Jealousy, which has slept for a while in Harry's breast, springs to life again. One is not a Leskjewitsch for nothing. So she keeps up a correspondence with Wenkendorf! Ah! he may be deceived in her. Why was she so confused at the first sight of the letter? and why did she hide it away so hastily? Who knows?--she may be trifling with her old adorer, holding him in reserve as it were, because she has not quite decided as to her future. Who--who can be trusted, if that fair, angelic face can mask such guile?
Countess Zriny, as amiable and benevolent as ever,--Vips calls her "syrup diluted with holy water,"--notices that something has occurred to annoy the others, and attempts to change their train of thought.
"How is your dog, my dear Harry?" she asks her nephew across the table.
"Very ill," the young officer replies, curtly.
"Indeed? Oh, how sad! What is the matter with him?"
"I wish I knew. He drags his legs, his tail droops, and he has fever. I cannot help thinking that some one has thrown a stone at him, and I cannot imagine who could have been guilty of such cruelty."
"Poor Hector! 'Tis all up with him; he has no appetite," Vips murmurs.
"How do you know that?" Harry turns sharply upon the lad.
"I took him a piece of bread this afternoon," stammers Vips.
"Indeed?" Harry bursts forth. "Do that again and you shall suffer for it. I strictly forbade you to go near the dog!" Then, turning to the others, he explains: "I had to have the dog chained up, out of regard for the servants' nonsensical fears!"