The fox was taken. Out of the far distance a triumphant "Halali!" was heard, and then the horn sounded to collect the scattered members of the hunt. Countess Angela and her escort were by this time at the border of the wood. Ivan sounded his horn in answer to the summons, and to show the others that they were already on their way home. They arrived at the castle a quarter of an hour before the rest of the company. Then they separated, and did not meet again until supper-time. The huntsmen spent the interval talking over the day's exploits, and the ladies were occupied with their toilettes.

Countess Angela told her aunt what had happened. She was incapable of any sort of deceit. Lies, which come so easily to the lips of some women, were impossible to her. If she did not tell a thing she kept silent; but to speak what was not true--never! But what if Ivan related to the men what had occurred? It was so much the habit to talk over the day's sport, and make a jest of everything. Why should he not make capital of such an adventure--a rescued lady--a beauty in _deshabille_?

When supper-time came it struck every one that the countess had a constrained manner, and closer observers noticed that she avoided looking at Ivan. She was dressed all in black, which was, perhaps, the reason that she was so pale. She was silent and preoccupied; she was wondering if they all knew what Ivan knew. The gentlemen tried to amuse her. They were full of the day's run, how the fox had doubled, how they thought they would never catch him, how they regretted that the countess had not been present, how unfortunate it was that she had been on the opposite side of the mountain, but that it was far better for her to have lost the run than to have ventured to leap the crevice. That would, indeed, have been madness; an accident would certainly have been the result. No one alluded to the fact that she had met an ugly one; but, then, well-bred people never do allude to anything unpleasant, which, though otherwise agreeable, has this drawback, that one never knows how much or how little they know.

It was a remark of her cousin Edmund that convinced Angela eventually that Ivan had kept his own counsel as to her accident.

"Did Behrend accompany you to the house?" he asked. (No one now called him Ritter Magnet, nor were there any familiar jokes with him).

"Yes."

"And his escort was not agreeable to you?"

"What makes you say that?" inquired Angela, hastily.

"From Ivan's manner; he seems terribly down in his luck. He hasn't a word to say to a dog, and he avoids looking at you. Don't you remark it? You have, I think, made the place too hot for him; he won't stay longer. Have I guessed right?"

"Yes, quite right."

"Shall I give him a hint to go?"

"Do, for my sake; but without harshness. I will not have him offended."

"Do you think I am such a bungler? I have an excellent plan to get him away quietly."

"You must tell me what it is. I am not vexed with the man, only he bores me. Do you understand? I won't have him driven away by any of you; but if he goes by his own free choice, I should be glad if he were at the antipodes."

"Well, I have no objection to tell you what I mean to do. This man is a scholar, a philosopher, as you know. He holds very different opinions from us who live in the world. For one thing, he abhors duelling. Don't spoil your pretty face by frowning. I am not going to call him out, neither is any one else, so far as I know; that would be a stupid joke. But this evening, in the smoking-room, Salista and I will get up a dispute about some trifle or another; the end of it will be a challenge. I will ask Behrend and Geza to be my seconds. Now, what will happen? If Behrend refuses, which is most likely, he will have to withdraw from our party--that is the etiquette--and we will have nothing more to say to him. If, on the contrary, he accepts, then the other seconds will manage to fall out about the arrangements of our meeting--Salista's and mine--and the regular consequence of such a falling out is that the seconds challenge one another; then our philosopher packs up his traps, thanks us for our hospitality, goes back to brew his gas. He doesn't fight, not he; for I hold that, although it is within the bounds of possibility that even a philosopher, if deeply insulted, may have recourse to his pistol to punish the offender, yet, when it is a matter of pure, worldly etiquette, it is only your born gentleman who will stand up in a duel."

"But suppose he does consent to fight this duel?"

"Then my plot has failed. We should then have a sort of court-martial, and it would have to decide that no offence was meant and none given.

We would all shake hands, and the little comedy would be at an end."

Angela yawned, as if weary of the subject. "Do as you like," she said.

"But take care. This man can show his teeth; he can bite."

"Leave that to me."

That evening at supper the conversation was purposely turned on duelling, for the purpose of convincing Angela that Ivan's views on the subject were sound as regarded his own safety. The opportunity offered, for the latest event in fashionable life was a duel, in which the only son of a well-known and distinguished family had lost his life for some silly dispute about a trifle.

"I hold the duel to be not merely a mistake, but a crime," said Ivan.

"It is flying in the face of G.o.d to take the law into our own hands.

The _Te Deum_ which the conqueror sings over his murderous act is a disgrace; it cries to Heaven for vengeance. The appeal to weapons as satisfaction is likewise an offence against society, for it hinders the possibility of telling the truth. The man who tells us our faults openly to our face is a benefactor, but by the present laws of society we are bound to challenge him, and to kill him if we can; we have no other course, so it must be false compliments or the duello."

Edmund continued the discussion. "I take a different view of the matter," he said. "If duelling were not a law of society it would be in a sense a denial of G.o.d's mercy, for if you look at it in this way it cannot be denied that one man is weak, another man strong, and that this is a decree of Providence. The result of this difference in many instances would be that the weaker would be the slave of the stronger, who could box his ears, insult him, and all the law would give him would be, perhaps, a couple of pounds. This chasm between the law of G.o.d and the law of man is filled by the pistol-ball, which puts the strong and the weak on the same level. The pistol is not a judge, for it often decides the cause unjustly. Nevertheless, this unwritten law, and the respect, not to say fear, it infuses, has a salutary effect, and makes it impossible for the bully to tyrannize over a man of more education but less physical strength."

"But that it should be so is a crime of society," answered Ivan. "A false sentiment of honor has dictated this law. The world has no right to make such a rule; it should honor those equally, be they poor or rich, well-born or humble, who keep the law of the land as it is const.i.tuted. But what does society do? If a gentleman gets a box on the ear from another, and does not immediately demand satisfaction for the insult, and, _nolens volens_, make himself a target to be shot at by perhaps a better marksman than himself, what happens? He is at once dishonored; society ostracizes him. The world, if it pretend to any justice in the matter, should reform this absurd principle, and punish the man who has given the first offence. Then society, and not a leaden ball, would be judge."

"That is all very fine in theory, my dear sir; but I ask you, as a man of honor, to put yourself in the position in which, for some reason or another, you find it necessary to have satisfaction for an affront."

"I could not imagine myself placed in any such position," Ivan answered, quietly. "I offend no one intentionally, and should I do so inadvertently, I would at once apologize. I give no man the opportunity to asperse my honor, and if he were foolish enough to do so I would call upon those who know, and I should deem myself indeed unfortunate if they did not clear me of any such accusation."

"But suppose the honor of some one near and dear to you were attacked?"

"I have no one who stands to me in that close relationship."

This last remark cut short the discussion. Nevertheless, before many hours had pa.s.sed the Marquis Salista proved to Ivan that there was one person whose good name was dear to him.

It was at supper, and Angela was present. The marquis was entertaining her with anecdotes of the revolution, in which he had taken part. He was bragging fearfully that when he was lieutenant of the cuira.s.siers he performed prodigies. At the battle of Izsa.s.seg, with only a handful of men, he routed the entire regiment of Lehel Hussars, and at Alt Gzoney he cut the Wilhelm Hussars to pieces, and didn't spare a man.

Not a feature in Ivan's face moved. He listened silently to these wonderful tales. Angela at last grew weary of all this boasting and glorification of the Austrians over the degraded Hungarians; she turned to Ivan, and put to him a direct question:

"Is this all true?"

Ivan shrugged his shoulders. "What can I, a poor miner who lives underground, know of what goes on on the surface of the great earth?"

Angela need not have anxiety about him. He is a philosopher, and there is no fear he will go too near the fire.

After supper the company separated; Count Stefan, with Countess Theudelinde and some other ladies, went into the drawing-room. The moon shone through the bow-windows. The countess played the piano, and Angela came and spoke to Ivan.

"Here is your pin," she said. "You know the old superst.i.tion--a present of sharp-pointed instruments dissolves friendship, and those who wish to be friends never give them?"

"But," answered Ivan, smiling, "the superst.i.tion provides an antidote which breaks the spell. Both friends must laugh over the present."

"Ah, that is why you laughed when I spoke of the iron goads. There, take back your pin, and let us laugh for superst.i.tion's sake!"

And they laughed together, because it was a superst.i.tion so to do.

Then Angela went out on the balcony, and took counsel from the soft air of the summer's evening; she leaned over the bal.u.s.trade, waiting for Count Edmund, who had promised to bring her the first news of how the plot had worked.

The gentlemen stayed late in the smoking-room; the night is their time for enjoying themselves, so Angela had a long vigil. The moon had long disappeared behind the high tops of the poplar-trees before Angela heard Edmund's step coming through the drawing-room to the bow-window.

The ladies were still playing the piano; they could talk unreservedly.

"Well, what has happened?" asked Angela.

Edmund was agitated. "Our trifle has turned out a rank piece of folly," he said, crossly.

"How?"

"I should not tell you, Angela, but the situation is such that it would be wrong to conceal anything from you. We had it all arranged just as I told you. When we were in the smoking-room we began to play our practical joke. Some one said how pleased you seemed to be with Hungary--"

"Oh, how stupid of you!" said Angela, angrily.

"I know now it was a stupid thing to do. I wish I had seen it before; but it always happens the knowledge comes too late."

"What business had you, or any one, to mention my name? I gave no permission to have it done."