But Harry ceases to muse, for the shrill clang of the bell summons him to supper. He finds the entire family assembled in the dining-room when he enters. All are laughing and talking, even Zdena, who is allowing handsome, precocious Vladimir to make love to her after more and more startling fashion. She informs Harry that Vips has just made her a proposal of marriage, which disparity of age alone prevents her from accepting, for in fact she is devoted to the lad.

"I renounce you from a sense of duty, Vips," she assures the young gentleman, gently passing her delicate forefinger over his smooth brown cheek, whereupon Vips flushes up and exclaims,--

"If you won't have me, at least promise me that I shall be best man at your wedding!"

Harry laughs heartily. "What an alternative! Either bridegroom or best man!"

"But you will promise me, Zdena, won't you?" the boy persists.

"It depends upon whom I marry," Zdena replies, with dignity. "The bridegroom will have a word to say upon the subject." As she speaks, her eyes encounter Harry's; she drops them instantly, her cheeks flush, and she pauses in confusion.

As she takes her place at table, she finds a letter beside her plate, post-marked Bayreuth, and sealed with a huge coat-of-arms. Evidently startled, she slips it into her pocket unopened.

"From whom?" asks Heda, whose curiosity is always on the alert.

"From--from Bayreuth."

"From Aunt Rosa?"

Zdena makes no reply.

"From Wenkendorf?" Harry asks, crossly.

The blood rushes to her cheeks. "Yes," she murmurs.

"How interesting!" Heda exclaims. "I really should like to hear his views as to the musical mysteries in Bayreuth. Read the letter aloud to us."

"Oh, it is sure to be tiresome," Zdena replies, heaping her plate with potatoes in her confusion.

"I wish you a good appetite!" Vladimir exclaims.

Zdena looks in dismay at the potatoes piled upon her plate.

"At least open the letter," says Heda.

"Open it, pray!" Harry repeats.

Mechanically Zdena obeys, breaks the seal, and hastily looks through the letter. Her cheeks grow redder and redder, her hands tremble.

"Come, read it to us."

Instead of complying, Zdena puts the document in her pocket again, and murmurs, much embarrassed, "There--there is nothing in it about Bayreuth."

"Ah, secrets!" Heda says, maliciously.

Zdena makes no reply, but gazes in desperation at the mound of potatoes on her plate. It never decreases in the least during the entire meal.

Jealousy, which has slept for a while in Harry's breast, springs to life again. One is not a Leskjewitsch for nothing. So she keeps up a correspondence with Wenkendorf! Ah! he may be deceived in her. Why was she so confused at the first sight of the letter? and why did she hide it away so hastily? Who knows?--she may be trifling with her old adorer, holding him in reserve as it were, because she has not quite decided as to her future. Who--who can be trusted, if that fair, angelic face can mask such guile?

Countess Zriny, as amiable and benevolent as ever,--Vips calls her "syrup diluted with holy water,"--notices that something has occurred to annoy the others, and attempts to change their train of thought.

"How is your dog, my dear Harry?" she asks her nephew across the table.

"Very ill," the young officer replies, curtly.

"Indeed? Oh, how sad! What is the matter with him?"

"I wish I knew. He drags his legs, his tail droops, and he has fever. I cannot help thinking that some one has thrown a stone at him, and I cannot imagine who could have been guilty of such cruelty."

"Poor Hector! 'Tis all up with him; he has no appetite," Vips murmurs.

"How do you know that?" Harry turns sharply upon the lad.

"I took him a piece of bread this afternoon," stammers Vips.

"Indeed?" Harry bursts forth. "Do that again and you shall suffer for it. I strictly forbade you to go near the dog!" Then, turning to the others, he explains: "I had to have the dog chained up, out of regard for the servants' nonsensical fears!"

"But, Harry," Vips begins, coaxingly, after a while, "if I must not go near the dog you ought not to have so much to do with him. You went to him several times to-day."

"That's very different; he is used to me," Harry sternly replies to his brother, who is looking at him with eyes full of anxious affection. "I have to see to him, since all the asses of servants, beginning with that old fool Blasius, are afraid of the poor brute. Moreover, he has everything now that he needs."

Vips knits his brows thoughtfully and shakes his head.

Suddenly the door of the dining-room opens, and old Blasius appears, pale as ashes, and trembling in every limb.

"What is the matter?" Harry asks, springing up.

"Herr Baron, I----" the old man stammers.

"What is the matter?"

"I told the Herr Baron how it would be," the old man declares, with the whimsical self-assertion which so often mingles with distress in the announcement of some misfortune: "Hector has gone mad."

"Nonsense! what do you know about hydrophobia? Let the dog alone!" Harry shouts, stamping his foot.

"He has broken his chain."

"Then chain him up again! Send Johann here." (Johann is Harry's special servant.)

"Johann is not at home. The Herr Baron does not know what he orders. The dog rushes at everything in its path, and tears and bites it. No one dares to go near him, not even the butcher. He must be killed."

"What, you coward!" Harry shouts; "my dog killed because of a little epilepsy, or whatever it is that ails him!" Meanwhile, Harry notices that his brother, who had vanished into the next room for a moment, is now attempting with a very resolute air to go out through the door leading into the hall. Harry seizes him by the shoulder and stops him: "Where are you going?"

Vips is mute.

"What have you in your hand?"

It is Harry's revolver.

"Is it loaded?" he asks, sternly.

"Yes," Vips replies, scarce audibly.

"Put it down there on the piano!" Harry orders, harshly. The poor boy obeys sadly, and then throws his arms around his brother.

"But you will stay here, Harry? dear Harry, you will not go near the dog?"

"You silly boy, do you suppose I am to do whatever you bid me?" Harry rejoins. And, pinning the lad's arms to his sides from behind, he lifts him up, carries him into the next room, locks him in, puts the key in his pocket, and, without another word, leaves the room. Blasius stays in the dining-room, wringing his hands, and finally engages in a wailing conversation with Vips, who is kicking violently at the door behind which he is confined. Heda, the Countess Zriny, and FrÄulein Laut, their backs towards the piano, upon which lies the revolver, form an interesting group, expressing in every feature terror and helplessness.

"Perhaps he may not be mad," Countess Zriny observes, after a long silence, resolved as ever to ignore unpleasant facts. "However, I have my eau de Lourdes, at all events."

At this moment the rustle of a light garment is heard. The Countess looks round for Zdena, but she has vanished. Whither has she gone?

The dining-room has four doors,--one into the garden, another opposite leading into the hall, a third opening into Harry's room, and a fourth into the pantry. Through this last Zdena has slipped. From the pantry a narrow, dark passage leads down a couple of steps into a lumber-room, which opens on the courtyard.

Zdena, when she steps into the court-yard, closes the door behind her and looks around. Her heart beats tumultuously. She hopes to reach Harry before he meets the dog; but, look where she may, she cannot see him.

Wandering clouds veil the low moon; its light is fitful, now bright, then dim. The shadows dance and fade, and outlines blend in fantastic indistinctness. The wind has risen; it shrieks and howls, and whirls the dust into the poor girl's eyes. A frightful growling sound mingles with the noise of the blast.

Zdena's heart beats faster; she is terribly afraid. "Harry!" she calls, in an agonized tone; "Harry!" In vain. She hears his shrill whistle at the other end of the court-yard, hears him call, commandingly, "Hector, come here, sir!" He is far away. She hurries towards him. Hark! Her heart seems to stand still. Near her sounds the rattle of a chain; a pair of fierce bloodshot eyes glare at her: the dog is close at hand. He sees her, and makes ready for a spring.

It is true that the girl has a revolver in her hand, but she has no idea what to do with it; she has never fired a pistol in her life. In desperate fear she clambers swiftly upon a wood-pile against the brewery wall. The dog, in blind fury, leaps at the wood, falls back, and then runs howling in another direction. The moon emerges from the clouds, and pours its slanting beams into the court-yard. At last Zdena perceives her headstrong cousin; he is going directly towards the dog.

"Hector!" he shouts; "Hector!"

A few steps onward he comes, when Zdena slips down from her secure height. Panting, almost beside herself, the very personification of heroic self-sacrifice and desperate terror, she hurries up to Harry.

"What is it--Zdena--you?" Harry calls out. For, just at the moment when he stretches out his hand to clutch at the dog's collar, a slender figure rushes between him and the furious brute.

"Here, Harry,--the revolver!" the girl gasps, holding out the weapon. There is a sharp report: Hector turns, staggers, and falls dead!

The revolver drops from Harry's hand; he closes his eyes. For a few seconds he stands as if turned to stone, and deadly pale. Then he feels a soft touch upon his arm, and a tremulous voice whispers,--

"Forgive me, Harry! I know how you must grieve for your poor old friend, but--but I was so frightened for you!"

He opens his eyes, and, throwing his arm around the girl, exclaims,--

"You angel! Can you for an instant imagine that at this moment I have a thought to bestow upon the dog, dearly as I loved him?"

His arm clasps her closer.

"Harry!" she gasps, distressed.

With a sigh he releases her.

In the summits of the old walnuts there soughs a wail of discontent, and the moon, which shone forth but a moment ago so brilliantly, and which takes delight in the kisses of happy lovers, veils its face in clouds before its setting, being defrauded of any such satisfaction.

"Come into the house," whispers Zdena. But walking is not so easy as she thinks. She is so dizzy that she can hardly put one foot before the other, and, whether she will or not, she must depend upon Harry to support her.

"Fool that I am!" he mutters. "Lean upon me, you poor angel! You are trembling like an aspen-leaf."

"I can hardly walk,--I was so terribly afraid," she confesses.

"On my account?" he asks.

"No, not on your account alone, but on my own, too," she replies, laughing, "for, entirely between ourselves, I am a wretched coward."

"Really? Oh, Zdena--" He presses the hand that rests on his arm.

"But, Harry," she says, very gravely this time, "I am not giddy now. I can walk very well." And she takes her hand from his arm.

He only laughs, and says, "As you please, my queen, but you need not fear me. If a man ever deserved Paradise, I did just then." He points to the spot beneath the old walnuts, where the moon had been disappointed.

A few seconds later they enter the dining-room, where are the three ladies, and the Countess Zriny advances to meet Harry with a large bottle of eau de Lourdes, a tablespoonful of which Heda is trying to heat over the flame of the lamp, while FrÄulein Laut pauses in her account of a wonderful remedy for hydrophobia.

Harry impatiently cuts short all the inquiries with which he is besieged, with "The dog is dead; I shot him!" He does not relate how the deed was done. At first he had been disposed to extol Zdena's heroism, but he has thought better of it. He resolves to keep for himself alone the memory of the last few moments, to guard it in his heart like a sacred secret. As Vips is still proclaiming his presence in the next room by pounding upon the door, Harry takes the key from his pocket and smilingly releases the prisoner. The lad rushes at his brother. "Did he not bite you? Really not?" And when Harry answers, "No," he entreats, "Show me your hands, Harry,--both of them!" and then he throws his arms about the young man and clasps him close.

"Oh, you foolish fellow!" Harry exclaims, stroking the boy's brown head. "But now be sensible; don't behave like a girl. Do you hear?"

"My nerves are in such a state," sighs Heda.

Harry stamps his foot. "So are mine! I would advise you all to retire, and recover from this turmoil."

Soon afterwards the house is silent. Even Vips has been persuaded to go to bed and sleep off his fright. Harry, however, is awake. After ordering Blasius to bury the dog, and to bring him his revolver, which he now remembers to have left lying beside the animal's body, he seats himself on the flight of steps leading from the dining-room into the garden, leans his elbows on his knees and his head on his hands, and dreams. The wind has subsided, and the night seems to him lovely in spite of the misty clouds that veil the sky. The flowers are fragrant,--oh, how fair life is! Suddenly he hears a light step; he rises, goes into the corridor, and finds Zdena putting a letter into the postbag. He approaches her, and their eyes meet. In vain does she attempt to look grave. She smiles, and her smile is mirrored in his eyes.

"To whom was the letter?" he asks, going towards her. Not that there is a spark of jealousy left in his heart for the moment, but he delights to coax her secrets from her, to share in all that concerns her.

"Is it any affair of yours?" she asks, with dignity.

"No, but I should like to know."

"I will not tell you."

"Suppose I guess?"

She shrugs her shoulders.

"To Wenkendorf," he whispers, advancing a step nearer her, as she makes no reply.

"What did he write to you?" Harry persists.

"That is no concern of yours."

"What if I guess that, too?"

"Then I hope you will keep your knowledge to yourself, and not mention your guess to any one," Zdena exclaims, eagerly.

"He proposed to you," Harry says, softly.

Zdena sighs impatiently.

"Well, yes!" she admits at last, turning to Harry a blushing face as she goes on. "But I really could not help it. I did what I could to prevent it, but men are so conceited and headstrong. If one of them takes an idea into his head there is no disabusing him of it."

"Indeed! is that the way with all men?" Harry asks, ready to burst into a laugh.

"Yes, except when they have other and worse faults,--are suspicious and bad-tempered."

"But then these last repent so bitterly, and are so ashamed of themselves."

"Oh, as for that, he will be ashamed of himself too." Then, suddenly growing grave, she adds, "I should be very sorry to have----"

"To have any one hear of his disappointed hopes," Harry interposes, with a degree of malicious triumph in his tone. "Do not fear; we will keep his secret."

"Good-night!" She takes up her candlestick, which she had put down on the table beside which they are standing, and turns towards the winding staircase.

"Zdena!" Harry whispers, softly.

"What is it?"

"Nothing: only--is there really not a regret in your heart for the wealth you have rejected?"

She shakes her head slowly, as if reflecting. "No," she replies: "what good would it have done me? I could not have enjoyed it." Then she suddenly blushes crimson, and, turning away from him, goes to the staircase.

"Zdena!" he calls again; "Zdena!" But the white figure has vanished at the turn of the steps, and he is alone. For a while he stands gazing into the darkness that has swallowed her up. "God keep you!" he murmurs, tenderly, and finally betakes himself to his room, with no thought, however, of going to bed.