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Updated: May 8, 2025
He paused as if to take breath: then "Three!" he exclaimed, in the tone of a man pronouncing a death-sentence; and the handkerchief fell. There were two reports in quick succession. Varhely stood erect in his position; Menko's ball had cut a branch above his head, and the green leaves fell fluttering to the ground. Michel staggered back, his hand pressed to his left side.
In short, Count Menko is connected in some way, I don't know how, with this Labanoff. He went to Poland to join him, and the Russian police seized him. I think myself that they were quite right in their action." "Possibly," said Varhely; "but I do not care to discuss the right of the Russian police to defend themselves or the Czar.
Andras beckoned Varhely to come to Marsa, who was white as marble, and said softly, with a hand on the shoulder of each of the two friends, who represented to him his whole life Varhely, the past; Michel Menko, his recovered youth and the future. "If it were not for that stupid superstition which forbids one to proclaim his happiness, I should tell you how happy I am, very happy.
I wish to take the fast mail from Paris this evening." "Is it so very pressing, then?" "Very pressing," replied Varhely. "There is another to whose ears the affair may possibly come, and I wish to get the start of him." "Farewell, then," said Andras, considerably surprised; "come back as soon as you can."
I will give you a life of peace in memory of this night of mourning." Already, at a distance, could be heard a rapid fusillade about the outposts. The Austrians had perhaps perceived the light from the torches, and were attempting a night attack. "Extinguish the torches!" cried Yanski Varhely.
Yanski had been right to remain till the last: it was his hand which the Prince wished to press before his departure, as if Varhely had been his relative, and the sole surviving one. "Now," he said to him, "you have no longer only a brother, my dear Varhely; you have also a sister who loves and respects you as I love and respect you myself."
Although he knew nothing, Varhely had, nevertheless, guessed everything, and at once. The blow was too direct and too cruelly simple for the old Hungarian not to have immediately exclaimed, with rage: "Those were love-letters, and I gave them to him! Idiot that I was! I held those letters in my hand; I might have destroyed them, or crammed them one by one down Menko's throat!
The brave old soldier had never understood much of the fantastic caprices of passion, and Andras seemed to him in this, as in all other things, just a little romantic. But, after all, the Prince was his own master, and whatever a Zilah did was well done. So, after reflection, Zilah's marriage became a joy to Varhely, as he had just been declaring to the fiancee's uncle, General Vogotzine.
During his sojourn at Vienna, Varhely kept himself informed, day by day, as to what was passing in Paris. He did not write to Prince Zilah, wishing, above everything, to keep his errand concealed from him; but Angelo Valla, who had remained in France, wrote or telegraphed whatever happened to the Prince. Marsa Laszlo was cured; she had left Dr.
Andras gazed alternately upon the old Hungarian, and upon Marsa, who stood there petrified, her whole soul burning in her eyes. "Dead?" repeated Zilah, coldly. "I fought and killed him," returned Varhely. Andras struggled against the emotion which seized hold of him. Pale as death, he turned from Varhely to the Tzigana, with an instinctive desire to know what her feelings might be.
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