The Count followed him, and gazed upon the ground. "They have left no traces of their presence," he said, at length, and then looking up to the vacant space where his banner had formerly hung, he asked, "And did you really take that thing you brought me from that place. The rest does not seem broken." "I thought I heard it break, my lord," replied the young man, walking on towards the chair; but then, stopping as he came up to it, he said, "Here are the marks of my feet, my lord, in the dust upon the cushion." "Well, well, I do not doubt you," said the Count, who had followed; and then crossing his arms upon his chest, he fell into thought again, from which he did not rouse himself for a long time. In the end he exclaimed, with a start, "He shall not drive me hence--I have done him no wrong," and with a slow pace he trod his way back towards the door. "There, that will do," he continued, as Ferdinand followed him out; "I do not want you more; say nothing of what has happened to any one; and go fly your hawk, or wheel your horse till breakfast time; I will speak to you further afterwards." When the hour of breakfast came, and the household were assembled in the hall, the Count again called Ferdinand up to his own table, and seemed to regard him with much more favour than he had ever done before; but the young man remarked that his lord's eye wandered round the chamber in which they sat, and then rested on the groups of his followers and attendants, as if calculating whether, with the numbers which were to be added that day to the party there assembled, the hall where they then were would contain them all. A fairer object of contemplation, indeed, was before the young man's eyes, for he was seated opposite to the Lady Adelaide, on Seckendorf's left hand. She was a little paler, perhaps, than on the preceding morning, but that was the only trace which her temporary sickness seemed to have left. She was more than commonly gay; indeed, though there was a thoughtful and a feeling tone mingled with her cheerfulness, making it like the song of a lark, in which, though blithe and happy on the whole, may be heard sad minor tones by any ear that listens for them. When the meal was over, the Count rose, saying, "Come with me, Ferdinand. Come hither, Adelaide;" and walking forth, he led the way to the corridor above, into which the different apartments occupied by himself, his daughter, and the maids, opened either directly, or through their several anterooms. There, after taking a turn backwards and forwards, he turned to his two young companions, who had followed, speaking with their looks, and said, "To you two I must trust the arrangement of the great hall for our guests this evening. It is vain to ask these dastardly men below, who are frightened at mere shadows; and the other hall will not hold one-half--that is clear enough." "Oh, ask them not, my dear father," answered Adelaide. "I and Ferdinand can do it all, and we have no fears."