"Do I relieve Stefan?" asked Grigosie.
"No; Anton. Rest while you can. There will be little enough sleep for any of us."
"And little enough food, too," said Grigosie, when Anton had cast himself down in a corner.
"We are truly in a sad case, Princess."
"Grigosie, please; let me remain Grigosie. It will be easier for both of us."
She crossed over to the steps which led to the upper chamber and sat down.
"As you say, our position is hopeless," Grigosie went on. "In Sturatzberg there are some who would strike a blow for Maritza, but no one knows of Grigosie. It is a poor end to make, Captain. I have had my moments of despair, but whenever I have thought of failure, I have never pictured such a miserable failure as this. I was prepared to face death and disaster, but if death came, I meant that it should be glorious, that it should come in a fashion to set Europe ringing with the news. It was a magnificent setting I had arranged for myself—the going down of a sun in purple and red and gold."
"Even as it is we make a mountain legend of it," said Ellerey, with a short laugh; "and legend lives long, longer than fame, often. You have a fair chance of being remembered by the generations to come."
"I have brought you to this, so it is your privilege to laugh at me," she said.
"At least, we can be honest with each other now," said Ellerey. "At the best we can only keep these wolves at bay for a few hours. Though these old walls stand, we have little food, little ammunition. Death has no very great terrors for me. I seem to have lived my life for the express purpose of showing how a man can fail, and, having been unjustly robbed of my honor, you succeed in robbing me of my self-respect by making me lift my hand against you—a woman."