to have come to see me that
night. Father being away, he wanted to come and have a little chat and a
bit of supper with me. There was no harm in that, was there? He didn't
care to be seen walking in at the front door--as there's always such a
lot of gossip in this village--so he asked me for the back-door key, and
I gave it to him."

"Well?"

"Leopold missed the key later on, and guessed I had given it to Count
Feri. He was mad with jealousy and threatened to kill anyone who dared
come sneaking in round the back way. He wouldn't let me out of his
sight--and threatened to strangle me if I attempted to go and get the
key back from Count Feri. I was nearly crazy with fear. Wouldn't you
have been," she added defiantly, "if you had a madman to deal with and
no one near to protect you?"

"Perhaps," replied Elsa, under her breath.

"Then Andor came into the tap-room. With soft words and insinuating
promises he got me to tell him what had happened. I didn't want to at
first--I mistrusted him because of what had happened at the banquet--I
knew that he hated me because of you."

"It is not true," broke in Andor involuntarily.

"Let her tell her story her own way," rejoined Elsa, with the same
strange quiet which seemed now to envelop her soul.

"There's nothing more to tell," retorted Klara. "Nothing, at any rate,
that you haven't guessed already. I told Andor all about Count Feri and
the key, and how terrified I was that Leopold would do some deadly
mischief. He offered to go to the castle and get the key away from the
young Count."

"Well?"

"Well! Andor was in love with you, wasn't he?" she continued, speaking
once more with vehemence; "he wanted you, didn't he? And he hated Bela
having you. He hated me, too, of course. So he got the key away from
Count Feri, and later on, after you had followed Bela almost to the
tap-room and you had some words with him just outside . . . you
remember?"

"Yes."

"Andor had the key in his pocket then--and he gave it to Bela. . . ."

There was silence for awhile now--that silence which falls upon the
plain during the first hour after sunset--and which falls upon human
creatures when destiny has spoken her last word. In the village far away
the worshippers had gone back into the church, all sound of chanting and
praying had died away behind its walls; there was no flight of birds
overhead, nor call of waterfowl from the bank of the stream, the autumn
breeze had gone to rest wit