| "Stand back, thou manifest conspirator: Thou that contrivedst to murder!" Shakspeare. |
| "Farewell, my lord! Good wishes, praise, and prayers, Shall Suffolk ever have of Margaret. Farewell, sweet madam!" Idem. |
In a small room on the first floor of the old house occupied by the Jew druggist, sat Otmar once more, on the evening of the important day which had decided the fortunes of Maria Theresa. He had returned to the temporary home from which he had been so inhospitably driven, in order to direct the removal of his scanty baggage, and the few relics that reminded him of happier times, and the brighter days of his childhood, and which, during the day, his old attendant had collected together.
The room was wainscoted with blackened oak, the sombre shades of which were unrelieved by any ornament; and at a table, near the heavy casement-window, a part of which was open, rather to admit the fading light of day into the dark apartment than the autumn air of the chill evening, sat the young noble, tracing slowly the lines of a letter, which he seemed to compose with difficulty, and not without many a hesitation and many a heavy sigh.
Upon a packed portmanteau, in the middle of the room, sat Farkas, puffing from a short pipe small clouds of smoke, which issued in regular but uneasy jerks from beneath his thick overhanging moustache. From time to time he nodded his head impatiently, with a sideward movement, and murmured between his teeth, without interrupting his employment, words that accompanied his intermittent puffs, like the distant rumbling which follows the smoke of the cannon on the far-off battle-field.
"Teremtette!" he muttered angrily. "I shall not be easy until I am quit of this den of the old hyena, who has turned my lord out of doors like a gipsy beggar-boy—and why? The foul fiend only knows. I should like to wring the old ruffian's neck for him, like a carrion-crow, eb adta!"
At length the young noble threw down his pen.
"It is done!" he exclaimed with a sigh. "I have written to the old advocate at Buda to send me the papers I require. I must not think on my own fortunes. My father's honour must be saved; and my own beggary shall be signed before I leave this country."
"Too honest by half to such rascals as those villanous cheating money-lenders, whoever they may be, eb adta!" muttered Farkas again unheard, with a vexed shrug of the shoulders.
"Is all prepared?" said Otmar, turning to his attendant.