that communicated
between the rooms of Melanie and Czipra.]

The candle was still burning there.

But from her position she could not see Melanie. From the rustling of
garments she suspected that Melanie was taking off her dress. Now with
quiet steps she approached the table, on which the candle was burning.
She had a white dressing-gown on, her hair half let down, in her hand
that little black book, in which Czipra had so often admired those
"Glory" pictures without daring to ask what they were.

Melanie reached the table, and laying the little prayer-book on the
shelf of her mirror, kneeled down, and, clasping her two hands together,
rested against the corner of the table and prayed.

In that moment her whole figure was one halo of glory.

She was beautiful as a praying seraph, like one of those white phantoms
who rise with their airy figures to Heaven, palm-branches of glory in
their hands.

Czipra was annihilated.

She saw now that there was some superhuman phenomenon, before which
every passion bowed the knee, every purpose froze to crystals;--the
figure of a praying maiden! He who stole a look at that sight lost every
sinful emotion from his heart.

Czipra beat her breast in dumb agony. "She can fly, while I can only
crawl on the ground."

When the girl had finished her prayer she opened the book to find those
two glory-bright pictures, which she kissed several times in happy
rapture:--as the sufferer kisses his benefactor's hands, the orphan his
father's and mother's portraits, the miserable defenceless man the face
of God, who defends in the form of a column of cloud him who bows his
head under its shadow.

Czipra tore her hair in her despair and beat her brow upon the floor,
writhing like a worm.

At the noise she made Melanie darted up and hastened to the door to see
what was the matter with Czipra.

As soon as she noticed Melanie's approach, Czipra slunk away from her
place and before Melanie could open the door and enter, dashed through
the other door into the corridor.

Here another shock awaited her.

In the corner of the corridor she found Lorand sitting beside a table.
On the table a lamp was burning; before Lorand lay a book, beside him,
resting against his chair, a "tomahawk."[64]

[Footnote 64: The Magyar weapon is the so-called "fokos," which is much
smaller than a tomahawk, but is set on a long handle like a walking
stick, and only to be used with the hand in dealing blows, not