"But what other reason could she have, the silly fool? She is there enjoying a thousand pleasures with her lov--" He paused in the middle of the word. This Ruthene boor was staring at him in such a curious way. "This is very bad," he thought, "and he may repeat it. It cannot be allowed. This scandal on top of the other, and I am undone. They must leave, both of them." He got up from his desk. "I will drive with you." He went to the window, and peered into the street, which was quite deserted. "Where is the carriage--at the court-yard gate? Very good. Then we can reach Roskowska unobserved. These stupid Jews threatened me last night." He sent Fedko into the anteroom, and dressed rapidly. Lady Anna came in, and he told her the purport of his journey. The pair exchanged brief but hearty farewells. She summed up his activity in the affair in one word, while he thanked her with a delicate reference to the prior and the Rittmeister. He then went down-stairs, glancing timorously into the open door of the death-chamber as he passed. The windows were shrouded, and the numerous pictures turned to the wall. A small oil-lamp, the "soul-lamp," was burning in one corner of the darkened room, while the boards creaked as if drawing a breath of relief, because freed from their ghastly burden. The official shivered as he hastened through the court-yard and jumped into the carriage. One of the Hussars took his place by the side of the coachman, and away they drove through the deserted street and along the riverside to the suburb Roskowska, where were the Hussar barracks and the residence of the regimental physician. He was at home, ready to start, and willingly promised silence. But when the magistrate told him who needed his services, and requested him to take the necessary remedies with him, the rough old gentleman was deeply moved. "Trachtenberg's daughter!" he said; and his bristly white moustache quivered. "Yesterday I attended the death-bed of her father, to-day the daughter's; and two months since how happily and peaceably these people lived! Oh, my dear sir, a terrible crime has been committed!" "A good deal could be said on that subject," equivocated Von Wroblewski, helping the doctor to pack what was required. He dismissed the Hussar, but ordered the coachman to drive around the town, so they would not meet the returning procession. He then gave his version of the story to the doctor. "You see," he concluded, "how the mob wrong me. Nor is the count as guilty as he seems. The fanaticism of the old man is really to blame. 'I would rather see my child a corpse than that she should become Countess Baranowski.' Those were his words, 'pon my honor. Otherwise Agenor would not have proceeded to violence." "All the better," rejoined the doctor. "He can marry her now. The dead make no objections."