mself, he would once
more press the downward path to the valley.

It was not to be presumed that Komel should not have found other
admirers among the youths of her native valley. She had touched the
hearts of many, though being no coquette, they soon learned to
forget her, seeing how much her heart was already another's. This,
we say, was generally the case, but there was one exception, in the
person of a young man but little older than Aphiz, whose name was
Krometz. He had loved Komel truly, had told her so, and had been
gently refused her own affection by her; but still he persevered,
until the love he had borne her had turned to something very unlike
love, and he resolved in his heart that if she loved not him,
neither should she marry Aphiz.

At one time when Aphiz was in the heat of battle, charging upon the
Russian infantry, suddenly he staggered, reeled and fell, a bullet
had passed into his chest near the heart. His comrades raised him up
and brought him off the battle-field, and after days of painful
suffering he recovered, and was once more as well as ever, little
dreaming that the bullet which had so nearly cost him his life came
from one of his own countrymen. Could the ball have been examined,
it would have fitted exactly Krometz's rifle!

Though the rifle shot had failed, Krometz's enmity had in no way
abated; he only watched for an opportunity more successfully to
effect the object that now seemed to be the motive of his life.
Before Komel he was all gentleness, and affected the highest sense
of honor, but at heart he was all bitterness and revenge.

Another chapter will show the treacherous and deep game that the
rejected lover played.

CHAPTER V.

THE SLAVE SHIP.

It was on a fair summer's evening that a beautiful English built
craft, after having beat up the Black Sea all day against the ever
prevailing a north-cast wind, now gathered in her light sails and
barely kept steerageway by still spreading her jib and mainsail.
With the setting sun the breeze had lulled also to rest, and there
was but a cap full now coming from off the mountains of the
Caucasus, just enough to keep the little clipper steady in hand.

It would be difficult to define the exact class to which the rig of
this craft would make her belong, there was so much that was English
in the hull and raking step of her masts, while the rigging, and the
way in which she was managed, smacked so strongly of the
Mediterranean