and manner of the men. She was saying to herself that here were her
first real specimens of Graustark peasantry, and they were to mark an
ineffaceable spot in her memory. They were dark, strong-faced men of
medium height, with fierce, black eyes and long black hair. As no two
were dressed alike, it was impossible to recognize characteristic styles
of attire. Some were in the rude, baggy costumes of the peasant as she
had imagined him; others were dressed in the tight-fitting but
dilapidated uniforms of the soldiery, while several were in clothes
partly European and partly Oriental. There were hats and fezzes and
caps, some with feathers In the bands, others without. The man nearest
the coach wore the dirty gray uniform of as army officer, full of holes
and rents, while another strode along in a pair of baggy yellow trousers
and a dusty London dinner jacket. All in all, it was the motliest band
of vagabonds she had ever seen. There were at least ten or a dozen in
the party. While a few carried swords, all lugged the long rifles and
crooked daggers of the Tartars.

"Aunt Fanny," Beverly whispered, suddenly moving to the side of the
subdued servant, "where is my revolver?" It had come to her like a flash
that a subsequent emergency should not find her unprepared. Aunt Fanny's
jaw dropped, and her eyes were like white rings in a black screen.

"Good Lawd--wha--what fo' Miss Bev'ly--"

"Sh! Don't call me Miss Bev'ly. Now, just you pay 'tention to me and
I'll tell you something queer. Get my revolver right away, and don't let
those men see what you are doing." While Aunt Fanny's trembling fingers
went in search of the firearm, Beverly outlined the situation briefly
but explicitly. The old woman was not slow to understand. Her wits
sharpened by fear, she grasped Beverly's instructions with astonishing