Already the disk of the moon was half obscured. Ludwig removed the astronomical eye-piece from the telescope, and inserted the tellurian glass instead; then he turned the object-glass toward the neighboring manor instead of toward the moon. Now, if ever, was the time to find out if his fair neighbor possessed a telescope. If she had one, she would certainly be using it now.
It was sufficiently light to enable him to see quite distinctly the baroness sitting, with two other women, on the veranda. She was observing the eclipse, but with an opera-glass—a magnifier that certainly could not reveal very much.
Of this Count Ludwig might rest satisfied. And yet, in spite of the satisfaction this decision had given him, he continued to observe the disappearance of the moonlight from the veranda of the manor with far more attention than he bestowed upon the gradual darkening of the heavenly luminary itself. Then there happened to the baroness’s companions what had happened to Marie: the women began to nod, whereupon the baroness sent them to bed. There remained now only the count and his fair neighbor to continue the astronomical observations. The lady looked at the moon; the count looked at the lady.
The baroness, as was evident, was thorough in whatever she undertook. She waited for the full obscuration—until the last vestige of moonlight had vanished, and only a strange-looking, dull, copper-hued ball hung in the sky.
The baroness now rose and went into the house. The astronomer on the castle tower observed that she neglected to close the veranda door.
It was now quite dark; the silence of midnight reigned over everything.
Count Vavel waited in his observatory until the moon emerged from shadow.
Instead of the moon, something quite different came within the field of vision.
From the shrubbery in the rear of the manor there emerged a man. He looked cautiously about him, then signaled backward with his hand, whereupon a second man, then a third and a fourth, appeared.
Dark as it was, the count could distinguish that the men wore masks, and carried hatchets in their hands. He could not see what sort of clothes they wore.
They were robbers.
One of the men swung himself over the iron trellis of the veranda; his companions waited below, in the shadow of the gate.
The count hastened from his observatory.
First he wakened Henry.
“Robbers have broken into the manor, Henry!”
“The rascals certainly chose a good time to do it; now that the moon is in shadow, no one will see them,” sleepily returned Henry.
“I saw them, and I am going to scare them away.”
“We can fire off our guns from here; that will scare them,” suggested Henry.
“Are you out of your senses, Henry? We should frighten Marie; and were she to learn that there are robbers in the neighborhood, she would want to go away from here, and you know we are chained to this place.”
“Yes; then I don’t know what we can do. Shall I go down and rouse the village?”
“So that you may be called on to testify before a court, and be compelled to tell who you are, what you are, and how you came here?” impatiently interposed the count.
“That is true. Then I can’t raise an alarm?”
“Certainly not. Do as I tell you. Stop here in the castle, take your station in front of Marie’s door, and I will go over to the manor. Give me your walking-stick.”
“What? You are going after the robbers with a walking-stick?”
“They are only petty thieves; they are not real robbers. Men of this sort will run when they hear a footstep. Besides, there are only four of them.”
“Four against one who has nothing but a cudgel!”
“In which is concealed a sharp poniard—a very effective weapon at close quarters,” supplemented the count. “But don’t stop here talking, Henry. Fetch the stick, and my driving-coat, into the pocket of which put my bloodletting instruments. Some one might faint over yonder, and I should need them.”
Henry brought the stick and coat. Only after he had gone some distance from the castle did Count Vavel notice that some heavy object kept thumping against his side. The faithful Henry had smuggled a double-barreled pistol into the pocket of his coat, in addition to the bloodletting instruments. The count did not take the road which ran around the cove to the manor, but hurried to the shore, where he sprang into his canoe, and with a few powerful strokes of the oars reached the opposite shore. A few steps took him to the manor. His heart beat rapidly. He had a certain dread of the coming meeting—not the meeting with the robbers, but with the baroness.
The gates of the manor were open, as was usual in Hungarian manors day and night. The count crossed the court, and as he turned the corner of the house there happened what he had predicted: the masked man who was on watch at the door gave a shrill whistle, then dashed into the shrubbery. Count Vavel did not give chase to the fleeing thief, but, swinging his cudgel around his head, ran through the open door into the hall. Here a lamp was burning. He hurried into the salon, and saw, as he entered, two more of the robbers jump from the window into the garden.
Count Ludwig hurried on toward the adjoining room, whence came the faint light of a lamp. The light came from another room still farther on. It was the sleeping-chamber of the lady of the house. There were no robbers here, but on the table lay jewelry and articles of silver which had been emptied from the cases lying about the floor. In an arm-chair which stood near the bed-alcove reclined a female form, the arms and hands firmly bound with cords to the chair.
What a beautiful creature! The clinging folds of her dressing-robe revealed the perfect proportions of her figure. Her hair fell like a golden cataract to the floor. Modest blushes and joy at her deliverance made the lovely face even more enchanting when the knightly deliverer entered the room—a hero who came with a cudgel to do battle against a band of robbers, and conquered!
“I am Count Vavel,” he hastened to explain, cudgel in hand, that the lady might not think him another robber and fall into a faint.
“Pray release me,” in a low tone begged the lady, her cheeks crimsoning with modest shame when he bent over her to untie the cords.
The task was quickly performed; the count took a knife from his pocket and cut the cords; then he turned to look for a bell.
“Please don’t ring,” hastily interposed the baroness. “Don’t rouse my people from their slumbers. The robbers are gone, and have taken nothing. You came in good time to help me.”
“Did the rascals ill-treat you, baroness?”
“They only tied me to this chair; but they threatened to kill me if I refused to give them money—they were not content to take only my jewelry. I was about to give them an order to the steward, who has charge of my money, when your arrival suddenly ended the agreement we had made.”
“Agreement?” repeated the count. “A pretty business, truly!”
“Pray don’t speak so loudly; I don’t want any one to be alarmed—and please go into the next room, where you will find my maid, who is also bound.”
Count Vavel went into the small chamber which communicated with that of the baroness, and saw lying on the bed a woman whose hands and feet were bound; a handkerchief had been thrust into her mouth. He quickly released her from the cords and handkerchief; but she did not stir: she had evidently lost consciousness.
By this time the baroness had followed with a lighted candle. She had flung a silken shawl about her shoulders, thrust her feet into Turkish slippers, and tucked her hair underneath a becoming lace cap.
“Is she dead?” she asked, lifting an anxious glance to Ludwig’s face.
“No, she is not dead,” replied the count, who was attentively scanning the unconscious woman’s face.