She could not yet bear the idea that he should pass out of her life, or he out of hers. She dreaded an unknown rival, as she had never been baffled before; and over that rival, if such existed, she hoped in the end to triumph by the power of her beauty and fascination of manner, and to win him, without pity, to herself; and, full of such thoughts, she trod lightly the steep and winding way that led to the shrine of Krall Lazar, and softly sang to herself the little Servian song of 'The Wishes,' which elsewhere she had sung to Cecil. The morning was a glorious one, and in the poetry of her nature Margarita felt all the softening and exhilarating influences of it. The heavy fragrance of the great fir forest, on which the night-dew lingered, loaded the air, and the rays of the sun fell aslant them here and there, through the flat and fan-like boughs, from which the great, over-ripe cones, brown and full of seed, were dropping ever and anon. A sea of pines, dark-green and sombre, seemed to spread in spiky conical peaks up the steep mountain-slopes, as she proceeded by the narrow pathway to the appointed place, her heart beating hopefully and happily in anticipation. At last she reached the vine-covered shrine; it stood alone; no one was there. 'Cecil!' she said softly, and listened. Then came a sound as of branches crackling, and a man clad like a Servian peasant started from behind the edifice and stood before her; but through the disguise, now minus the beard, and with close-shaven chin and well-trimmed black moustache, she knew the pale face of--Mattei Guebhard! 'You here?' exclaimed Margarita, shrinking back. 'Yes, I,' said he, grimly; 'you got a note----' 'From--from the Herr Lieutenant.' 'No; from _me_.' 'You?' 'In his name,' said Guebhard, laughing softly; 'could I have lured you here, else?' 'Decidedly not,' she replied, with perplexity and anger. 'But how knew you that I was to be here?' 'Every movement of yours is known to me.' 'And your purpose?' asked Margarita. 'I scarcely know--punishment--revenge!' he replied, incoherently and a a little wildly. As he surveyed her now he saw not a vestige of her soft, persuasive, and caressing manner, or the witchery of her sovereign smile. Her face expressed only deep anger, profound disdain, and utter indifference by turns; yet he attempted to take her hand, but she wrenched it away and waved him back, with a grandeur of gesture that compelled him to obey, while her eyes flashed with unspoken indignation. It was at this moment that the rose-pearl bracelet fell from her wrist, but both were too preoccupied to observe it. 'You visited the English cur in his prison?' said he, after a pause. 'Who told you so?' 'Heed not who told me so--suffice it that I know you did.' 'What then? Am I accountable to you for my actions?' 'This morning you are.' 'Fool--you forget yourself!'