"Very well, Apafi. I have nothing more to say to you for you are not in your senses. But to you, my Lord High Counsellor, who are always sober, I have a word to say:—I raised you from the dust; I helped you to your present position; in gratitude for this you have forced yourself between my heart and the Prince's so that whenever I would approach my husband I find you in my path. You have taken the sceptre out of the Prince's hand and in its stead you have forced into his hand the headsman's sword, so that he begins to rule by that. Now let me tell you that if I am not allowed to get to the Prince's heart yet I will stand in the way of the headsman's sword. Whenever it is to fall I shall be found between the blow and the victim; and you two choice menials,—barons—you Szekeli and you Nalaczy who cannot yourselves tell now how you so suddenly became great lords, remember that the wheel goes down as often as up and that the judgment which to-day you pass against others by to-morrow may be carried out against yourselves. And the rest of you intriguing lords, who get courage for your timid hearts out of the wine cups, remember, and shudder at the thought, that in the bumpers in your hands not wine, but the blood of the innocent, foams. Shame on you all, that you give your Prince wine that you may demand of him blood! And now, your Highness, add two weeks more to my term of exile."

With these words the Princess quickly left the hall. The lords were silent and dared not look at each other. Teleki rose, closed the door, dipped his quill and said:

"Let us continue from where we left off."

CHAPTER XVII
DEATH FOR A KISS

Paul Beldi took the direct route from Karlsburg to Bodola. All the way he was tormented by the thought which Teleki's words had called up again. In itself a kiss is a very innocent matter but if another knows of it, has noticed it?—if this should be only one pole of the world of distrust about which the soul revolves bringing up now this, now that, which might have happened before and after,—and then too another knows of it?—The husband thought that a kiss nobody knew about caused no defect in his wife's virtue—but now it lived on the lips of others; perhaps still more; perhaps the world was dragging his honor in the dust while he supposed it well guarded, and the first sound of the derision to him so deadly had just reached his ear, and that too from his most hated foe. . . .

Night interrupted his thoughts. The horses were tired out, Beldi had given them no rest, had had no fresh relays,—only on and on. He wished to get home as quickly as possible—to have under his eyes that wife who had cost him such disgrace—who knows how much!— But is it sufficient satisfaction to see a woman weep or die when a man still lives on whom he might take revenge?—a man too who had been his enemy from the time when they had both served as pages of Gabriel Bethlen and who now sought out the most sensitive spot in his heart to tear it with his ruthless hand.

"Turn about!" he shouted to the driver. "Take the road to Klausenburg."

The old servant shook his head, turned into a side road and soon lost the road so completely in this wandering by night that he was at last obliged to confess to his master that he did not know himself where they were. Beldi trembled with inward emotion. Looking about him he saw not far off a light, and quite out of temper he bade the coachman drive toward it. They drove into the courtyard of a lonely country house. The barking of the great house-dog brought out the master, in whom Beldi recognized old Adam Gyergyai one of his dearest friends who, as he recognized Beldi, hurried forward to embrace him, beside himself with joy.

"Good-evening, my dear friend," said the good old man, covering his guest with kisses:—"I do not ask what good fortune has brought you to me."