wreck, that cannot hope to be long a
cumberer of the ground?"

"And do you suppose," I retorted, with vehemence, "that I can calmly
allow my sister to be made a widow for life?--a widow, I say, for she is
already married to you in spirit, and nothing will ever induce her to
untie the knot. You don't know Bella--ah! you needn't smile,--you don't
indeed. She is the most perversely obstinate girl I ever met with.
Last night, when I mentioned to her that you had been speaking of
yourself as a mere wreck, she said in a low, easy-going, meek tone,
`Jeff, I mean to cling to that wreck as long as it will float, and
devote my life to repairing it.' Now, when Bella says anything in a
low, easy-going, and especially in a meek tone, it is utterly useless to
oppose her: she has made up her mind, drawn her sword and flung away the
scabbard, double-shotted all her guns, charged every torpedo in the
ship, and, finally, nailed her colours to the mast."

"Then," said Nicholas, with a laugh, "I suppose I must give in."

"Yes, my boy, you had better. If you don't, just think what will be the
consequences. First of all, you will die sooner than there is any
occasion for; then Bella will pine, mope, get into bad health, and
gradually fade away. That will break down my mother, whose susceptible
spirit could not withstand the shock. Of course, after that my own
health would give way, and the hopes of a dear little--well, that is to
say, ruination and widespread misery would be the result of your
unnatural and useless obstinacy."

"To save you all from that," said Nicholas, "_of course_ I must give
in."

And Nicholas did give in, and the result was not half so disastrous as
he had feared.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

SOME MORE OF WAR'S CONSEQUENCES.

Let us turn once more to the Balkan Mountains. Snow covers alike the
valley and the hill. It is the depth of that inhospitable season when
combative men were wont, in former days, to retire into winter quarters,
repose on their "laurels," and rest a while until the benign influences
of spring should enable them to recommence the "glorious" work of
slaying one another.

But modern warriors, like modern weapons, are more terrible now than
they used to be. They scout inglorious repose--at least the great
statesmen who send them out to battle scout it for them. While these
men of super-Spartan mould sit at home in comfortable conclave over mild
cigar and bubbling hookah, quibbling