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“With the unrolling, the leather tablet of the shawl-strap, bearing my name, fell in her lap.

“‘Your name is Bosk,’ she said, with a quick start, ‘and you an American?’

“‘Yes; why not?’

“‘My maiden name is Boski,’ she replied, looking at me in astonishment, ‘and I am a Pole.’

“Here were two mysteries solved. She was married, and neither Italian nor Slav.

“‘And your ancestry?’ she continued with increased animation. ‘Are you of Polish blood? You know our name is a great name in Poland. Your grandfather, of course, was a Pole.’ Then, with deep interest, ‘What are your armorial bearings?’

“I answered that I had never heard that my grandfather was a Pole. It was quite possible, though, that we might be of Polish descent, for my father had once told me of an ancestor, an old colonel, who fell at Austerlitz. As to the armorial bearings, we Americans never cared for such things. The only thing I could remember was a certain seal which my father used to wear, and with which he sealed his letters. The tradition in the family was that it belonged to this old colonel. My sister used it sometimes. I had a letter from her in my pocket.

“She examined the indented wax on the envelope, opened her cloak quickly, and took from the bag at her side a seal mounted in jewels, bearing a crest and coat of arms.

“‘See how slight the difference. The quarterings are almost the same, and the crest and motto identical. This side is mine, the other is my husband’s. How very, very strange! And yet you are an American?’

“‘And your husband’s crest?’ I asked. ‘Is he also a Pole?’

“‘Yes; I married a Pole,’ with a slight trace of haughtiness, even resentment, at the inquiry.

“‘And his name, madame? Chance has given you mine–a fair exchange is never a robbery.’

“She drew herself up, and said quickly, and with a certain bearing I had not noticed before:–

“‘Not now; it makes no difference.’

“Then, as if uncertain of the effect of her refusal, and with a willingness to be gracious, she added:–

“In a few minutes–at ten o’clock–we reach Trieste. The train stops twenty minutes. You were so kind about my luncheon; I am stronger now. Will you dine with me?’

“I thanked her, and on arriving at Trieste followed her to the door. As we alighted from the carriage I noticed the same dark man standing by the steps, his fingers on his hat. During the meal my companion seemed brighter and less weary, more gracious and friendly, until I called the waiter and counted out the florins on his tray. Then she laid her hand quietly but firmly upon my arm.

“‘Please do not–you distress me; my servant Polaff has paid for everything.’

“I looked up. The dark man was standing behind her chair, his hat in his hand.

“I can hardly express to you my feelings as these several discoveries revealed to me little by little the conditions and character of my traveling companion. Brought up myself under a narrow home influence, with only a limited knowledge of the world, I had never yet been thrown in with a woman of her class. And yet I cannot say that it was altogether the charm of her person that moved me. It was more a certain hopeless sort of sorrow that seemed to envelop her, coupled with an indefinable distrust which I could not solve. Her reserve, however, was impenetrable, and her guarded silence on every subject bearing upon herself so pronounced that I dared not break through it. Yet, as she sat there in the carriage after dinner, during the earlier hours of the night, she and I the only occupants, her eyes heavy and red for want of sleep, her beautiful hair bound in a veil, the pallor of her skin intensified by the sombre hues of her dress, I would have given anything in the world to have known her well enough to have comforted her, even by a word.