was a trap. The men were not troopers, but brigands gotten up in the
uniform of the guard. Once away from the main highway, they made
prisoners of her and the two grooms. Then followed a long ride through
roads new to her. At noon they came to a halt while the rascals changed
their clothing, appearing in their true garb, that of the mountaineer.
Half dead with dread, she heard them discussing their plans; they spoke
quite freely in the presence of the well-beaten grooms, who were led to
expect death before many hours. It was the design of the bandits to make
their way to the almost impregnable fastnesses in the hills of
Dawsbergen, the wild principality to the south. There they could hold
her against all hope of rescue, until an immense sum of money was paid
over in ransom by her dispairing friends.

When night came they were high in the mountains back of the Monastery,
many hours ahead of any pursuit. They became stupidly careless, and the
two grooms made a dash for freedom. One of them was killed, but the
other escaped. She was afterward to recall that no effort was made to
recapture him; they deliberately allowed him to escape, their cunning
purpose becoming only too apparent later on.

Instead of hurrying on to Dawsbergen, they dropped swiftly down into the
valley above the city. No secret was made of the ruse they had employed
to mislead the prospective pursuers. The rescue party, they swore
joyously, would naturally be led by John Tullis; he would go with all
haste to the Dawsbergen hills. The word of the trusty groom would be
taken as positive proof that the captive was in that country. She
shuddered as she listened to their exultant chuckles. It had been a most
cunningly conceived plan and it promised to result profitably for them
in the end.

Some time during the slow, torturing ride through the forest she
swooned. When she came to her senses she was in a dimly lighted room,
surrounded by men. The gag had been removed from her mouth. She would
have shrieked out in her terror, had not her gaze rested upon the figure
of a man who sat opposite, his elbows on the back of the chair which he
straddled, his chin on his arms. He was staring at her steadily, his
black eyes catching her gaze and holding it as a snake holds the bird it
has charmed.

She recognised the hard, hawk-like face. There could be no mistake. She
was looking into the face that made the portrait of the Iron Count so
abhorrent to her: the leathe