Beverly of Graustark | Page 9

this awful--" Then she caught
herself quickly. It came to her suddenly that she must not let these men
see that she was apprehensive. Her voice was a trifle shrill and her eyes
glistened with a strange new light as she went on, changing her tack
completely: "How romantic! I've often wanted to do something like
this."
The officer looked bewildered, and said nothing. Aunt Fanny was
speechless. Later on, when the lieutenant had gone ahead to confer with
the guides about the suspicious actions of a small troop of horsemen
they had seen, Beverly confided to the old negress that she was
frightened almost out of her boots, but that she'd die before the men
should see a sign of cowardice in a Calhoun. Aunt Fanny was not so
proud and imperious. It was with difficulty that her high-strung young
mistress suppressed the wails that long had been under restraint in Aunt
Fanny's huge and turbulent bosom.
"Good Lawd, Miss Bev'ly, dey'll chop us all to pieces an' take ouah
jewl'ry an' money an' clo'es and ev'ything else we done got about us.
Good Lawd, le's tu'n back, Miss Bev'ly. We ain' got no mo' show out
heah in dese mountings dan a--"
"Be still, Aunt Fanny!" commanded Beverly, with a fine show of
courage. "You must be brave. Don't you see we can't turn back? It's just
as dangerous and a heap sight more so. If we let on we're not one bit
afraid they'll respect us, don't you see, and men never harm women
whom they respect."
"Umph!" grunted Aunt Fanny, with exaggerated irony.

"Well, they never do!" maintained Beverly, who was not at all sure
about it. "And they look like real nice men--honest men, even though
they have such awful whiskers."
"Dey's de wust trash Ah eveh did see," exploded Aunt Fanny.
"Sh! Don't let them hear you," whispered Beverly.
In spite of her terror and perplexity, she was compelled to smile. It was
all so like the farce comedies one sees at the theatre.
As the officer rode up, his face was pale in the shadowy light of the
afternoon and he was plainly nervous.
"What is the latest news from the front?" she inquired cheerfully.
"The men refuse to ride on," he exclaimed, speaking rapidly, making it
still harder for her to understand. "Our advance guard has met a party
of hunters from Axphain. They insist that you--'the fine lady in the
coach'--are the Princess Yetive, returning from a secret visit to St.
Petersburg, where you went to plead for assistance from the Czar."
Beverly Calhoun gasped in astonishment. It was too incredible to
believe. It was actually ludicrous. She laughed heartily. "How perfectly
absurd."
"I am well aware that you are not the Princess Yetive," he continued
emphatically; "but what can I do; the men won't believe me. They
swear they have been tricked and are panic-stricken over the situation.
The hunters tell them that the Axphain authorities, fully aware of the
hurried flight of the Princess through these wilds, are preparing to
intercept her. A large detachment of soldiers are already across the
Graustark frontier. It is only a question of time before the 'red legs' will
be upon them. I have assured them that their beautiful charge is not the
Princess, but an American girl, and that there is no mystery about the
coach and escort. All in vain. The Axphain guides already feel that
their heads are on the block; while as for the Cossacks, not even my
dire threats of the awful anger of the White Czar, when he finds they

have disobeyed his commands, will move them."
"Speak to your men once more, sir, and promise them big purses of
gold when we reach Ganlook. I have no money or valuables with me;
but there I can obtain plenty," said Beverly, shrewdly thinking it better
that they should believe her to be without funds.
The cavalcade had halted during this colloquy. All the men were ahead
conversing sullenly and excitedly with much gesticulation. The driver,
a stolid creature, seemingly indifferent to all that was going on, alone
remained at his post. The situation, apparently dangerous, was certainly
most annoying. But if Beverly could have read the mind of that silent
figure on the box, she would have felt slightly relieved, for he was
infinitely more anxious to proceed than even she; but from far different
reasons. He was a Russian convict, who had escaped on the way to
Siberia. Disguised as a coachman he was seeking life and safety in
Graustark, or any out-of-the-way place. It mattered little to him where
the escort concluded to go. He was going ahead. He dared not go
back--he must go on.
At the end of half an hour, the officer returned; all