"Yes," said the Jew, abruptly. "I do not think the less of you for coming," he continued, in a tone of the utmost contempt, "for every one must act according to his principles. Your principles, both private and public, allow you to be convinced by both sides. You have been convinced by the count; now you wish to be by me also. But I decline." Wroblewski changed color. His face was distorted by rage and hate. With difficulty he restrained himself. "But, Pani Nathaniel, some one must have libelled me to you. The burgomaster perhaps-- Oh! if you only knew how his wife-- It really grieves me to part with you in such a state of mind." "Yet you will be obliged to do it," said Trachtenberg, quietly, pointing to the door, "otherwise I shall have to call my coachman." When the magistrate was again in the dark passage, he was forced to hold to the door-posts, he was so overcome with rage. "You shall pay for that," he groaned, "yes, pay for it," and he reiterated it at least ten times. He then went into the street, where he walked up and down meditating. At last he had made up his mind. "That would be the very best plan, but it must be carried out to-day." He looked at the clock. "Nine; a very convenient hour!" and he then turned his steps in the direction of the castle. Half an hour later he stood before the count. The young man had just arisen from dinner. "You have come to ask about the letter?" he inquired. "It has been attended to." "Of that I had no doubts. I have come to show my gratitude in a practical way." He hastily told what had transpired, in the most glaring colors, of course. "It must have been a frightful scene. The girl swore she would not leave you, and her father that he regarded your proposal as an insult. So he has locked her in her room, and is going to drag her off to some Ghetto to-morrow early--who knows where. The girl will be lost to you forever if you do not act with promptitude." The count paced the floor in great excitement. "But what can I do?" he asked. "It would be bad if you required me to tell you!" "An abduction! But that would be an act of violence." "Has it never happened before? At any rate, you need not bother yourself. There will be no obstacles. I know the girl's room." "But if she refuses?" "Has she refused to come to the park, and is it likely she will refuse to go with you, now her father has been foolish and fanatical enough to tell her he would not even agree to a marriage with you?" "But she will demand an oath from me!" "Well, then, swear. You know the proverb about lovers' oaths. As it is, you seem to have developed considerable skill in this critical situation. If you have gone so far without oaths, you can manage the rest." "It is impossible; my conscience will not allow it." And yet, as he said this, he saw in his mind's eye a carriage stopping before a hunting-lodge belonging to him, five hours distant, and himself stepping out, with Judith in his arms.