or a
moment upon Rosenbusch, who officiously sprang to her assistance. This
scene caused the others to hasten up; and after the first shock was
over, they exhausted themselves in speculations upon this mysterious
occurrence. Who could possibly believe in hemorrhage in a young
man of such conspicuous strength and powerful figure? And as for a
fight--where were they to look for an adversary?

The friends were still standing around the ghastly spot, shocked and
not knowing what to do, when one of the hostlers, belonging to the
hotel, came running up and told them he had also discovered traces of
blood on the landing-bridge, and this knife lying near them, on the
bank. It was not an ordinary peasant's knife with the blade fastened
firmly in the handle, but a slim dagger of Damascus steel, and the
handle bore a distinct impression of a bloody hand; no one except Irene
knew to whom it had belonged.

In the mean while the carriage had driven up, and they lifted Irene in.
Though still suffering terribly, she struggled hard to maintain her
composure. The mother and daughter and the two young men crowded into
the other places as well as they could. Another short leave-taking,
whose brevity was perfectly explained by the gloomy mood they were all
in, and the aristocratic part of the company rolled away.

A few minutes later the boat pushed off from the shore, rowed by
Rosenbusch and Elfinger. The night was still and clear, and the cool
wind blew, soft and damp, upon the girls' hot cheeks. But they sat
nestled close to one another, and gazed in silence at the sparkling
water; nor did either of the friends utter a word. Aunt Babette alone
made a slight attempt at conversation, by saying how amiable these
aristocratic persons were upon nearer acquaintance, and what a pity it
was they could not have returned home together; for she had been
telling the young count so much about Rosenbusch's flute-playing.

As no one made any answer to all this, she, too, grew silent, folded
her hands in her lap, and appeared sunk in pious meditation.

CHAPTER IX.

It was close upon midnight when Irene's uncle returned, in his open
wagon, from a trip to the Ammersee. The old lion-hunter was in glorious
spirits; he had made several bull's-eyes at the shooting-match; had
made love to the ladies; and had found a willing ear for his most
fabulous African hunting-tales even among the men. Even his famous
story of