The fact was that he had eaten some time before his men, and I could not therefore get the poison completely out of his system.  But it was the arsenic that saved his life.  He had at last to come and lie down beside me.  We heard the sound of rapid firing in the distance; and suddenly two men entered our enclosure, with revolvers in each hand, and shot down our defenders with an extraordinary quickness of aim.  They were Harris and Lobster.

“Hermann, where are you?” Harris yelled at last, with all his strength, as he turned and found nothing more to shoot at.

“Here,” I replied.  “The men you’ve just killed have been fighting for me.  There has been civil war in the camp.”

“Well, we’ve stamped it out!” said Harris.  “What’s the matter with the old scoundrel lying beside you?”

“It’s Hadgi Stavros,” I said.  “He and his men have been eating some arsenic I had in my collecting case.”

My friends managed to carry me down the mountain, and at the first village we came to they got a carriage and took me to Athens.  The ointment used by Hadgi Stavros was, as he had said, marvelous; and in two days I could walk as well as ever.  I at once called on Mrs. and Miss Simons.

“They departed yesterday for Trieste,” said the servant, “on their way to London.”

As I was returning to Hermes Street I met Hadgi Stavros and Photini.

“How is it that the King of the Mountains is found walking in the streets of Athens?” I said.

“What can I do in the mountains now?” he replied.  “All my men are killed, wounded or fled.  I might get others.  But look at my swollen hands.  How can I use a sword?  No; let some one younger now take my place.  But I defy him to equal me in fame or fortune.  And I have not done yet.  Before six months are gone, you will see Hadgi Stavros, Prime Minister of Greece.  Oh, there are more ways of making money than one!”

And that was the last I saw of the King of the Mountains.  On the advice of Harris, I at once returned to Hamburg, lest some of the remaining brigands found me out, and take vengeance for the spell I had cast on their meat.  But some day I hope to go to London, and call at 31, Cavendish Square.

* * * * *

HARRISON AINSWORTH

Tower of London

William Harrison Ainsworth, born at Manchester, England, Feb. 4, 1805, was a popular rather than a great writer.  A solicitor’s son, he was himself trained in the law, but some adventures in journalism led him finally to the literary life, his first success as a writer of romance being scored with “Rookwood” in 1834.  “Tower of London” was the fourth work of the novelist, and, according to Ainsworth himself, it was written chiefly with the aim of interesting his fellow-countrymen in the historical associations of the Tower.  From the popularity of the