"No, no, not yet. I'm afraid he might—— I'll prepare him little by little, and then, when the proper time comes, I'll tell you. But, Bob," and the girl laughed gaily, "I had almost to propose to you, hadn't I?"
"No," replied Bob. "I did the proposing, and you did the lecturing. That's what it'll be all our lives, I expect; but what do I care, as long as I have you?"
"I—I was afraid you were going to be a coward, though."
"And you don't like cowards?"
She became serious in a moment. "If there's anything I hate and despise, it's cowardice," she cried. "I think I could forgive anything but that. It's—it's beneath even contempt. Hark, what's that?"
They heard a rustling sound behind them, and saw, close by, a newspaper blown towards them by the light summer breeze.
Bob put out his hand and caught it. "It's to-day's paper," he said.
"I haven't looked at mine to-day."
He read it almost mechanically. Neither dreamed that this paper, carelessly dropped by a man who had come to see the famous rock, contained news on which depended not only the future of their own lives, but which altered the destinies of nations, and which turned a great part of Europe into a shambles.
CHAPTER III
This is what he read:
TERRIBLE TRAGEDY IN BOSNIA.
ASSASSINATION OF THE HEIR PRESUMPTIVE TO THE AUSTRO-HUNGARIAN THRONE.
BOMB THROWN INTO THE CAR OF THE ARCHDUKE FERDINAND AND HIS CONSORT, THE DUCHESS OF HOHENBERG.
OVERWHELMING INDIGNATION IN VIENNA. GRIEF OF THE AGED EMPEROR.
These were the staring headlines which riveted the gaze of both, and for the moment made them silent.
"Good heavens, how terrible!" cried Nancy presently.
"Ghastly beyond words," was Bob's reply. "It has come like a thunderbolt. As I told you, I did not look at my paper this morning, and, as I have not been to St. Ia to-day, I saw no announcements."
"And our papers were late this morning. I have not seen them," rejoined Nancy. "Fancy the grief of the poor old Emperor! Who did it?—and why was it done?"
"Evidently it was done by two young men, both anarchists, and both said to be Servians."
"Aren't these anarchists terrible? No king or queen in Europe seems to be safe."
"This doesn't appear to have been done by anarchists in the usual sense of the term after all," said Bob, who hastily scanned the paper. "It seems there are suspicions of political causes. This paper suggests that these fellows were agents of the Servian Government, who have a special grudge against the Archduke Francis Ferdinand, who was heir-presumptive to the Austrian Throne. Are you interested in European politics, Nancy?"
"Not a bit. I always skip foreign news."
"If it is as this paper suggests, it might lead to serious complications. You see, it was hoped by the Servians that at the close of the Balkan War they would be able to obtain a naval port on the Adriatic, and it is said they would have got it but for the Archduke. It is also commonly believed that a School of Servian Patriots have for years been struggling to make Bosnia and Herzegovina part of Greater Servia, owing to the preponderance of Serb population. These two provinces, in spite of Russia, belong to Austria."
"I suppose the Servians are awful people. Always quarrelling and fighting, and that kind of thing," and Nancy crept closer to Bob as she spoke.
"It's a wonderfully interesting part of Europe, although it was so little known before the war of the Balkan States with the Turks. I say, Nancy, wouldn't it be fun to go there for our honeymoon?"
"It would be like going into a savage country."
"Oh, no, not so bad as that. I was talking a few weeks ago with a man who was a war correspondent during their squabble, and he told me a lot about Montenegro and Servia and Roumania. He fairly fired my imagination, and made me long to go. It would be great fun."
Nancy shook her head. "No, Bob," she said, with a blush, "when that time comes, we'll go to some lovely spot somewhere on the Rhine, where we shall be among civilised people, and where there will be no possibility of meeting these half-civilised races. But what do you think the Austrians will do?"
"Oh, of course, if this murder is simply a revolt of the anarchists, the murderers will be executed, and I suppose that will be the end of it; but if there is evidence which goes to show that they were emissaries of the Servian Government, it will lead to all sorts of complications."
"What complications?"
"Well, of course, Austria will want an explanation from Servia, and if Servia doesn't give a satisfactory reply, there will be trouble. It's common knowledge that Austria doesn't like Slav influence, and she'll use this as an excuse for crushing all Slav ideals. It might end in Austria practically administering Servian affairs."
"That would be the best way, wouldn't it? Austria is a civilised country, while the Servians are savages. One of the girls I went to school with, spent a winter in Vienna, and she had a lovely time. She says that Vienna is one of the most beautiful cities in the world, and the Austrians are such charming people."
"That would be easier said than done," replied Bob, smiling at her school-girl fashion of settling European difficulties. "You see, directly Austria tried to do this, Russia would step in. Russia is practically under a contract to protect the Servians, and to help them in need. Russia, which is a great Slav Empire, wouldn't stand by and see Austria swallow up Slav Servia."
"And then there might be a war between Russia and Austria? And Russia, with her countless hordes of men, would crush Austria?"
"That wouldn't suit Germany's book," was Bob's reply. "You see, there is a close alliance between Austria and Germany, and Germany wouldn't allow Austria to be put under."
"Oh, it would be horrible!" gasped the girl. "But there, we won't talk about it any more. It can't affect us, can it? England has nothing to do with Servians murdering an Austrian Archduke. I'm awfully sorry for the poor old Austrian Emperor, but—but——"
"It can't affect us, or our happiness," cried Bob, taking her outstretched hand. "No, thank God! but I say, Nancy, this is an awful commentary on what we were saying just now, isn't it? It makes me more than ever determined to throw myself into a movement that shall make war impossible. But oh, my dear girl, I do wish you'd let me speak to your father to-night! I want my happiness assured. I want everybody to know that I've won you—that you've promised to be my wife."
A thoughtful look came into her eyes. It might seem as though she were fighting a battle between inclination and judgment.
"No, Bob," she said at length, "it won't do. I'm sure dad wouldn't consent. The truth is——" she hesitated.
"What?"
