Again he waited.
"Milena," he whispered; and again, louder: "Milena, are you here?"
He stretched forth his hands, and groped his way in. Radonic could just distinguish him.
"Milena, my love, it is I, Vranic."
Those few words were like a sharp stab to Radonic. He made a superhuman effort not to move; for he wanted to see what the rascal would do next.
"Perhaps she has fallen asleep, or else has gone to bed," he muttered to himself.
He again advanced a few steps, always feeling his way. Evidently, he was going towards the next room; for he knew the house well. All at once, he stumbled against a stool. He was frightened; he thought someone had clutched him by the legs. He recovered, and shut the door behind him. It was a fatal step; for otherwise he might, perhaps, have managed to escape.
How easy it would now have been for Radonic to pounce upon him and dash his brains out; but he wanted to follow the drama out to its end, and now the last scene was at hand.
Vranic, having shut the door, remained quiet for some time. He fumbled in his pockets, took out his steel and flint, then struck a light. At the first spark he might have seen Radonic crouching a few steps from him, but he was too busy lighting the bit of candle he had brought with him. When his taper shed its faint glimmer, then he looked round, and, to his horror, he saw the figure of a man, with glistening eyes, and a dagger in his hand, standing not far from him. At first he did not recognise his friend, with shaven beard and in his new attire; still, he did not require more than a second glance to know who it was.
Terror at once overpowered him; he uttered a low, stifled cry. Retreat was now out of the question; he therefore tried to master his emotion.