Lato now stands in need of all the energy with which Providence has endowed him. All the excellence and nobility that have hitherto lain dormant in his soul arouse to life, now that they can but help him to die like a man. He cannot sever the golden fetters which he himself has forged; he will not drag through the mire what is most sacred to him; well, then----

Upon reaching his room he seated himself at his writing-table and wrote several letters,--the first to his father, requesting him to see that his debts were paid; one to Paula, one to his mother-in-law, and one to Harry. The letter to Harry ran thus:

"My dear good old Comrade,--

"When this note reaches you, you will be already freed from your fetters. I have never forgiven myself for refusing to perform the service you asked of me, and I have now retrieved my fault. I have written to Paula and to my mother-in-law, explaining your position to them, telling them the truth with brutal frankness, and leaving no course open to them save to release you. You are free. Farewell.

"Yours till death,

"Lato Treurenberg."

He tossed the pen aside.

The others were still dancing. The sound of the music came softly from the distance. He rested his head on his hands and pondered.

He has seen clearly that it must be. He had written the letters as the first irrevocable step. But how was it to be done?

He looked for his revolver. It might all be over in a moment. He caught up the little weapon with a kind of greed. Suddenly he recalled a friend who had shot himself, and whose body he had seen lying on the bed where the deed had been done: there were ugly stains of blood upon the pillow. His nature revolted from everything ugly and unclean. And then the scene, the uproar that would ensue upon discovering the corpse. If he could only avoid all that, could only cloak the ugly deed. Meanwhile, his faithful hound came to him from a corner of the room, and, as if suspicious that all was not right with its master, laid its head upon his knee.

The way was clear,--Lato had lately frequently risen early in the morning to stalk a deer, which had escaped his gun again and again; he had but to slip out of the house for apparently the same purpose, and---- and It would be more easily done beneath God's open skies. But several hours must elapse before he could leave the castle. That was terrible. Would his resolve hold good? He began to pace the room restlessly to and fro.

Had he forgotten anything that ought to be done? He paused and listened, seeming to hear a light footfall in the room above him. Yes, it was Olga's room; he could hear her also walking to and fro, to and fro. His breath came quick; everything within him cried out for happiness, for life! He threw himself upon his bed, buried his face among the pillows, clinched his hands, and so waited, motionless.

At last the steps overhead ceased, the music was silent; there was a rustling in the corridors,--the guests were retiring to their rooms; then all was still, as still as death.

Lato arose, lit a candle, and looked at his watch,--half-past two. There was still something on his heart,--a discontent of which he would fain disburden himself before the end. He sat down again at his writing-table, and wrote a few lines to Olga, pouring out his soul to her; then, opening his letter to Harry, he added a postscript: "It would be useless to attempt any disguise with you,--you have read my heart too clearly,--and therefore I can ask a last office of friendship of you. Give Olga the enclosed note from me,--I do not wish any one here to know of this,--my farewell to her. Think no evil of her. Should any one slander her, never believe it!--never!"

He would have written more, but words failed him to express what he felt; so he enclosed his note to Olga in his letter to Harry and sealed and stamped it.

His thoughts began to wander vaguely. Old legends occurred to him. Suddenly he laughed at something that had occurred ten years before, at Komaritz,--the trick Harry had played upon Fainacky, the "braggart Sarmatian."

He heard himself laugh, and shuddered. The gray dawn began to glimmer in the east. He looked at his watch,--it was time! He drew a long, sighing breath, and left his room; the dog followed him. In the corridor he paused, possessed by a wild desire to creep to Olga's door and, kneeling before it, to kiss the threshold. He took two steps towards the staircase, then, by a supreme effort, controlled himself and turned back.

But in the park he sought the spot where he had met her yesterday, where he had kissed her for the first and only time. Here he stood still for a while, and, looking down, perceived the half-effaced impress of a small foot upon the gravel. He stooped and pressed his lips upon it.

Now he has left the park, and the village too lies behind him; he has posted his letter to Harry in the yellow box in front of the post-office. He walks through the poplar avenue where she came to meet him scarcely three weeks ago. He can still feel the touch of her delicate hand. A bird twitters faintly above his head, and recalls to his memory how he had watched the belated little feathered vagabond hurrying home to its nest.

"A life that warms itself beside another life in which it finds peace and comfort," he murmurs to himself. An almost irresistible force stays his steps. But no; he persists, and walks on towards the forest. He will only wait for the sunrise, and then----

He waits in vain. The heavens are covered with clouds; a sharp wind sighs above the fields; the leaves tremble as if in mortal terror; for the first time in six weeks a few drops of rain fall. No splendour hails the awakening world, but along the eastern horizon there is a blood-red streak. Just in Lato's path a solitary white butterfly flutters upon the ground. The wind grows stronger, the drops fall more thickly; the pale blossoms by the roadside shiver; the red poppies do not open their cups, but hang their heads as if drunk with sleep.