"Poor wayfarers, may it please your highness," replied the tall
vagabond, bowing low. To her surprise he spoke in very good English; his
voice was clear, and there was a tinge of polite irony in the tones.
"But all people are alike in the mountains. The king and the thief, the
princess and the jade live in the common fold," and his hat swung so
low that it touched the ground.

"I am powerless. I only implore you to take what valuables you may find
and let us proceed unharmed--" she cried, rapidly, eager to have it
over.

"Pray, how can your highness proceed? You have no guide, no driver, no
escort," said the man, mockingly. Beverly looked at him appealingly,
utterly without words to reply. The tears were welling to her eyes and
her heart was throbbing like that of a captured bird. In after life she
was able to picture in her mind's eye all the details of that tableau in
the mountain pass--the hopeless coach, the steaming horses, the rakish
bandit, and his picturesque men, the towering crags, and a mite of a
girl facing the end of everything.

"Your highness is said to be brave, but even your wonderful courage can
avail nothing in this instance," said the leader, pleasantly. "Your
escort has fled as though pursued by something stronger than shadows;
your driver has deserted; your horses are half-dead; you are indeed, as
you have said, powerless. And you are, besides all these, in the
clutches of a band of merciless cutthroats."

"Oh," moaned Beverly, suddenly leaning against the fore wheel, her eyes
almost starting from her head. The leader laughed quietly--yes,