Marsa recoiled in fear at hearing this cry and the sudden appearance of the Prince; and, trembling like a leaf, with her face still turned toward that threshold where Andras stood, she murmured, in a voice choked with emotion:
“Who is there? Who is it?”
Yanski Varhely, unable to believe his eyes, advanced, as if to make sure.
“Zilah!” he exclaimed, in his turn.
He could not understand; and Zilah himself wondered whether he were not the victim of some illusion, and where Menko could be, that Menko whom Marsa had expected, and whom he, the husband, had come to chastise.
But the most bewildered, in her mute amazement, was Marsa, her lips trembling, her face ashen, her eyes fixed upon the Prince, as she leaned against the marble of the mantelpiece to prevent herself from falling, but longing to throw herself on her knees before this man who had suddenly appeared, and who was master of her destiny.
“You here?” said Varhely at last. “You followed me, then?”
“No,” said Andras. “The one whom I expected to find here was not you.”
“Who was it, then?”
“Michel Menko!”