came upon them about nine miles from Rottenton. He saw there was no hope for him but in meeting the danger bravely; for this was the only way by which he could reach the town, and the thought of flight was out of the question. The position was between the mountain called Rottenton and a little river. The Christians put themselves in readiness for the encounter, though they knew that to the larger portion of them it would be the last in which they would ever engage. At the base of the mountain Meldritch drew up his little army, driving into the earth stout stakes, that had been hardened in the fire, as a protection in moments of great harassment or of special danger. These stakes were sharpened, and all pointed outward, to prevent the enemy from either approaching their front or turning their flank.

The battle was not begun until the middle of the day, when the Tartars drove upon them like an infuriated storm. They were gallantly driven back, and immediately a fresh reinforcement was rained on the devoted army with redoubled vigor. For an hour this kind of fighting was kept up, the Tartar forces alternately driving on and being

driven back.

Then the Christians felt their strength giving out, and, according to previous orders, they took refuge behind the palisade of sharpened stakes. But even this defence was slight, and afforded them only a temporary shelter. So dense became the crowds of the enemy, so hotly did they push on to meet their entrenched foe, and with such madness were they incited to carry the contest to the most bloody and unmerciful extremity, that Meldritch at once drew together his choicest troops, and told them there was nothing left them but to cut their way through the swarming hosts before them. And forthwith he issued the order for the almost hopeless charge.

Meldritch himself, with some fourteen hundred horsemen, managed to fight their passage through the enemy, and cross the little river; but of the rest, very few lived to relate the tale of their fearful struggle. The leading officers were all cut down in the fight, and noblemen, barons, earls, and common soldiers, lay mingled on the bloody battle-field together. There were left at least thirty thousand of the slain of both armies on the ground, a melancholy but fatal proof of

the desperateness of the conflict that had been waged. And among the piles of the wounded and the dead lay Smith himself, showing that his courage had stoutly held out to the last. When the victors began their search for living captives through the heaps of fallen ones, his costly uniform, and his groans of agony, readily attracted their attention. He was badly wounded, but, as it happened, not mortally. They took him from the field, and bore him away, caring for his injuries with much tenderness. As soon as he was well enough to be marched off with them, he was taken, with many other prisoners, to the Turkish slave-market, at Axiopolis, and there exposed for sale. A customer was not long in making his appearance, whose name was Bashaw Bogall. He paid the price asked for the slave, and at once sent him away to Constantinople as a present to his lady-love, the Lady Tragabigzanda. They were yoked together by twenties, and driven off to the crowded Turkish capital.

The Bashaw Bogall sent a message to his mistress to the effect that he had himself captured this slave in war, and that he was a person of rank belonging to Bohemia. His object in tell

ing this downright falsehood was to establish himself in higher favor with his chosen fair one. He thought that, if she knew something of her lover's prowess in battle, he would be able to secure a readier and closer access to her heart. He evidently counted much on his mistress' admiration of his courage and chivalry. But, as it turned out, the personal appearance of our hero enlisted her sympathies and her interest even more than the dazzling qualities of her former lover had done. The lady thought she liked Smith about as well as she did the Bashaw Bogall; and, being thus interested in him, and each of them being able likewise to speak the Italian language, she became eager to learn from him the story of his capture. When Smith told her exactly how it was, and undeceived her in her false belief that he was a Bohemian nobleman, her growing indifference to her old lover suddenly deepened into a feeling of disgust and contempt. Other prisoners, likewise, substantiated Smith's straight-forward story. And, from that time, she discarded her former friend, the lying and cowardly Bashaw Bogall, and secretly became the betrothed of our hero and adventurer.

There were beautiful gardens about the Turkish houses; and in such places did the Lady Tragabigzanda and her slave pass much of their time together, talking in the musical Italian tongue, and listening to the melody of singingbirds and falling waters. To Smith this was a delightful period of repose and peace. He felt that he was beloved of at least one heart, and that in the society of his mistress he could be altogether happy. But it was useless for him to count upon repose and quietude. He was made for rough action, and it was soon ready for him again to enter upon. The young lady's mother had suspected something of this attachment between them, and now began to show unmistakable signs of her displeasure. As soon as this feeling came to the notice of our hero's new friend, she determined to be before her mother's project, and save her lover from again being sold into a strange slavery, by sending him forthwith to her brother, who lived in Tartary. The mother was deceived by her daughter's plan, and acceded to it as soon as it was proposed. But, in order to feel secure of her lover's safety, the daughter despatched with him a letter to her