Chapter 10 - Page 2

trees and being anxious to ascertain its nature. He found the remains of a small and ancient marble temple--temple he took it to be--and he was sure that it had been erected there perhaps fifteen centuries ago by the Romans. He knew from his reading that they had marched and fought and settled throughout all this region and in almost all of Austria. Marcus Aurelius might have been here, he might even have built the temple itself, and other Roman emperors might have stood in the shadow of its shattered columns.

It was a round temple, like those to Ceres that he had seen in Italy, and while some of the columns had fallen others stood, and a portion of the roof was there. He saw for himself a place under this fragment of a roof and against a pillar.

But he devoted his attention first to supper. A small cold stream flowed from under a rock fifty feet away, and drinking from it now and then he ate his bread and sausage in comfort, and even with a sense of luxury. He was a crusader and he was upborne more strongly than ever by his faith. Alone on the mountain in the darkness everything else had melted away. America was an immeasurable distance from him and the figures of his uncle, Mr. Anson and his young friends of the army became thin shadows.

The moon, full and dominant, came out after a while and silvered the skies. Stars in myriads trooped forth and danced. John felt that they were friendly, that they were watching over him, and once more he saw happy omens. Despite his long walk he was not tired and he enjoyed the deep peace on the mountains. He might have been awed at another time, but now he was not afraid.

Zillenstein, too, came out, bathed in silver, an immense threatening mass set solidly in the shoulder of the opposite mountain, more sinister even in the moonlight than in the sunlight. He wondered how many hundreds of innocent human beings had perished in its dungeons. He had not the slightest doubt that Julie was there, but she at least was safe from everything, save a long imprisonment and a powerful pressure that might compel her to become the morganatic wife of Auersperg. It might be the old story of the drop of water wearing away the stone.

Clouds began to trail slowly up the valley, and Zillenstein faded away again. The long columns of mist and vapor seemed so near that John felt as if he could reach out his hand and touch them.

His day's exertions began to tell now, and the chill of the night deepened. He sought his chosen shelter within the old temple, and lying down on the stone floor wrapped in his blankets, sank fast into sleep. Morning dawned, sharp and clear, and the red sun came out of Asia, turning the huge pile of Zillenstein once more into a scarlet glow, a vast blood-red splotch in the side of the mountain.

He drank at the little stream, then bathed his face, ate breakfast, and, knapsack on back, returned to the road that led down the far side of