stars above, these letters of the divine volume in which soothsayers
read, he will be your death in the end unless you are his."

"I would not be contented with that. I want to return him blow for
blow--and yet you say I cannot fight him in duello."

"Listen, my officer. He has been brought up in ignorance of his name and
origin, in my country Poland. He is French by birth, and his name is
Felix Clemenceau. It was his father, a celebrated sculptor, who married
my daughter Iza, after decoying her to Paris from her mother's side, and
he murdered her on some frivolous pretext when they were living
separated and he, heaven knows, had no farther claim upon her--his
existence was pure indifference to her. I answer for it! They tried his
father for the atrocity. Even a French jury could not find extenuating
circumstances for that kind of cold-blooded assassin who slays in the
small hours the wife of his bosom--after having cast her off and driven
her to evil ways, poor, spotless angel! They brought him in guilty of a
foul murder and he was guillotined--gentleman and artist of merit though
he was. They were kind to his young son; his friends made up a purse and
sent him afar to be educated and reared in ignorance. But the shadow of
the guillotine is projected afar, and I saw its red finger point to the
assassin's offspring. I have found him. If my hand is not too feeble to
strike, it may anticipate yours."

"I cannot measure swords with a felon's son!" muttered Von Sendlingen.
"But I shall not cease aching in the heart until he is in the shameful
grave he imprudently snatched me from."

"You are a man after my own liking," said the hag, chuckling. "I can
foresee that you will go far and perish in a blaze of glory! Listen!