Herr von Wroblewski grew pale, but quickly regained his composure. "Why should I start?" he asked, with a smile. "You are only risking your own neck. I am not in your debt. All the count has sent I have forwarded. Nothing has been as yet received for November." "Every word is a he. My money, or I will write to the count." "Why don't you? I have not the address or I would give it you. Herr Stiegle forwards the letters. But consider which the count is most likely to believe, you or me. Will you send him my letters? And if you do, is there any sum specified in them?" The monk was still. Then he burst out into violent invectives, declaring he would confess all; that it would be more pleasant to have enough in prison than to starve in Mohilev, and the good company he would have would compensate for his loss of liberty. Wroblewski heard him with a smile. "Good!" he answered. "Of course, if you must, you must. But hearken to my last word. Here," drawing out his purse, "are two hundred gulden. I place them in this envelope. On the envelope I write--do you see, my dear Tondka--'Herr Anton Brodski, in Mohilev.' My servant will now take the letter to the post and you will accompany him. Here are twenty gulden besides for your journey home. I shall ring the bell for the servant, and he will either go with you to the post, or he will kick you out of the house!" When Wroblewski saw the monk walking peacefully by the side of the servant, a few seconds after, he laughed aloud. "He hurries towards Mohilev on the wings of desire!" Perhaps, however, he would have been less merry had he known the workings of the rogue's brain. CHAPTER VIII. The blush of dawn glowed on the white, glistening dome of Monte Baldo, while the cold north wind came whistling from the valley of the Sarco, clearing the lake of mists and the sky of clouds. Only here and there the dismal gray veils fluttered like signals of mourning on the mountain-tops, or hid themselves in retired clefts above the azure water. But the sun reached them even there, as it mounted above the mighty Altissimo di Nago, which lies clumsily between the smiling plains of the Etsch and the Garda. The light grew stronger, the mists disappeared, and the golden rays fell, full and beautiful, over the deep blue of the sky and the lake, over the pale green of the meadows and the violet-hued rocks with snowy caps, and over the narrow, crooked streets of Riva, which they call Regina del Garda, the old and ugly queen of a kingdom eternally young and beautiful. The count stood on the balcony of the ancient but well-preserved _palazzino_, whose graceful masonry rises close to the Porto San Michele, in the midst of the thick greenery of a well-kept garden, gazing over the crowded houses at the blue lake and the lovely landscape dotted with white châlets.