. She was brave at first;
but when she had gone half way--a way which was longer and far more
difficult than she had fancied--she was conscious of a certain
sinking of the heart. She even felt some qualms of sympathy with
the sentiments and intentions Miss Portman had expressed, and
heartily wished herself back by that good lady's side. But it was
against her principles to be conquered, especially when being
conquered meant turning coward, or something like it, and she
scrambled on obstinately, her cheeks burning, her heart thumping,
and her lips pressed together.

What a grim, remorseless giant the mountain was, and what a mere,
creeping fly upon its vast shoulder, she! Little cared the old
mountain that she was a Royal Princess, and that the Emperor who ruled
the land of which it was part, had the intention of marrying her. It
would thwart that imperial intention without a qualm, nor turn a
pebble if the poor little Princess toppled over its cruel shoulder and
fell in a small, crushed heap, without ever having looked upon the
face of the Rhaetian Emperor.

Then there came a later moment when, like Miss Portman, whom she had
so recently laughed to scorn, the Princess felt that she could neither
go on, nor go back. She was horribly homesick. She wanted her mother
and the garden at Hampton Court, and would hardly have thrown a glance
of interest at Leopold if he had appeared before her eyes. There were
tears in those eyes and she was hating the mountain, and all Rhaetia,
with her whole strength, when from the mysterious distance round the
corner of the plateau there came the sound of a man's voice,
cheerfully yodeling.

Never had a sound been so welcome, or seemed so sweet. It was to
Virginia as the voice of an angel. "Help!" she called. "Help!" first
in English, and then, on second thoughts, in Rhaetian.

The yodeling abruptly stopped, and a man appeared round a corner of
rock beyond the green plateau. The sun shone in his eyes, and he
shaded them with his hand to look up at her. Virginia stared,
hopefully, expectantly. A glance photographed a tall figure in a gray
coat passemoiled with green; a soft green cap of felt; short trousers;
bare knees; knitted stockings; nailed boots. Thank heaven, no tourist,
but evidently a mountain man, a guide or a chamois hunter, perhaps; at
all events, one capable of coming to her rescue. These things she saw
and thought, in a flash; and then, the brown hand that had shaded his
ey