The man drew a small case from his pocket and struck a wax match, holding it close.

She met his gaze, and he stood motionless until the tiny blaze traveled down the length of the shaft and burned his fingers.  His eyes never left her face.  In those eyes she felt a strange power of magnetism, for they did not burn as other eyes had burned.  They did not shift or waver.  When the match fell he spoke quietly.  “You are as beautiful as starlight on water and I am a true prophet.”

In the brief and limited illumination she had recognized him, too, and she bent impulsively toward him.  In his coming just now as though in answer to her thoughts there seemed something almost occult.

“Then you didn’t die?  You won your fight with your even chance?  Oh, I am so glad!”

“Thank you,” answered Jefferson Edwardes gravely.  “That’s worth refusing to die for.”

“It’s strange, Mr. Edwardes,” she spoke almost dreamily.  “Perhaps it’s because I’ve been listening to the voice of the hills, but I have been sitting here alone—­hiding—­and while I’ve been here I’ve been thinking of you—­wondering where you were.”

“For that, too, I thank ‘whatever gods there be,’” he assured her.  “It has been a long time since we met and I was afraid you had forgotten.  Of course, I’ve read of you and I knew that my prophecy was being fulfilled.  Twice I planned to leave St. Petersburg and pursue you to London or Paris, but each time business matters intervened with their relentless demands.”

“What made you think of me?” An eager sincerity sounded through the question.  She was weary of compliments, but Jefferson Edwardes had a manner of simple speech which gave worth to his utterances.

“Once upon a time,” he began with a low laugh, “there lived a singularly sickening little prig of a kid, pampered and spoiled to his selfish marrow.  Though I hate to roast a small boy, I am bound to say that this one was pretty nearly a total loss—­and he was I. He threatened to grow into a more odious man, but Providence intervened in his behalf—­with disguised kindness.  Providence threw him out by the scruff of his arrogant neck to fight for his life or to die—­which was what he needed.  He went to your mountains to scrap with microbes—­and he had leisure to discover what a microbe he was himself.”

The girl’s laugh was a peal of silvery music in the dark.  “Were you a microbe?” she demanded.  “All these years I’ve thought you a fairy prince.”  With a sudden gravity she added, “To one small girl, you opened a gate of dreams, and brought her contentment—­” she broke off and the final words were almost whispered—­“so long as they remained dreams.”

“And now—­” he took her up with grave and earnest interest—­“now that they have become realities, what of them?”

“That comes later,” she reminded him.  “We aren’t through yet with the little boy who won out with his fighting chance.”