“My dear,” said her husband, “I have brought you an old acquaintance, Professor Moritz.”
As Ebenstreit would retreat, Moritz commanded him to remain, placing his white-gloved hand upon his arm, and holding him fast. “I would ask you one question before I speak with the baroness.”
Moritz spoke so loud, and in such a strange, harsh, and repulsive manner, that every one turned astonished, asking himself what it meant. Conversation was hushed, and the curious pressed toward the peculiar group in the centre to the baroness, who regarded her husband perfectly composed, and the pale man, with the flashing eyes, the glance of which pierced her like daggers.
A breathless silence reigned, broken only by Ebenstreit’s trembling voice. “What is it, professor? How can I serve you?”
“Tell me who you are?” replied Moritz, with a gruff laugh.
“I am the Baron Ebenstreit von Leuthen!”
“And the scar which you bear upon your face, is it not the mark of a whip, with which I lashed a certain Herr Ebenstreit three years since, who prevented my eloping with my betrothed? I challenged him to fight a duel, but the coward refused me satisfaction, and then I struck him in the face, causing the blood to flow. Answer me—are you this gentleman?”
Not a sound interrupted the fearfully long pause which followed. Every one turned astonished to Ebenstreit, who, pale as death, was powerless to utter a word, but stood staring at his opponent.
“Why do you not answer me?” cried Moritz, stamping his foot. “Are you the coward? Was this red scar caused by the whip-lash?”
Another long pause ensued, and a distinctly audible voice was heard, saying, “Yes, it is he!”