Thus far he had been so fortunate in avoiding the throng of guests that he had not once met Magdalene. Even if he had come directly in her path, she might not have recognized him, for she rarely raised her eyes unless addressed.
The cushion dance came next. To a monotonous melody, the silken cushion passed from hand to hand accompanied by an exchange of kisses. The cushion came at last into Idalia's hands. She must have been awaiting it for some time for the young dancers were in the habit of gaining a kiss from their heart's desire. She had to wait until it was the turn of a young man, still free, who saw in her only a beautiful woman. Idalia paid the forfeit to the man at her feet; and now it was the order of the dance that she should come into the middle of the circle and dance alone while she passed in review, the dancers circling about her, until she made her choice. Idalia laughed silently to herself; she cast a glance full of bewitching coquetry at Berezowski, then swaying gracefully in the dance, she glided towards him and laid the cushion at his feet, then the circle broke up, and the chosen man was left alone. Berezowski reddened to the ears for joy; his eyes beamed, but they did not seek the beautiful face of the woman who knelt before him, but the pallid face of his betrothed, who stood opposite; in anticipation of the two kisses, he parted his whiskers carefully. The first kiss would only set him free, it was the second which would seal a bond. Magdalene understood the glance, and her face crimsoned to her very hair. Father Peter clenched the silver cup in his hand until the wine spilled on the table. "Quid habes?" called out his brother priest at the table. But just as Berezowski bent over to kiss Idalia, Grazian Likovay sprang between the two and rudely dragged the Pole back. "Hold," he cried, "my future son-in-law shall not kiss this woman here." Idalia sprang passionately to her feet and pressed her two hands to her head. "That you——! I am as much of a lady as you are a gentleman."
"Without doubt," he replied, "you are a widow who has killed your husband, and now has taken into your house your paramour, disguised as a monk. There he sits, holding the boy in his lap to accustom him to his fatherhood. Or is it not true that the Jesuit there is your lover?" and with that he sprang to the table of the monks and dragged Father Peter's cowl from his head. "Now, then, who is this priest? Is it not Tihamer Csorbai? The lover of this beautiful woman, and in a monk's cowl?"
The whole hall rang with loud laughter and outcries. Everybody recognized at once Tihamer Csorbai, who had vanished and been generally reported dead. He was anything but dead. He had simply entered the service of a beautiful woman. Father Peter stood in the midst of this crowd of screaming guests; with his right hand he seized the bench on which he leaned. If rage overpowers here is a death blow and a broken skull.
"Peter," rang out the powerful voice of Emerich the Bishop, "are you a monk or a knight?"
The youth's arm sank, he bowed his head. "I am a monk."
"Then withdraw. Woe unto those who excite strife!"
The rest of the monks considered that the command had been given. Unfastening the cords about their waists, they began to scourge the despised guest from the hall, with scorn and curses in a confusion of Greek and Latin. Father Peter took no thought except that the boy should receive none of the blows; he wrapped him in his cowl and hurried away from the company. He did not give himself time to see what happened later. He did not see how the pale face of Magdalene tried to rush to him. Why? Perhaps to shield him, and perhaps to share his shame. But her father seized her rudely and dragged her back to the arms of Berezowski,—"There is your place."
The beautiful fury, with teeth shining, advanced to Grazian; her red hair broke loose from her cap, on which the jewelled pins shook with her tremor of rage. "Well, Grazian Likovay, you shall pay me for this night! Once already have I aimed my dagger at your heart, and this time be sure it shall be to your death!" And with that, she dashed out of the hall, pushing everything aside that did not give way before her. As she passed by Thurzo and his wife, she said defiantly. "My best thanks to my lord and his lady for their hospitality. You are not one hair better than others." And she snapped her fingers contemptuously, and went on her way. That same night, though late, she left the Castle of Bittse with her entire retinue. She travelled by torch-light through the fierce winter night resounding with the cries of hungry wolves.