The path, if such it could be called, was not wide enough for two people to walk abreast, and Cyril had some difficulty in making a way for the Queen; but they penetrated through the wood at last, and came out on a cleared space. In front of them was the waterfall, dashing down from a lofty ridge of rocks high up on the left hand, while on the right the water swirled in a deep dark pool at the foot of the cascade. Perched on the very side of the fall, and partially overhanging the water, was a weatherbeaten house, partly built of stone and partly of wood, through the dilapidated windows of which the remains of machinery were visible. Other rusty pieces of mechanism were strewn about the clearing, mingled with a number of logs, some freshly hewn, others mouldering into decay, while an abandoned cart-track, all grown over with grass, followed the slope of the ground on the right, and no doubt joined the road a little way below the pool. The only living occupant of this deserted clearing was an old man with a shaggy beard and long grey hair, who was sitting idly on one of the logs, with an adze in his hand. He did not appear to take any notice of the intruders; but as Cyril approached to speak to him, he turned and addressed him instead—
“You are come at last, then? I have been watching for you a long time.”
“Why? do you know who we are?” asked Cyril, taken by surprise.
“Know you? You are the Englishman, Count Mortimer, and those with you are the wife and child of your master, Otto Georg.”
“You certainly have the advantage of us, father.”
The old man shot a disdainful glance at him. “I saw you carrying the sword before Otto Georg when he entered Bellaviste in state after his marriage with the girl there, and again when that child yonder was baptised. And you expect me not to know you or her, because you are dressed up as peasants!”
“Well, that saves us the trouble of an introduction,” said Cyril easily. “Yes, Father Giorgei, the Queen and her son are at your door, and claim your protection against the enemies who are pursuing them.”
“My protection!” with a grin, which changed suddenly to a snarl of malevolence. “And they ask it through you, of all people, never guessing that they might as well employ Drakovics himself as their messenger! You ask for my protection—you, who murdered my two sons!”
“I think you must be labouring under some misapprehension,” said Cyril, much disturbed by the turn which the conversation was taking.
“There is no misapprehension,” returned the old man, more calmly. “You are the brother of the Englishman Carlino, whom my sons had sworn to drive out. I saw you first with your brother at Bellaviste—it was the day that the mad Scythian girl tried to kill him, and we thought all our plans were wrecked. My son Pavel pointed you out to me. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘it is Carlino that speaks, but Kyrillo puts the words into his mouth. It is of no use killing one—they must both go.’ Then the fighting began, and Pavel was killed when Drakovics and Otto Georg retook Bellaviste; but I rejoiced in all my sorrow for my son, because I thought that at any rate Carlino and Kyrillo were both dead also. But you were not dead, and you came back with Otto Georg; and my son Dmitri, who had escaped and hidden himself when the Tatarjé patriots were cut to pieces by the German, was discovered and tried and shot. Both my sons are dead, and you are living still, though their deaths lie at your door.”