“No,” he almost shouted, his clear voice resounding through the evening stillness and startling the nesting birds in the trees, “surely God will never forgive Hugo Stein. And it maddens me to think he should have gone out of the world with my three debts to him unpaid. One was, for robbing me of my estate; another was, for murdering my cousin; and the third and worst was, for slandering an innocent lady.”
Berwick said no word. Roger’s dark face was flushed, and he breathed heavily, clenching and unclenching his fists as he walked.
They had now come to the great green semicircular alcove on the terrace. There was not a soul in that retired spot. Not even the great golden moon, rising behind the trees, lighted up that solitary place.
“Hugo Stein was killed in a drunken frenzy by the Prince of Orlamunde,” said Berwick, quietly.
Roger stopped still as if the name of Orlamunde gave him a shock. Berwick continued in the same quiet voice, but he looked away from Roger as he spoke, and they both moved about a little.
“Yes, the Prince of Orlamunde, the poorest swordsman in Europe, killed Hugo Stein, a master in the art, by a single blow, such as one seldom sees in a lifetime. And the Prince paid for his skill with his life. Hugo Stein, dying, ran him through the body. Hugo Stein was in no drunken frenzy. Though with a mortal wound, his hand was steady to deal one last blow to his enemy. Never were two villains better served.”
Roger Egremont again stood still and walked on and stood still, like a man in a dream. Truly was he in a dream. He had but grasped the idea that Egremont was his once more, when he found—he found—Michelle was free! That was all; but it was enough to make him feel as a mortal does when first rapt into Paradise. He saw himself again at Egremont, and, vision bright and fair, Michelle was beside him. It was so dazzling, so bewildering, that he put his hand before his eyes as if to shield himself from the splendor of his dream.
Again he heard Berwick’s voice.
“There were strange circumstances before the killing. The Prince could not do without the Princess’s dowry, and finding she was in the house of the Scotch Benedictines, contrived a letter to her by Bernstein. In it he told her if she did not return to him, all the children in the French families at Orlamunde should die of a quick disease. He was quite capable of it. The Princess returned with Bernstein.”
Something in Roger’s face made Berwick continue rather quickly,—