Manasseh | Page 9

the mountain road; and let us
take no luggage but what we can carry in our hands. When we come to
a beautiful waterfall we will sketch it, and when we chance upon a fine
view we will celebrate its beauties in song."
"Yes, and people will take us for strolling minstrels," interposed the
princess; "and we must drop our real names and titles. Mr. Zimandy
shall be the impresario, and Madam Dormandy the prima-donna; they
can pass for husband and wife. We two can be brother and sister. What
is your sister's name?"
"Anna."
"Lend me her name for a little while, will you? You don't object?"
Manasseh turned strangely sober. "It would be only for your sake that I
should object," he replied. "The bearer of that name is a very
unfortunate girl."
So they agreed to leave the train at Bologna and take the mountain pass.
It only remained to hoodwink Benjamin Vajdar, and Manasseh Adorjan
promised to effect this. He alighted before the train had fairly stopped,
having first directed the others to go into the waiting-room. "That
young man will not stir from his seat, nor will he even look out of the
window," added Manasseh, with as much confidence as if he had
acquired a talisman which enabled him to control the other's actions.
As the train rolled out of the station the artist rejoined his party, with
the welcome assurance that their enemy was now out of their way.
"Is there a mysterious relation of some sort between you two?" asked
Blanka.
"Yes--one of fear: I tremble every time I see the man."
"You tremble?"
"Yes; I am afraid I shall kill him some day."

With that, and as if regretting that he had said so much, he hurried
away to engage a carriage to take them to Vergato. During his absence
the advocate explained to his client that the Unitarians have an especial
horror of bloodshed. He declared that some of them shrank from taking
even an animal's life and abstained entirely from the use of meat.
Blanka shook her head incredulously. She could not conceive of a
gentleman's being forbidden by his scruples to use arms when the
occasion demanded. How else, she asked, could he defend his honour,
his loved ones, the women entrusted to his charge?
When the four were seated in their carriage, the gentlemen facing the
ladies, Blanka led the conversation back to the point at which
Manasseh had dropped it.
"You said you feared you should kill that young man some day," she
began. "Does your religion forbid you to kill a man--under any
circumstances?"
"With a single exception," he replied; "but that exception is out of the
question in this instance."
Blanka wondered what the single exception could be, but refrained
from asking. "Are you well acquainted with Mr. Vajdar?" she inquired
presently.
"We have known each other from childhood," was the reply. "Whatever
I possessed was shared with him. His father was my father's steward;
and when the steward proved false to his trust and gambled away a
large sum of money committed to his care, and then shot himself, my
father adopted the little orphan, and always treated him exactly as he
did his own children. He grew up to be a bright and promising young
man, and never failed to win a stranger's favour and confidence. But
woe to those that thus confided in him! My poor sister, my dear, good
little Anna, trusted him, and all was ready for their wedding when he
disappeared, deserting her at the very altar."
Even the shades of approaching nightfall could not hide the expression

of pain on the speaker's face.
"When did this occur?" asked Blanka, gently.
"Last year--in February."
"The date of my marriage, and of my first seeing that man," was
Blanka's silent comment. She pondered the possible connection
between the two circumstances. Benjamin Vajdar had left his affianced
bride soon after seeing Princess Cagliari; he had then entered Cagliari's
service as private secretary, and, a little later, divorce proceedings had
been begun by the prince against his young wife.
"Was it Mr. Vajdar's troubled conscience that made him leave us the
moment you appeared?" she asked, after a pause.
"No," said Manasseh; "he has no conscience. When he has an object in
view, all means are legitimate with him. He knows neither
consideration for others nor shame for his own misdeeds."
"And yet he certainly played the coward before you."
"Because he knows that I possess certain information, certain
documentary evidence, by which, if I chose, I could hurl him down in
confusion and disgrace from any height, however lofty, which he might
succeed in attaining."
"And you refrain from using this evidence against him?"
"To use it would be revenge," replied the