And with that he went away.
Apafi did not stay in his room, he felt the need of fresh air. Within something threatened to choke him so oppressive was the air,—or was it his spirits? He went out into the vestibule. The cool night air soothed his bewildered spirits and the sight of the starry heavens was good to his clouded mind. Leaning against the balustrade he gazed in silence into the still night as if he expected that some star greater than all the rest would fall from Heaven, or that somebody miles away from him would cry out. Suddenly a cry did strike his ear. With a shudder he looked about but remained speechless in terror. His wife stood before him, whom his lord councillors had kept away from him for weeks by causing a division between the stupefied husband and the high-spirited wife. When the last grandee had withdrawn her loyal men had informed her that the Prince had signed the death sentence and the shocked wife, forcing her way through castle guards had rushed to her husband; now meeting him in the vestibule she hurried to him and in her excitement cried out:
"Accursed man, do not shed the blood of that innocent one!"
Apafi drew back timidly before his wife.
"What do you wish of me?" he asked, sullenly. "What are you saying?"
"You have signed Banfy's death sentence."
"I?" asked Apafi dully, and reached for his wife's hand.
"Away with your hand, the blood of my kinsman is on it!"
"You do not approve it? I did not wish it;" stammered Apafi. "The lords compelled me to it."
The Princess clasped her hands together and looked at her husband in despair.