and they have been frequent and many--I
never saw such an enchanting picture or two more exquisite faces. One
peered forth with hesitant bravery; the other--she who held the
candle--with cold, tranquil inquiry.

All my fears, such as they were, left me instantly. Besides, I was not
without a certain amount of gallantry and humor. I stepped squarely
into the light and bowed.

"Ladies, I am indeed not a ghost, but I promise you that I shall be if
I am not offered something to eat at once!"

Tableau!

"What are you doing here?" asked she with the candle, her midnight eyes
drawing down her brows into a frown of displeasure.

I bowed. "To begin with, I find a gate unlocked, and being curious, I
open it; then I find a door unlatched, and I enter. Under these
unusual circumstances I am forced to ask the same question of you: what
are you doing here in this ruined castle? If it isn't ruined, it is
deserted, which amounts to the same thing." This _was_ impertinent,
especially on the part of a self-invited guest.

"That is my affair, sir. I have a right here, now and at all times."
Her voice was cold and authoritative. "There is an inn six miles
farther down the road; this is a private residence. Certainly you can
not remain here over night."

"Six miles?" I echoed dismally. "Madam, if I have seemed impertinent,
pardon me. I have been in the saddle six hours. I have ridden nearly
thirty miles since noon. I am dead with fatigue. At least give me
time to rest a bit before taking up the way again, I admit that the
manner of my entrance was informal; but how was I to know? There was
not even a knocker on the door by which to make known my presence to
you." The truth is, I did not want to go at once. No one likes to
stumble into an adventure--enchanting as this promised to be--and
immediately pop out of it. An idea came to me, serviceable rather than
brilliant. "I am an American. My German is poor. I speak no French.
I have lost my way, it would seem; I am hungry and tired. To ride six
miles farther now is a physical impossibility; and I am very fond of my
horse."

"He says he is hungry, Gretchen," said the English girl, dropping
easily into the French language as a vehicle of speech. (I was a
wretch, I know, but I simply could not help telling that lie; I didn't
want to go; and they _might_ be conspirators.) "Besides," went on the
girl, "he looks like a gentleman."

"We can not always tell a gentl