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Carter, riding at Trusia's right, saw the tears gathering for the devoted heroes they had deserted of such cruel necessity. They swept into the narrow lane and reached the crest of that little hill where sudden sorrow had made mock of sudden joy. Coming toward them, as if apprised of their neighborhood, they saw a squadron of Russian cavalry numerically overwhelming.
After the second five miles had been accomplished, they suddenly came upon a clear space under the unveiled splendor of the stars. At their feet, reflecting the glory of the heavens, bubbled a forest spring. Hans dropped at Trusia's feet, and catching her hand, mumbled some grief-hampered words. "He must go back now," she explained to Carter. "He says our way is plain from here on.
"The King?" he questioned, looking straight into Trusia's eyes now. "The King? Does not your blood your common heritage tell you that the King is dead? God rest His Majesty." She turned from one to the other in total bewilderment; finally, as though trusting none other, she came to Carter for enlightenment. He had comprehended in a glance. "What do they mean?" she begged plaintively.
They had neither time to hail him nor a chance to dismount, before the bearded face of the occupant appeared in the doorway, which he cautiously closed behind him. He held up a warning finger. Approaching Trusia's side, he uncovered his head and humbly lifting her skirt's edge kissed its hem.
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