"
"You had better not call me Miss Calhoun, Colonel Quinnox," said she,
looking back apprehensively. "I am a highness once in a while, don't you
know?"
"I implore your highness's pardon!" said he gaily.
The riders ahead had come to a standstill and were pointing off into the
pass to their right. They were eight or ten miles from the city gates
and more than half way up the winding road that ended at the monastery
gates. Beverly and Quinnox came up with them and found all eyes centered
on a small company of men encamped in the rocky defile a hundred yards
from the main road.
It needed but a glance to tell her who comprised the unusual
company. The very raggedness of their garments, the unforgetable
disregard for consequences, the impudent ease with which they faced
poverty and wealth alike, belonged to but one set of men--the vagabonds
of the Hawk and Raven. Beverly went a shade whiter; her interest in
everything else flagged, and she was lost in bewilderment. What freak of
fortune had sent these men out of the fastnesses into this dangerously
open place?
She recognized the ascetic Ravone, with his student's face and beggar's
garb. Old Franz was there, and so were others whose faces and
heterogeneous garments had become so familiar to her in another day. The
tall leader with the red feather, the rakish hat and the black patch
alone was missing; from the picture.
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