dormant devil in his host.
"A prisoner! The Germans!" He repeated quickly. "And you come here to Nemi. Who sent you hither?"
"Why, no one, Monsieur," said the American, easily, with a smile which concealed his growing curiosity. "I do not even know just when or where I crossed the border."
"Ah. It is strange-that you should come here. Italian, too-"
Ivanitch wagged his great head quickly. The girl Tanya broke in with a short laugh.
"Monsieur Rowlan' is not the first escaping soldier who has passed through the village. You remember, last week-"
"But he went away, Tanya Korasov-he did not stay-" broke in Ivanitch excitedly.
The American rose from his chair, mystified.
"As I shall do now, Monsieur, if you will permit me-"
He took a pace toward a door which seemed to lead toward the front of the house, but the girl stood before him and faced her compatriot, who had sank again in his chair, his head deep in his shoulders.
"For shame, Kirylo Ivanitch," she said in a spirited voice. "For shame! That you should be so inhospitable! The man is dead upon his feet and you send him out into the night-to be interned perhaps tomorrow!"
"An escaping prisoner! A slave!" He rose from his chair, brushing his hair back with a wild gesture. "You were a slave, were you not-a slave to the Germans? Answer me."
Had the man suddenly gone mad? Or was the brain of the Légionnaire suffering from a delusion of its own weariness? What was the meaning of this extraordinary conversation? What the significance of this sudden and strange hostility? And what difference could it make to this man Ivanitch whether he, Rowland, had been a slave or not?
The American shrugged and smiled again, more patiently.
"A slave?" he replied. "One might call it that. I worked like a dog upon a railroad. I was chained to the man next me, and would have been shot had I attempted resistance."
The result of this innocent explanation was still more surprising.
"There!" cried the Russian, wildly exhorting the girl. "Did I not tell you so? A slave-an escaping slave-here at Nemi. Let him go, I say, or I shall not answer for the consequences."
"Of course, Monsieur-" said Rowland.
But at a sign from the girl, the American paused at the door and stood, his weariness forgotten in the curious dialogue that followed, which seemed to plunge him deeper into the mystery of this strange couple and the house of the walled garden. The girl Tanya crossed the room swiftly and noiselessly and laid her hand upon the arm of Kirylo Ivanitch, who now paced to and fro before the fireplace, like some caged beast, his head lowered, seeming not to see but furtively watching the dusty boots of the astonished fugitive.
"It is not possible, Kirylo," she said softly. "He knows nothing. Would he not have broken IT at once? Who was to have prevented him? Not I. He is merely a boy and free from guile. Can you not see?"
"It is dangerous for him to remain," gasped the Russian.
"It is more dangerous for you to indulge these mad fancies. IT is safe yonder. Go and see for yourself. I, Tanya Korasov, will vouch for this weary fugitive. But you shall not turn a loyal ally of Russia out into the night. Tomorrow he shall go forth and you shall send him, refreshed and safely conducted to the border of France, when he will go and fight your battles and mine, with the common enemy of Humanity. Do you hear?"
He stared at her, sullenly.
"I shall conduct him nowhere. I wish him to go," he said.
But the girl stood her ground, continuing calmly:
"Tomorrow morning you shall give him a suit of civilian clothing and he will go upon his way, thanking you, Kirylo Ivanitch. That is all."
"A boy? Yes. No doubt… But Destiny is too strong. Italian! What if-"
He paused, running his bony fingers through his long hair.
"Impossible. It cannot be," she soothed him.
"I have much to do-tomorrow or next day they are coming-the conference is momentous. If anything should-"
"Sh-! He shall be gone."
The girl turned to the American as though to atone for the strange conduct of her compatriot, and smiled graciously.
"You will forgive the whim of Monsieur Ivanitch, I am sure. He works too hard, all day, and most of the night. You would understand, if you knew his problems, his suspicions, his labors."
"I'm still willing to go, Mademoiselle, if Monsieur still desires it-" said Rowland easily.
For a moment they had been lost in each other. A gasp from the direction of the fireplace, and as they turned, Kirylo Ivanitch fled past them silently and out into the darkness of the night. The look the American sent after him gave the girl a true vision of what was passing in his mind.
"You think that he is mad," she said soberly. "It is not so. An obsession-" she paused abruptly as though the words had been stifled upon her lips and shrugged lightly. "I can tell you nothing-but on this I am resolved. You shall not be sent forth tonight or taken tomorrow when France, my country's ally, needs you yonder."
He caught her hand and pressed it to his lips. And then, with a joyous smile:
"I shall fight the better for the memory of this hour. Whatever your mission here, Mademoiselle, God grant you success in it. And for the part of one soul which passes yours like a ship in the night, I pray that we may meet again."
"It shall be so, perhaps," she said easily, though she flushed at the warmth of his words.
"When a razor and a bath shall have made me once more a gentleman," he added with a laugh.
"Perhaps that may be tomorrow?" she returned gaily.
The roguish smile that had died still-born upon her lips, there, earlier, in the garden, came suddenly upon the sweetness of her lips and gave them new lines of loveliness, which made him glad that she had saved it for the light where he might see.
She noted the look of admiration in his dark eyes, and turned quickly away, taking up a candle from the table.
"Until tomorrow, then, Monsieur," she said decisively. "For now you shall go to bed."
"I am no longer tired."
But she was already moving toward the stairway to the upper floors.
"If you will follow me-" she said calmly, and led the way up the stairs, her soft black robe caressing her slender ankles.
A lamp set in a bracket burned dimly upon the second floor, and he followed her heavily down the high, echoing corridor. A large hall, scantily furnished, dim and mysterious with many doors to right and left, a house, it seemed, more like a hotel than a villa, and more like a monastery than either. The girl led the way and opened at last a door near the end of the corridor, entering the room and setting the candle upon a table. In the flickering light which cast its shadows upward along her face she seemed to have taken again the character of the Priestess, the Shade of the garden, with the cowl and robe of mystery. Her expression too seemed to have grown more serious, though the golden nimbus of light was again entwined about her ruddy hair.
"Good night, Monsieur Rowlan'," she said gently. "Tomorrow morning you will find a change of clothing upon the chair outside the door. Sleep safely. If you fear-" she paused.
"Fear?" he asked. "Of what?"
"I forgot that you are a soldier. But when I go out, nevertheless, you shall bolt this door upon the inside." And as he turned to her in inquiry, "No. You must ask no questions, but only obey."
His smile met with no response. And so he shrugged and bowed.
"It shall be as you desire, Mademoiselle."
And without a word, she was gone.
He listened for a moment to the light tap of her footfalls down the corridor until he heard them no more, when he closed the heavy door, bolted it and sank upon the small iron bed while he tried to ponder a solution of