Beverly laughed bravely but nervously with the tall
goat-hunter. He at once set about making his guest comfortable and
secure from the effects of the tempest, which was now at its height. Her
couch of cushions was dragged far back into the cavern and the rescued
blankets, though drenched, again became a screen.
"Do you imagine that I'm going in there while this storm rages?" Beverly
demanded, as the work progressed.
"Are you not afraid of lightning? Most young women are."
"That's the trouble. I am afraid of it. I'd much rather stay out here
where there is company. You don't mind, do you?"
"Paradise cannot be spurned by one who now feels its warmth for the
first time," said he, gallantly. "Your fear is my delight. Pray sit upon
our throne. It was once a humble carriage pail of leather, but now it is
exalted. Besides, it is much more comfortable than some of the gilded
chairs we hear about."
"You are given to irony, I fear," she said, observing a peculiar smile
on his lips.
"I crave pardon, your highness," he said, humbly "The heart of the
goat-hunter is more gentle than his wit. I shall not again forget that
you are a princess and I the veriest beggar."
"I didn't mean to hurt you!" she cried, in contrition, for she was a
very poor example of what a princess is supposed to be.
"There is no wound, your highness," he quickly said.
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