THE HORSE HAD FALLEN ON HIM AND ROLLED OVER HIM.
"I am glad Praga didn't kill him," I said. "But I can't say I am sorry he has met his death. He deserved it."
The others made no reply, and we held on our way without speaking. The officer rode on the other side of Minna; and the silence of the night was broken only by the sound of the horses' hoofs, the major's being restive, and breaking now and then into an amble.
"Do you know much of Signor Praga, Prince?" asked the major after a long silence.
"Not enough to speak of him," I replied shortly; and the effort at conversation closed as abruptly as it had begun.
When we had covered a couple more miles, he said he would ride on and prepare for our arrival, and I was not sorry to be quit of him.
"It is a terrible end," said Minna thoughtfully, referring to von Nauheim.
"A more merciful one than he deserved," said I. I could find no pity for such a scoundrel. "He has been a traitor all his life."
"He is dead," said the girl gently.
"But he lived too long. Years ago I would have killed him had he not run from me."
"You knew him years ago?"
"And never knew anything but ill of him. It was because of my knowledge of him that I stayed on at Gramberg. That is part of the story I have yet to tell you."
"When?" she asked eagerly.
"To-morrow. I would tell it you now, but we are close to the house."
And a few minutes later we turned in at the lodge gates, and were winding our way through the high shrubs which lined the drive for more than half the way to the mansion.
When we reached the house an old motherly woman came forward to receive Minna and take her to her rooms.
The girl stood a moment, and put both her hands into mine, with a gesture she had used once just after my arrival at Gramberg. She was thinking of it, too.
"Do you remember my telling you at Gramberg how I trusted you?" she asked, leaving her hands in mine and looking into my eyes.
"I could never forget it," said I, speaking low.
"My instinct was very true, wasn't it? I knew. And after to-night I trust my friend more than I even trusted my cousin. Goodnight, friend—and cousin."
"Goodnight."
A slight shade passed over her face for a moment, though a great light was shining in her eyes, and she waited as it I should say more.
"Good night, Minna," I whispered.
And then she cast her eyes down and blushed; and after standing thus for the space of perhaps five seconds she took her hands gently out of mine, glanced once rapidly into my face, smiled, and turned to the woman, who was waiting at a distance.
"Be up early, cousin," I called to her in a tone of assumed indifference, as if anything about her could be indifferent to me, "for we must make our plans."
"I am quite as anxious as you," she replied; but the real answer was with her eyes, which reflected the thought beneath my words—that I should be all eagerness till the time came for us to meet again.