fastnesses of Cape Corso, across which, from this eastern shore to the western, and to the camp at Olmeta, one only pass (so Marc’antonio informed me) was practicable.  I guessed we were nearing it when he began to mutter to himself in the intervals of scanning the crags high on our left; for this was to him, he confessed, an almost unknown country.  But the gap, when we came abreast of it, could scarcely be mistaken.  With a glance around, as though to take our bearings, he abruptly headed off for it, and, having climbed the first slope, reined up and sat for a moment, rigid in his saddle as a statue, listening.

The sun had sunk behind the range, and the herbage at our feet lay in a bronze shadow; but light still bathed the sea behind us, and over it a company of gulls kept flashing and wheeling and clamouring.  While I listened, following Marc’antonio’s example, it seemed to me that an echo from the summit directly above us took up the gull’s cry and repeated it, prolonging the note.  Marc’antonio lifted and waved a hand.

“That will be Stephanu,” he announced; and sure enough, before we had pushed a couple of furlongs up the slope, we caught sight of Stephanu descending a steep scree to meet us.

He and Marc’antonio nodded salutation brusquely, as though they had parted but a few hours ago.  Marc’antonio, though relieved to see him, wore a judicial frown.

“What of the Princess, O Stephanu?” he demanded.

“The Princess is well enough, for aught I know,” answered Stephanu, with a glance at me.

“You can speak before the cavalier.  He knows not everything until we tell him; but he is one of us, and that I will engage.”

Stephanu shrugged his shoulders.  “The Princess is well enough, for aught I know,” he repeated.

“But what fool’s talk is this?  The Prince packed you off, meaning mischief of some kind—­what mischief you, being on the spot, should have been able to guess.”

“It is God’s truth, then, that I could not,” Stephanu admitted sullenly; “and what is more, neither could you in my place have made a guess—­no, not with all your wisdom.”

“But you travelled back with all speed?  You have seen her?”

“I travelled back with all speed.”  Stephanu repeated the words as a child repeats a lesson, but whether ironically or not his face did not tell.  “Also I have seen her.  And that is the devil of it.”

“Will you explain?”

“She will have nothing to do with me; nor with you.  I told her that you would be upon the road and following close after me.  Naturally I said nothing of the cavalier here, for I knew nothing—­”

“Did she ask?” I inquired.

Stephanu appeared to search his memory.  “Now I come to think of it she did let fall a word. . . .  But I for my part supposed you to be dead; and, by the way, signore, you will accept my compliments on your recovery.”