Some
of what has been I know, but I want to know all, and it might be better
that no stranger--however valiant he may be, or no matter in what measure
we are bound to him--should be present." To my astonishment, she who had
always been amenable to my lightest wish actually argued with me:

"Father, there are other confidences which have to be respected in like
wise. Bear with me, dear, till I have told you all, and I am right sure
that you will agree with me. I ask it, father." That settled the matter, and as I could see that the gallant gentleman
who had rescued me was swaying on his feet as he waited respectfully, I
said to him:

"Rest with us, sir. We shall watch over your sleep." Then I had to help him, for almost on the instant he sank down, and I had
to guide him to the rugs spread on the ground. In a few seconds he was
in a deep sleep. As I stood looking at him, till I had realized that he
vas really asleep, I could not help marvelling at the bounty of Nature
that could uphold even such a man as this to the last moment of work to
be done, and then allow so swift a collapse when all was over, and he
could rest peacefully. He was certainly a splendid fellow. I think I never saw so fine a man
physically in my life. And if the lesson of his physiognomy be true, he
is as sterling inwardly as his external is fair. "Now," said I to Teuta,
"we are to all intents quite alone. Tell me all that has been, so that I
may understand." Whereupon my daughter, making me sit down, knelt beside me, and told me
from end to end the most marvellous story I had ever heard or read of. Something of it I had already known from the Archbishop Paleologue's
later letters, but of all else I was ignorant. Far away in the great
West beyond the Atlantic, and again on the fringe of the Eastern seas, I
had been thrilled to my heart's core by the heroic devotion and fortitude
of my daughter in yielding herself for her country's sake to that fearful
ordeal of the Crypt; of the grief of the nation at her reported death,
news of which was so mercifully and wisely withheld from me as long as
possible; of the supernatural rumours that took root so deep; but no word
or hint had come to me of a man who had come across the orbit of her
life, much less of all that has resulted from it. Neither had I known of
her being carried off, or of the thrice gallant rescue of her by Rupert. Little wonder that I thought so highly of him even at the first moment I
had a clear view of him when he sank down to sleep before me. Why, the
man must be a marvel. Even our mountaineers could not match such
endurance as his. In the course of her narrative my daughter told me of
how, being wearied with her long waiting in the tomb, and waking to find
herself alone when the floods were out, and even the Crypt submerged, she
sought safety and warmth elsewhere; and how she came to the Castle in the
night, and found the strange man alone. I said: "That was dangerous,
daughter, if not wrong. The man, brave and devoted as he is, must answer
me--your father." At that she was greatly upset, and before going on
with her narrative, drew me close in her arms, and whispered to me:

"Be gentle to me, father, for I have had much to bear. And be good to
him, for he holds my heart in his breast!" I reassured her with a gentle
pressure--there was no need to speak. She then went on to tell me about
her marriage, and how her husband, who had fallen into the belief that
she was a Vampire, had determined to give even his soul for her; and how
she had on the night of the marriage left him and gone back to the tomb
to play to the end the grim comedy which she had undertaken to perform
till my return; and how, on the second night after her marriage, as she
was in the garden of the Castle--going, as she shyly told me, to see if
all was well with her husband--she was seized secretly, muffled up,
bound, and carried off. Here she made a pause and a digression. Evidently some fear lest her husband and myself should quarrel assailed
her, for she said:

"Do understand, father, that Rupert's marriage to me was in all ways
regular, and quite in accord with our customs. Before we were married I
told the Archbishop of my wish. He, as your representative during your
absence, consented himself, and brought the matter to the notice of the
Vladika and the Archimandrites. All these concurred, having exacted from
me--very properly, I think--a sacred promise to adhere to my
self-appointed task. The marriage itself was orthodox in all
ways--though so far unusual that it was held at night, and in darkness,
save for the lights appointed by the ritual. As to that, the Archbishop
himself, or the Archimandrite of Spazac, who assisted him, or the
Vladika, who acted as Paranymph, will, all or any of them, give you full
details. Your representative made all inquiries as to Rupert Sent Leger,
who lived in Vissarion, though he did not know who I was, or from his
point of view who I had been. But I must tell you of my rescue." And so she went on to tell me of that unavailing journey south by her
captors; of their bafflement by the cordon which Rupert had established
at the first word of danger to "the daughter of our leader," though he
little knew who the "leader" was, or who was his "daughter"; of how the
brutal marauders tortured her to speed with their daggers; and how her
wounds left blood-marks on the ground as she passed along; then of the
halt in the valley, when the marauders came to know that their road north
was menaced, if not already blocked; of the choosing of the murderers,
and their keeping ward over her whilst their companions went to survey
the situation; and of her gallant rescue by that noble fellow, her
husband--my son I shall call him henceforth, and thank God that I may
have that happiness and that honour! Then my daughter went on to tell me of the race back to Vissarion, when
Rupert went ahead of all--as a leader should do; of the summoning of the
Archbishop and the National Council; and of their placing the nation's
handjar in Rupert's hand; of the journey to Ilsin, and the flight of my
daughter--and my son--on the aeroplane. The rest I knew. As she finished, the sleeping man stirred and woke--broad awake in a
second--sure sign of a man accustomed to campaign and adventure. At a
glance he recalled everything that had been, and sprang to his feet. He
stood respectfully before me for a few seconds before speaking. Then he
said, with an open, engaging smile:

"I see, sir, you know all. Am I forgiven--for Teuta's sake as well as my
own?" By this time I was also on my feet. A man like that walks
straight into my heart. My daughter, too, had risen, and stood by my
side. I put out my hand and grasped his, which seemed to leap to meet
me--as only the hand of a swordsman can do. "I am glad you are my son!" I said. It was all I could say, and I meant
it and all it implied. We shook hands warmly.