country where there are no locks. The duke told me so, to give me an idea of his people’s honesty. Suzanne, who is an amusing child, says that doors without locks are the invention of poor countries; and that there are no thieves where there is nothing to steal.
Helia facing the Assailants