derision, reveling in the plight of the chamois. The guide's hand was at
once firm and gentle, his stride bold, yet easy. His rakish hat, with
its aggressive red feather, towered a full head above Beverly's Parisian
violets.

"Have you no home at all--no house in which to sleep?" Beverly managed
to ask.

"I live in a castle of air," said he, waving his hand gracefully. "I
sleep in the house of my fathers,"

"You poor fellow," cried Beverly, pityingly. He laughed and absently
patted the hilt of his sword.

She heard the men behind them turning the coach into the glen through
which they walked carefully. Her feet fell upon a soft, grassy sward and
the clatter of stones was now no longer heard. They were among the
shadowy trees, gaunt trunks of enormous size looming up in the light of
the lanterns. Unconsciously her thoughts went over to the Forest of
Arden and the woodland home of Rosalind, as she had imagined it to
be. Soon there came to her ears the swish of waters, as of some
turbulent river hurrying by. Instinctively she drew back and her eyes
were set with alarm upon the black wall of night ahead. Yetive had
spoken more than once of this wilderness. Many an unlucky traveler had
been lost forever in its fastnesses.

"It is the river, your highness. There is no danger. I will not lead you
into it," he said, a trifle roughly. "We are low in the valley and there
are marshes yonder when the river is in its natural bed. The floods have
covered the low grounds, and there is a torrent coming down from the