"Oh!" she stammered at last.  "That you _could_!"
She brushed the back of her hand across her lips and then her eyes
blazing at him, turned and walked rigidly on her way.  He watched her a
moment, his anger cooling quickly, then caught the bridle of Clarissa
who had taken advantage of this interlude to browse by the wayside.
Cupid had fled!

Markham drove the beast before him and strode after, his eyes on the
small figure which had almost reached the turn in the road.  She walked
with a quick stride, her head turning neither to the left nor right,
but he knew that her gaze, fixed upon the road before her, still blazed
with resentment.  He goaded the donkey into a more rapid pace, but try
as he might he could not come up with her, and so giving up the chase
he let Clarissa choose her own gait, lighted a pipe to compose his
spirit and followed leisurely in the steps of outraged dignity.

It was not until she came to a cross-roads that she stopped and waited
for him.  When he arrived with Clarissa, already chastened and even
prepared for humility, she surprised him by smiling as though nothing
had happened.

"Which way, Philidor?" she asked.

He had already seen the towers of Verneuil from the hilltops behind
them and indicated.

"I'm sorry, Hermia," he said softly.  "Will you forgive me?"

She shrugged.  "Oh, it's of no consequence.  I've been kissed before,"
she said.

His gaze was lowered, his jaw set.

"You provoked it--"

"Did I?  I know now how you consider me.  I did not believe you to be
that kind of a man."

"What kind of a man?"

"The man of promiscuous gallantries."

"I'm not--"

She shrugged and turned away.

"Your record is against you."

He found no reply and she laughed at him.

"When I wish to be kissed," she said brazenly, "I usually find a way of
letting men know it."

"You are speaking heresies," he said slowly.  "That is not true."

"It is the truth, John Markham.  But I did not choose your
companionship for that purpose."

"No, no, don't!" he pleaded contritely.  "I've never thought that of
you.  We've had a code of our own, Hermia--all our own.  Last night you
made me happy.  I dreamed of you, child, that you cared for me and I--"

She halted suddenly, her slight figure barring the way, her eyes
flashing furiously.

"We'll have no more of that nonsense," she cried.  "Do you hear?  When
I ask for love--uncomplaining--unselfish, I know where to seek it."
She reached up suddenly, snatched Pre GuŽgou's faded
blossom from his button-hole and throwing it in the road, ground it
under her heel.  "The Order of the Golden Rose is not for you,
Monsieur Philidor," she finished.  And before he was really awake to
the full extent of his disaster was again on her way.

They entered Verneuil in a procession, Hermia in the lead, the donkey
following, and Philidor, now thoroughly disillusioned, bringing up the
rear.  He was thinking deeply, his gaze on the graceful lines of her
intolerant back, aware that she had paid him in full for his temerity,
and wondering in an aimless way how soon she would be taking the train
for Paris.  He had done what he could to atone but some instinct warned
him against further contrition.

His judgment was excellent.  As they entered the street of the town she
stopped and waited for him to join her.

"You'll unpack my orchestra if you please," she said acidly.  "I'm
going through the town alone."

He laid his hand on the strap at which she was already fingering, his
manner coolly assertive.

"No," he said quietly.  "You'll not go alone.  You're in my charge.
Where you go, I go--unless of course"--and he pointed toward the
railroad which passed nearby, "I put you on the train for Paris."

She had not expected that.  She was powerless and knew it.  Wide-eyed
she sought his face, but he met her look squarely.

"I mean it," he said evenly.  "You shall do what I say."

Her gaze flared angrily and then fell.

"Oh!" she stammered.  "You would _dare_!"

"Your remedy--is yonder," he said firmly, pointing to the Gare.

Some loiterers, a few children and a stray dog had gathered about them.
The dog, a puppy, barked at Clarissa and was promptly kicked for its
precocity.  The crowd laughed.  This relaxed the tension of the
situation.

"Come," said Markham, his hand on the donkey's halter.  "This will
never do.  We will go on, please."

Hermia stood her ground a moment defiantly, her arms akimbo and then
dumbly followed.

Markham led the way toward the market-place, where the crowds were
gathered.  The glance he stole at Hermia revealed a set expression, a
cheek highly flushed and a lambent eye.

"If you would prefer not to perform to-day I will get you a room at an
inn," he said gently.

But she raised her chin and looked at him with the narrow eye of
contempt.

"You will get me nothing," she replied.

"Nothing but food," he replied.  "We are now going to eat."

If scorn could kill, Philidor must have died at once.  But she followed
him to the H™tel Dieu, and nibbled silently at what he had ordered.
His efforts to relieve the tension were unavailing so he gave it up and
at last led the way to the market-place where Clarissa was unpacked and
Yvonne donned her orchestra.

Business was good, though Philidor did the lion's share of it.  The
sound of Yvonne's drum speedily drew a crowd and Philidor got out his
sketching block and went to work on the nearest onlooker, a peasant
girl of eighteen, in Norman headgear.  She demurred at first, but she
was pretty and knew it, and Philidor's tongue was persuasive, his
nervous crayon eloquent.  He was at his best here, and when the sketch
was done he gave it to her with his compliments.  The girl's lover, a
gardener from an estate nearby, showed it jubilantly from group to
group, and Philidor's fame was again established.

It could not in any truth be said that Yvonne's orchestra was a
symphonic success, for she jangled her mandolin horribly out of tune,
and blew her mouth-organ atrociously.  But whatever her performance
lacked in artistry it made up in noise, her drum and cymbals awaking
such a din that existence was unbearable within ten feet of them.
Philidor went on with his portraits and was so absorbed that for at
least twenty minutes he neither saw nor heard what was going on about
him.  He had been aware of his companion's execrable performance a
while ago, and now realized with a suddenness which surprised him that
she played no more.  He rose and peered about over the shoulders of his
rustic admirers.  Somebody directed his glance.  There she was across
the square, her orchestra dangling, talking to a gentleman.  It was
true; and plainly to be seen that the gentleman was Pierre de Folligny.
Philidor watched them uncertainly.  A joke passed, they both laughed
and the Frenchman indicated his quivering machine hard by.  Then it was
that Philidor went forth across the square, his brow a thundercloud.
The girl cast a glance over her shoulder in his direction and then
followed the Frenchman to his machine.  Philidor's long stride made the
distance quickly, and before the pair were seated, he stood beside them.

"Where are you going, Yvonne?" he asked quietly.

"Who knows?" she laughed.  "To Paris, perhaps."

"Mademoiselle has consented to ride with me," said De Folligny coolly.
"I trust we do not interfere with your plans."

Philidor's eyes sought only hers.

"You insist?" he asked of her.

She laughed at him.

"_Naturellement_."

The car had begun to move.

"One moment, Monsieur--"

De Folligny only smiled, put on the power and in a moment was speeding
down the cobbled street, leaving Philidor staring after them, his head
full of wild thoughts of pursuit, the most conspicuous dolt in all
Verneuil.

But he did not care.  He thrust his bony fists deep in his pockets and
slowly made his way though the piles of vegetables back to Clarissa.
He bundled his materials into his knapsack and quickly disappeared from
the interested gaze of the bystanders, who had not scrupled to offer
him both questions and advice.

He was quite helpless with the alternatives of sitting at the H™tel
Dieu to await developments or of hiring a car at the garage nearby and
going on a wild-goose chase which, whether successful or unsuccessful,
must end unprofitably.  Hermia had paid him in strange coin.  Could she
afford it?  He knew something of Pierre de Folligny.  What did Hermia
know?  She was mad, of course.  He had thought her mad before when she
had volunteered with him for Vagabondia, but now--  What could he think
of her now?  There was a difference.

Even his pipe failed to advise him.  He knocked it out and wandered
forth, his footsteps taking him down the street through which the pair
had fled.  He followed it to its end, emerging presently on a country
road which took the line of the railroad to the South.  He did not know
where he was going, and did not much care so long as he was doing
something.  His stride lengthened, his jaw was set, his gaze riveted on
the spot where his road entered the forest.  It would have fared ill
with De Folligny if they had met at that moment.  Persons who met him
on the road turned to look at him and passed on.  Lunatics were scarce
along the Avre.

After a while his fury passed and he brought what reason he still
possessed to bear upon his topic.  It was Hermia, not De Folligny who
was to blame--Hermia, the mad, the irrepressible, whom he had roused
from her idyl in their happy valley and driven forth, _tte
baissŽe_, upon this fool's errand--Hermia the tender, the
tempestuous, the gentle, the precipitate, because of whose wild pranks
he, John Markham, Dean of the College of Celibates, now stalked the
highroads of France, the victim of his own philosophy.

Fool that he was!  Thrice a fool for having stumbled to his fate,
open-eyed.  Last night she had laughed at him.  To-day she mocked him
still--with De Folligny.

His responsibilities oppressed him.  He must find her and bring this
mad pilgrimage to an end.  To-morrow--to-night, perhaps he would put
her on a train which would take her back to the people of her own kind.
For he would go upon his way--his own way, which he was not sure could
no longer be hers.

Emerging from the forest the road took a sharp turn away from the
railroad tracks down hill and across a level plain.  From the slight
eminence upon which he stood, his road lay straight as a string before
him, its length visible for almost a mile.  Near its end he saw a dark
object at the side of the road.  A wagon?  Or was it a motor?  This was
the way De Folligny had come, for there had been no turnings.  He
hurried on, his gaze on the distant object which grew nearer at every
step.  He was sure of one thing now, that the object had not moved--of
two things--that it was not a motor.  And yet there was something
familiar about it.  A wagon it was--a wagon with a roof, its end
showing a window which caught the reflection of the sky--a house wagon,
and near it, phantom-like against the dim foliage, a shaggy gray horse;
to the right, the white smoke of a newly made fire rising among the
trees.  It was the _roulotte_ of the Fabiani family and there in the
woods was his friend of a night, Cleofonte, the incomparable.

He had almost made out the bulk of figures near the fire when from the
hedge beside the road there came sounds of tinkling bells and a small
wraith in red and blue rose like a Phoenix from the dust and confronted
him with outstretched hands.

"You are late, Philidor.  I've been waiting at least half an hour."

"You've been--_what?_"

"Waiting for you," coolly.  "What kept you so long?"

He looked at her as though sure that one of them must have lost his
sense.

"Where is De Folligny?" he growled.

"How should _I_ know?"

He took her by the elbows and looked into her eyes.

"He has gone?"

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"N-nothing."

She met his eyes with a clear gaze--a whimsical smile twisting her lips.

"You know, Philidor," she said quietly, "I don't like to be kissed
unless--unless--"

She stopped and slowly disengaged her elbows from his grasp, "Unless I
_want_ to be kissed."

He searched her face anxiously.

"He--he kissed you?" he snapped savagely.

"Almost--"

"Did he?"

"No."  She smiled up at him.  "You see," amusedly, "every time he put
his arm around me the drum and cymbals played.  It quite disconcerted
him."  But Philidor found no amusement in her recital.

"How do you happen to be here?"

His tone was still querulous.  She looked at him calmly and after a
pause she answered evenly.

We were driving slowly.  I saw the _routlotte_ and recognized it at
once.  So I switched off the magneto of his machine--I don't know what
he thought--but he looked at me as though he believed I had gone
suddenly mad, and, while he still wondered, I jumped."

"And then?"

Hermia laughed softly.  "He swore at me.  'You little devil,' he cried,
'how did you happen to do that?'
"'My elbow slipped,' said I, from the roadside.
"'Your elbow!  _Ma foi_, you have educated elbows!'
"'That's true, I should not play the cymbals else.'
"'Cymbals!  Who taught you to run a machine?'
"'The _bon Dieu!_' said I, and fled to the Signora."

She laughed gaily.  "Oh, he didn't follow.  I think he understood that
there had been a mistake.   He watched me a moment and then got out,
cranked his car thoughtfully, and went on in a cloud of dust--  And
that--that's' all," she finished.

Markham looked down the road, his narrowed eyes slowly relaxing and a
smile growing under his small mustache.

"O Hermia,--what a frolic you've had!  I feared--"  He paused.

"What?"

"Anything--everything.  You had no right--"

She raised a warning finger.

"We'll speak of it no more, Philidor," she said quietly.

His anger flared and died; for her eyes were soft with friendship,
gentleness and compassion, and her bent head begged forgiveness.  She
had been unreasonable and would make him unhappy no more.  All those
things he read.  It was quite wonderful.

She led him through the bushes to the fire where the Signora and Stella
made him welcome with their kindest smiles and the _bambino_ cried
lustily.  Cleofonte and Luigi presently emerged from the forest where
they had gone in search of wood and deposited their loads by the
fireside.  They all made merry as befitted good comrades of the road,
once more reunited, and when Philidor suggested going back to Verneuil
for the night the jovial strong man would not have it, nor would
Yvonne.  So Luigi was dispatched on the gray horse to the town for
Clarissa and the pack, but not until Philidor had privily given him
some instructions and a piece of money which opened his sleepy eyes a
trifle wider and increased the dimension of his smile.

When he returned later with both animals laden with packages deep was
the joy and great the astonishment of the caravaners.  With an air of
mystery Luigi proudly laid his packages out in a row beside the fire
and Yvonne opened them one by one, disclosing a chicken, a ham, three
loaves of bread, butter, two cheeses, some marmalade, a quart of milk,
a pound of coffee, a pound of tea, a tin of crackers and two bottles of
wine.

"_Jesu mio!_" said Cleofonte, his eyes starting from his head.  "It is
beyond belief."

"To-night you dine with me--with us," laughed Philidor with a glance at
Yvonne.  They all took a hand in preparing the meal, which was to be
magnificent.  Luigi built another fire for the chicken which was to be
roasted on a spit, and the coffee pot was soon simmering.

Yvonne made toast, Philidor cut the ham, the Signora made vegetable
soup, and Stella hurried back and forth from the wagon, bringing the
slender supply of dishes and utensils.

When all was ready they sat and ate as though they had never eaten
before and were never to eat again.  The wine was passed and drunk by
turns from two broken tumblers and two tin cups, the only vessels
available for both the wine and coffee, and healths were merrily
pledged.  Cleofonte swore an undying friendship for Philidor.  Were
they not both great artists--of different _mŽtiers_, but each great in
his own profession?  The world should know it.  He, Cleofonte, would
proclaim it.  And the Signora Fabiani--she and the Signora were already
sisters.  They must all travel together.  There was enough food for an
army to eat.  It would last a week at the very least.

Philidor was content.  And when the others had cleared away what
remained of their feast and brought out the blankets, Yvonne sat for a
long while by the fire with Philidor, who smoked and talked of many
things.  But the train to Paris no longer interested him.


CHAPTER XIX

MOUNTEBANKS

They reached Alenon at the end of the third day.  Soon after
leaving Verneuil their road mounted a rocky country of robust wooded
hills, cleft by gorges and defiles, the uplands of the Perche and
Normandie, from the crests of which the pilgrims had a generous view
of the whole of the Orne.  On the first day the company had dined at
St. Maurice and supped and slept near Tourouvre, in the heart of a
primeval forest of oaks and pines.  Philidor and Yvonne had followed
close upon the steps of Tomasso the bear, keeping, so to speak, under
the shadow of Cleofonte's protecting wing.  There was a difference in
their relations, indefinable yet quite obvious to them both, a reserve
on Philidor's part, marked by consideration and deference; on Yvonne's
a gentleness and amiability which showed him how companionable she
could be.  Indeed, her docility was nothing short of alarming, and
Philidor was ever on his guard against a new outbreak which, he was
sure, was to be expected at any moment.  But she cajoled him no more.
Perhaps she understood him better now.  Who knows?  He spoke no more
of love, nor were the roses of Pre GuŽgou again
mentioned.

At Mortagne, which they had reached upon the second day, Philidor and
Yvonne had a first view of a public performance of the Fabiani family,
for, the conditions being agreeable, Cleofonte had pitched their camp
within the limits of the town, and a crowd, augmented by Yvonne and her
orchestra, had made their visit profitable.  Yvonne had slept that
night at a small _auberge_, her bed and board paid for with money she
had made, and Philidor, who complained of a lack of sitters, slept
quite comfortably near Clarissa in a stable.

In the morning Yvonne had made some purchases in the town--and later
they had caught up with their friends near La Mesle, along the Sarthe,
down which their road descended by easy stages to their destination.

Alenon was in holiday garb and the tricolor flaunted bravely from
many poles, though the beginning of the fte was not until to-morrow.
The streets were gay with people, the market-place showed a number of
booths, tents and canvas enclosures within which performances were
already in progress.  The Fabiani family was late in arriving, but a
spot was found, between the sword-swallower and the Circassian lady,
which suited Cleofonte's purpose.  So the _routlotte_ was backed into
place and Cleofonte, his coat off, his brows beading, directed the
erection of the canvas barrier within which the performances were to be
given.  For let it be understood the Fabianis were no common
mountebanks for whom one passed a hat.  There was to be a gate through
which one only passed upon the payment of ten sous, and within were to
be benches upon which one could sit in luxury while he beheld these
marvels of the age.  Philidor and Yvonne helped, too, getting out the
canvas which had been rolled and fastened beneath the wagon, and the
uprights which supported it.  Not satisfied with the sign which was to
be fastened over the entrance, Philidor sought out a paint shop and
before dark painted two great posters three mtres in height;--one of
them depicting Cleofonte with bulging muscles (real pink muscles that
one felt like pinching) in the act of breaking into bits with his bare
hands a great iron chain; the other showing the child Stella being
tossed in the air from Cleofonte to Luigi, her heels and head almost
touching.  By sunset the paintings were finished and fastened in place,
and when Cleofonte lit the torches upon either side of the entrance
gate, the folk who were passing stopped in wonder to gaze.  There were
to be no performances to-night, Cleofonte explained, the company was
weary; but to-morrow--!  He pause and the magnificence with which his
huge fist tapped his deep chest were eloquence itself.

Their work done for the night, Philidor set off post haste in search of
quarters for Yvonne; but the inns were full and it was too late to
search elsewhere.  So he bought a truss of straw and one of hay (for
Clarissa and the shaggy phantom) and brought them to the _roulotte_
upon his back.  The night was mild, and so he made Yvonne's bed and his
own within the enclosure, and amid a babel of sounds, above which the
barrel organ of the carousel near by wheezed tremulously, they dropped
upon the blankets, dead tired, and fell asleep at once.

The sun was not long in the heavens before the barrel organ, silenced
at midnight, renewed its plaint and the business of the day began.
After an early breakfast Cleofonte and Luigi retired to the dressing
tent, emerging after a while in gorgeous costumes of pink fleshings and
spangles, their hair well greased with pomatum, their mustachios
elaborately curled.  The Signora and Stella soon followed, their hair
wreathed in tight braids around their heads.  The _bambino_, neglected,
was howling lustily, so Yvonne took him in her lap upon the straw and
soothed him to slumber while the carpet was laid and the impediments of
the athletes brought out and placed near by for the day's work.

More than anything else in the world, Yvonne longed for a bath, but she
suppressed this desire as unworthy of a true vagabond and washed in a
bucket of water which Philidor had brought from the pump, sharing at
the last in the suppressed excitement which pervaded the arena.  There
was no doubt in the minds of any that the Troupe Fabiani was to be the
great success of the occasion.  The duties and destinies of all its
members had already been explained and decided.  A girl was hired to
care for the _bambino_.  Yvonne was to beat her drum and play her
orchestra on the platform outside, and this would attract the people,
already anxious to behold the wonders within, a foretaste of which
would be given, when the crowd gathered, by Cleofonte, who would life a
few heavy weights and introduce the Signora, the Child Wonder, and
Tomasso, the bear.  Philidor was to keep the gate and between the
performances was to make portraits of those who desired them.   Their
organization was perfection.  Cleofonte was at his best when in the
executive capacity.

At nine o'clock Hermia mounted the platform (a piano box turned on its
side) and began to thump the drum and cymbals.  Her position was
conspicuous and she began a little uncertainly, for it was one thing to
choose one's audience among the simple folk of the countryside, another
to face the kind of crowd which now gathered to gaze up at
her--peasants, horse-fanciers, shop people, clerks on a holiday, with
here and there a person of less humble station, but she bent to her
work with a will, encouraged by the example of the Circassian lady next
to her who was selling in brown bottles an elixir which was a cure for
all things except love and the goiter.  The sword-swallower next them
was already busy, and the _Homme Sauvage_, a hirsute person, whose
unprofessional mien was both kind and peaceable (as Yvonne had
discovered unofficially last night), was roaring horribly, at two sous
the head, in his enclosure near by.

The wooden horses of the _mange_, upon which some children and a few
soldiers from the garrison were riding, were already whirling on their
mad career.

While Yvonne played, Cleofonte and Philidor "barked."  That is, they
proclaimed in loud tones the prodigies that were to be disclosed and
that the performance was about to begin; to the end that, in a little
while, coppers and centime pieces jingled merrily in Philidor's coat
pocket, the benches were filled and a crowd two deep stood behind.
This augured well.  Cleofonte beamed as he counted noses, and the
performance began.

Yvonne played a lively air while Tomasso was put through his paces,
walking with a stick and turning somersaults, and at the end Cleofonte
put on a heavy coat to keep himself from being torn by the savage claws
of the beast and wrestled for some minutes with Tomasso, making the act
more realistic by straining from side to side and puffing violently
while Tomasso clung on, his muzzle sniffing the air, to be finally
dragged down upon his master and proclaimed the victor.  The applause
from this part of the program was allowed to die and a dignified pause
ensued, after which the signora appeared in her famous juggling act,
unmindful of the cries of the _bambino_ from the _roulotte_ in active
rebellion against the substitute.  During Stella's performance, which
followed, the orchestra played jerkily and then stopped, for Yvonne had
never yet succeeded in looking on at the child's contortions without a
pang of the heart.   But the act went smoothly enough, and the
entertainment, which lasted nearly an hour, concluded with Cleofonte's
exhibition of prowess and the stone-breaking episode of which he was so
justly proud.

The receipts were four hundred sous--twenty francs--and there were to
be six performances a day!  Well might Cleofonte wring Philidor by the
hand and pay him over the five francs which he and Hermia had earned!
There were no portraits to do, so Philidor sat at the entrance with
Yvonne until the time for the next performance.  It was tiresome work
and the breathing space was welcome enough.  To Philidor his companion
seemed already weary.  But when he suggested that perhaps they had
better take to the road again she shook her head.

"No, no.  I've reached the soul of things--felt the pulse-beats of
humanity.  I delight with Cleofonte, suffer with Stella.  I'm learning
to live, that's all."

"I thought you looked a little tired," he said gently.

"I am tired--but not mind-tired, heart-tired, spirit-tired as I once
was.  My elbows ache and there's a raw place on my shoulder, but it's
an honorable scar and I'll wear it.  And I sleep, O Philidor, I never
knew the luxury of sleep such as mine."

"I don't want you to be ill."

"I can do my share," she finished steadily, "if Stella can."

Toward three o'clock of the afternoon Yvonne mounted her piano box.
The Fabiani family had been so well received that once it had been
necessary for Philidor to draw the flap at the gate because there was
no room in the enclosure for more people.  As the time for the
beginning of the fourth performance drew near, a crowd had again
gathered, listening to the _Femme Orchestre_ and moving in groups of
two and three toward the entrance where Philidor in the intervals
between announcements pocketed their coins and watched Yvonne.  This
last occupation was one in which of late he had taken great delight.
Her costume, as Monsieur de Folligny had also discovered, became her
admirably, the sun and wind had tanned her face and arms to a rich
warmth, and this color made the blue of her eyes the more tender.  The
lines he had discovered in her face were absent now, for it was the
business of a _Femme Orchestre_ to smile.

Cleofonte had come out and was looking over the crowd with an
appraising eye, adding his own voice to the din as Philidor paused for
breath, when in the midst of a lively air the music stopped--stopped so
suddenly that Philidor turned to see what the matter was.  Yvonne gave
one startled glance over the crowd, then jumped down behind the box
and, unslinging her orchestra as she dropped, literally dove under the
canvas flap and disappeared.  Philidor, who was in the act of making
change, called Cleofonte to take his place and went inside, to find
that Yvonne had fled behind the wagon.

"What is it?" he asked, alarmed.  "Are you ill?"

"No, no," breathlessly.  "Olga!  I saw her.  She's out there."

It was Philidor's turn to be perturbed.  "Olga Tcherny!  You must be
mistaken."

"I'm not.  I wish I was.  I saw her plainly--and the Renauds, Madeleine
de Cahors and Chandler Cushing.  O Philidor, they mustn't see me here!"
She seized his arm and looked up into his eyes appealingly.

His brows drew downward and he glanced toward the entrance.

"They wouldn't come in here."

"They might--"

He glanced irresolutely about him and then opened the door of the
_roulotte_ and helped her up the steps.

"Stay there-and lock the door."

He paused a moment, his hand on the doorknob, looking over the head of
the audience toward the entrance flap, where Cleofonte, oblivious of
the tragedy which threatened the newer members of his family, still
shouted hoarsely.  Philidor stopped in the dressing tent and spoke a
few words to the Signora, made his way across the arena, peering over
Cleofonte's shoulder, and then, his course of action chosen, slipped
quickly into his accustomed place outside.

"_Dix sous, Messieurs et Dames!" he shouted.  "The greatest act of this
or any age--the _Famille Fabiani_, the world renowned acrobats,
jugglers and strong man!  Six great acts of skill and strength, any one
of which is worth the price of admission!  _Entrez, Mesdames_, and see
the fight between Signor Cleofonte, the strongest man in the world, and
the savage bear captured from the forests of Siberia!  A contest which
thrills the blood--for in spite of the great strength of the
Signor--which has been compared to that of Samson, who once fought and
conquered, single handed, a lion (smiles of approval from Cleofonte at
the eloquence of this comparison), in spite of the great strength of
the Signor--I say--the danger of his destruction is ever present, as
any one who has seen the contest can testify.  Come one, come all,
_Messieurs_, only once in a lifetime does one have a chance to see the
Signorina Stella Fabiani, the child wonder, Queen of the Mat and Queen
of the Air, in her extraordinary acts of flight and contortion--"

During this harangue Philidor had felt rather than seen the figure
which had slowly wedged through the crowd at one side and now stood
beside him.  He knew that it was Olga Tcherny, but he had not dared to
look at her, though he was quite sure that her head was perched on one
side in the birdlike pose she found effective, and that her eyes,
mocking and mischievous, were searching him intently.  But he went on
extravagantly, searching his wits for Barnum-like adjectives.

"_Entrez, Messieurs_, and see the beautiful female Juggler of Naples,
who tosses ten sharp knives and burning brands into the air at one and
the same time, not lets one of them touch the ground--who tosses a
cannon ball, an apple and a piece of paper--who spins two dishes on the
end of a stick, with one hand, while she rolls a hoop with the other--a
lady who has acted before all of the crowned heads of Europe.  There
will never again be such great artists, a performance unsurpassed and
even unequaled in the history of the Oire."

Philidor's adjectives had given out--as had his breath--and so he
paused.  As he did so he heard Olga's voice beside him in a single but
curiously expressive syllable.

"Well?" it asked.

His eyes met hers without other token of recognition than a slight
twinkle of amusement.

"Mademoiselle wishes to enter?  Ten sous, if you please."  And then
with a loud voice directed over her head, "_Entrez, Messieurs et
Dames_, and see the hand to hand struggle between a man and a savage