one side of the small
ravine faced south, the sun's rays were beginning to have effect, and
a narrow track, seemingly leading to the hill, was almost laid bare.
In any event, it must bring her near the point where the men vanished,
so she went on breathlessly. Crossing the rivulet, already swollen
with melting snow, she mounted the steps cut in the hillside. It was
heavy going in that thin air; but she held to it determinedly.

Then she heard men's voices raised in anger. She recognized one. Bower
was speaking German, Stampa a mixture of German and Italian. Millicent
had a vague acquaintance with both languages; but it was of the
Ollendorf order, and did not avail her in understanding their rapid,
excited words. Soon there were other sounds, the animal cries, the
sobs, the labored grunts of men engaged in deadly struggle. Thoroughly
alarmed, more willing to retreat than advance, she still clambered on,
impelled by irresistible desire to find out what strange thing was
happening.

At last, partly concealed by a dwarf fir, she could peer over a wall
into the tiny cemetery. She was too late to witness the actual fight;
but she saw Stampa spring upright, leaving his prostrate opponent
apparently lifeless. She was utterly frightened. Fear rendered her
mute. To her startled eyes it seemed that Bower had been killed by the
crippled man. Soon that quite natural impression yielded to one of
sustained astonishment. Bower rose slowly, a sorry spectacle. To her
woman's mind, unfamiliar with scenes of violence, it was surprising
that he did not begin at once to beat the life out of the lame old
peasant who had attacked him so viciously. When Stampa closed the gate
and motioned Bower to kneel, when the tall, powerfully built man knelt
without protest, when the reading of the Latin service began,--well,
Millicent could never afterward find words to express her conflicting
emotions.

But she did not move. Crouching behind her protecting tree, guarding
her very breath lest some involuntary cry should betray her presence,
she watched the whole of the weird ceremonial. She racked her brains
to guess its meaning, strained her ears to catch a sentence that might
be identified hereafter; but she failed in both respects. Of course,
it was evident that someone was buried there, someone whose memory the
wild looking villager held dear, someone whose grave he had forced
Bower to visit, someone for whose sake he was ready to murder Bower if