ined. Here had once been entombed the ashes of Caius Longinis, a
centurion of the third legion. _Sit sibi terra levis!_ One of the
door-posts had in ancient times served as a milestone, and the broad
bench before the house was made from the lid of a sarcophagus, bearing
an inscription which informed the archaeologist what saffron-haired Roman
beauty had, centuries before, been laid to rest beneath it.

The riders drew rein before this house, and straightway an old woman of
extraordinary ugliness stuck her head out of the little door. Among the
Wallachians one meets with the comeliest young women and the ugliest old
hags. Knock at any door, and it is sure to be opened by one of these
ancient dames.

"He isn't at home," called out the old woman, without waiting to be
addressed. "He has gone to the 'Priest's Tree.' You'll find him there."

"Well, then, if you know where this 'Priest's Tree' is, go ahead and
show us the way," commanded he of the silver buttons, unwilling even to
halt long enough to water his horse, so pressing was his errand.

The way led through a vast forest, and when the riders reached their
destination it was late evening, the darkness being further increased by
gathering thunder-clouds. The so-called "Priest's Tree" is a giant beech
standing in a broad open space and fenced around with a hedge planted by
pious hands. Under this tree have been sworn the most solemn of oaths,
and the ground shaded by it is hallowed. Near by stands a wooden church,
exactly like the churches to be seen in all Wallachian villages, its
steep roof and sides covered with shingles, and a pointed turret
surmounting the whole. The belfry has no bell, and the windows are
unglazed, so that the breezes blow at will through the deserted
building.

Our riders found a dozen or more horses tethered at the foot of the tree
and watched by a few Wallachian lads, who were muffled in fur coats
against the approach of the storm. The beech furnished a good shelter:
lightning could not strike it, as it was the "Priest's Tree."

Leaving his horse in charge of his attendant, he of the silver buttons
hastened on to the church door, where an armed sentry demanded his name.

"Diurbanu," was the reply, whereupon he was admitted.

The interior of the church was very dark. Two wax tapers, indeed, burned
on the altar, but they flickered and flared so in the wind as to furnish
a very insufficient light. The thunder-clouds without, however, were no