re no' the man." It was a cry of wrath and despair.

"You're a very desperate little chap. For whom had I the honour to be
mistaken?"

Dickson had now wriggled into a sitting position and had clasped his
hands above his aching head.

"I thought you were a Russian, name of Paul," he groaned.

"Paul! Paul who?"

"Just Paul. A Bolshevik and an awful bad lot."

Dickson could not see the change which his words wrought in the other's
face. He found himself picked up in strong arms and carried to a
bog-pool where his battered face was carefully washed, his throbbing
brows laved, and a wet handkerchief bound over them. Then he was given
brandy in the socket of a flask, which eased his nausea. The cyclist
ran his bicycle to the roadside, and found a seat for Dickson behind
the turf-dyke of the old bucht.

"Now you are going to tell me everything," he said. "If the Paul who
is your enemy is the Paul I think him, then we are allies."

But Dickson did not need this assurance. His mind had suddenly
received a revelation. The Princess had expected an enemy, but also a
friend. Might not this be the long-awaited friend, for whose sake she
was rooted to Huntingtower with all its terrors?

"Are you sure your name's no' Alexis?" he asked.

"In my own country I was called Alexis Nicolaevitch, for I am a
Russian. But for some years I have made my home with your folk, and I
call myself Alexander Nicholson, which is the English form. Who told
you about Alexis?

"Give me your hand," said Dickson shamefacedly. "Man, she's been
looking for you for weeks. You're terribly behind the fair."

"She!" he cried. "For God's sake, tell me what you mean."

"Ay, she--the Princess. But what are we havering here for? I tell you
at this moment she's somewhere down about the old Tower, and there's
boatloads of blagyirds landing from the sea. Help me up, man, for I
must be off. The story will keep. Losh, it's very near the darkening.
If you're Alexis, you're just about in time for a battle."

But Dickson on his feet was but a frail creature. He was still
deplorably giddy, and his legs showed an unpleasing tendency to
crumple. "I'm fair done," he moaned. "You see, I've been tied up all
day to a tree and had two sore bashes on my head. Get you on that
bicycle and hurry on, and I'll hirple after you the best I can. I'll
direct you the road, and if you're lucky you'll find a Die-Hard about
the village. Away with you, man, and