on the Danube, but a vessel, called
the St. Barbara, approaches, drawn against the stream by thirty-two
horses. The fate of the vessel lies in the hands of two men--the pilot
and the captain.

The name of the captain is Michael Timar. He is a man of about thirty,
with fair hair and dreary blue eyes.

At the door of the ship's cabin sits a man of fifty, smoking a Turkish
chibouque. Euthemio Trikaliss is the name under which he is registered
in the way-book, and he is the owner of the cargo. The ship itself
belongs to a merchant of Komorn called Athanas Brazovics.

Out of one of the cabin windows looks the face of a young girl, Timea,
the daughter of Euthemio, and the face is as white as marble. Timea and
her father are the only passengers of the St. Barbara.

When the captain lays aside his speaking-trumpet he has time to chat
with Timea, who understands only modern Greek, which the captain speaks
fluently.

It is always a dangerous voyage, for the current is fierce and the rocks
are death-traps. To-day, too, the St. Barbara was pursued by a Turkish
gunboat. But the vessel makes its way safely, in spite of current and
rocks, and the Turkish gunboat gives up the chase.

Three days later the St. Barbara has reached the island of Orsova; the
plains of Hungary are to the north of the river, Servia to the south.

Provisions had run short, and Timar decided to go on shore. There were
no signs of human habitation at first, but Timar's sharp eyes had
discovered a faint smoke rising above the tops of the poplars. He worked
his way in a small skiff through the reeds, reached dry land, pushed
through hedges and bushes, and then stood transfixed with admiration.

A cultivated orchard of some five or six acres was before him, and
beyond that a flower-garden, full of summer bloom.

Timar went up through the orchard and flower garden to a cottage, built
partly in the rock, and covered with creepers. A huge, black
Newfoundland dog was lying before the door.

A woman's voice answered Timar's "good-morning," and the dog raised no
objection to the captain going indoors.

"It never hurts good people," said the woman.

Timar explained his mission. The wind had brought his vessel to a
standstill; he was short of provisions, and he had two passengers who
would be grateful for shelter on land for the night.

The woman promised him food and a room for his passengers in exchange
for grain, and at her word the dog brought him by a