So they took leave of the wedding-guests with more or less ceremony, and made preparations for starting. The old countess, who, for several hours past, had shown herself extremely gracious as long as Schnetz was present to act as go-between, and the unknown young baron had lent a certain respectability to his burgher friends, now suddenly seemed to become conscious again of the gulf between her and the savers of her life--particularly in the case of the girls, whom she did not honor with another word. She gave Rosenbusch to understand, in pretty plain language, that she was very angry with Schnetz, who had quite forgotten all "_egards_" toward her, and had gone off without even coming to take leave in person. The battle-painter, who found himself placed in a rather embarrassing situation, was just on the point of making some excuse for his absent friend, when suddenly the words stuck in his throat. They had left the house in order to wait outside until the carriage should be ready. There, on the white gravel close to the bank, Rosenbusch saw a dark spot, from which a broad trail of drops ran down as far as the landing-place. "Good God!" he cried. "What is this? Blood? Freshly-shed blood? Countess, if this blood should really have come from our baron, our friend Schnetz would undoubtedly be justified, even by the severest court of honor, for having failed in the laws of courtesy. I beseech you, don't let the others learn anything of this--young ladies are so devilish timid and frightened at the sight of blood--" Unfortunately the warning came too late. Irene had just stepped up to the place where they were standing. When she caught sight of the ghastly trace, she uttered a low cry, staggered back, and leaned for a moment upon Rosenbusch, who officiously sprang to her assistance. This scene caused the others to hasten up; and after the first shock was over, they exhausted themselves in speculations upon this mysterious occurrence. Who could possibly believe in hemorrhage in a young man of such conspicuous strength and powerful figure? And as for a fight--where were they to look for an adversary? The friends were still standing around the ghastly spot, shocked and not knowing what to do, when one of the hostlers, belonging to the hotel, came running up and told them he had also discovered traces of blood on the landing-bridge, and this knife lying near them, on the bank. It was not an ordinary peasant's knife with the blade fastened firmly in the handle, but a slim dagger of Damascus steel, and the handle bore a distinct impression of a bloody hand; no one except Irene knew to whom it had belonged.