The men rose from the sward whereon they had been lying, and listened expectantly. The trotting stopped at the ruined wall, and it was obvious that it belonged to one horse only. Was it possible he would come alone, without seconds, thinking to find them here in the village? After awhile there was the sound as of several horses' hoofs, but these seemed as if they were going away, rather than nearing the ruins. "Friends," shouted Lievenkopp, "someone is stealing our horses!" And all four dashed out of the ruins. The captain had guessed rightly, their horses had been stolen. And the thief was Gyöngyöm Miska himself, who, mounted on his own fiery courser, was driving before him the officers' three horses tethered together by their bridles. "Stop you scoundrel," cried the captain and Ráby in unison. But he evidently had not the intention to run away. Fifty paces ahead he pulled up and let his horse caracole. His two grim adversaries subjected him now to a cross fire, for each of them had two pistols. First on one side, and then from the other they fired, but not one of the shots so much as grazed the robber, for his horse pranced about and turned round and round in such a bewildering way while his master was being aimed at, that all four shots missed their mark. When the firing ceased the horse remained standing at a sound from his rider, as if cast in bronze. Then Gyöngyöm Miska, raising his musket with one hand to his face, took aim at both, and one bullet whistled through the captain's helmet and the other sent Ráby's cap flying from his head. Whereupon the highwayman raised his tufted hat and cried, "So fights Gyöngyöm Miska!" And with that he switched his whip, cracking it right and left over the tethered horses, and galloped away with his prey. CHAPTER XX. When Mathias Ráby recounted this story to his uncle, the old gentleman declared he had never read or heard any stranger. Then they had a consultation as to what was to be done. It was evident that it was a matter for a lawsuit. The ancient laws against a breach of the marriage vow were very stringent; and even allowed a husband to put to death an unfaithful wife. But Mathias Ráby found no consolation in such statutes. He did not want to lose the woman still so dear to him for all the grievous injury she had done him, and he was even ready to take her back again, and to pardon her threefold treachery. "By the law," said his uncle, interrupting Ráby's meditations, "a wife who runs away from her husband shall be restored to him. Now if there be such a thing as justice on this earth of ours, you shall get her back. But what are we to do with the seducer, Petray?"