“And the scar which you bear upon your face, is it not the mark of a whip, with which I lashed a certain Herr Ebenstreit three years since, who prevented my eloping with my betrothed? I challenged him to fight a duel, but the coward refused me satisfaction, and then I struck him in the face, causing the blood to flow. Answer me--are you this gentleman?” Not a sound interrupted the fearfully long pause which followed. Every one turned astonished to Ebenstreit, who, pale as death, was powerless to utter a word, but stood staring at his opponent. “Why do you not answer me?” cried Moritz, stamping his foot. “Are you the coward? Was this red scar caused by the whip-lash?” Another long pause ensued, and a distinctly audible voice was heard, saying, “Yes, it is he!” “Who replied to me?” asked Moritz, turning his angry glance away from Ebenstreit. “I,” said Marie. “I reply for my husband!” “You? Are you the wife of this man?” thundered Moritz. “I am,” Marie answered. “Is this invitation directed to me from you?” he continued, drawing a paper from his pocket. “Did you permit yourself to invite me to your house?” “Yes, I did,” she calmly answered. “And by what right, madame? This is the question I wish answered, and I came here for that purpose.” “I invited you because I desired to see you.” “Shameless one!” cried Moritz, furious. “Sir,” cried the ambassador, placing himself before Moritz, defying his anger, “you forget that you are speaking to a lady. As her husband is silent, I declare myself her knight, and I will not suffer her to be injured by word or look. “How can you hinder me?” cried Moritz, with scorn. “What will you do if I dash this paper at her feet, and forbid her to ever write my name again?” Making a ball of it, he suited the action to the word, casting a defiant look at the marquis. “I shall order the footmen to thrust you out of the house. Here, servants, remove this man; he is an escaped lunatic, undoubtedly.” Two footmen pressed forward through the circle which crowded around Moritz. “Whoever touches me, death to him!” thundered Moritz, laying his hand upon a small sword at his side. “Let no one dare lay a hand on this gentleman,” cried Marie, with a commanding wave of her hand to the lackeys. “I beseech you, marquis, and you, honored guests, to quietly await the conclusion of this scene, and to permit Herr Moritz to finish speaking.”