unclosed her teeth and slowly released the scarlet feather. It fluttered softly to the ground, and lay there on the carpet at her feet, like a vivid drop of warm heart's-blood shed by some cruel hand.
CHAPTER XXXII. – ISTVÁN'S STIRRUP-CUP.
Not to be wearied, not to be deterred, Not to be overcome."
– Southey.
The autumn morning was slowly dawning into day, chill, and scarcely light enough to show clearly the horns, and skins, and other sportsmanlike trophies which decorated the room where István Tolnay was taking a hasty breakfast.
Outside the air was raw; the light morning mist still hovered over the valley, rolling slowly down the hillside, to leave every moment a new breadth of glistening forest and sharp-cut rock distinct in the cold air. It was one of those cautious mornings which hold out no promises, and which yet are more to be relied on than many a red-cheeked dawn that jumps out of bed in a hurry and wakes all the world with sunshiny smiles, but who finds before long that he has overtaxed his spirits, and generally ends by going into a fit of sulks or breaking into a storm of ill-tempered tears.
István Tolnay, as he took his breakfast, in which red wine appeared to be the principal feature, threw more than one glance out of the window, and decided that it was just the right sort of day for their expedition.
The room bore the stamp of wealth, of luxury even, in every detail. It spoke of the owner's tastes. Besides the trophies on the walls, there was a bear-skin on the ground there were guns and whips, and a perfectly bewildering amount of smoking appliances. Also there was an extensive collection of photographs, exclusively female, which, from the details of their attire – sometimes the scantiness of such details – were unmistakably theatrical. They were but dimly seen in this dawning light; and the figure of István himself was still veiled in the departing shadow. He wore a costume which, by the inhabitants of the place, was considered to be sportsmanlike, and which, by Mr Howard, had long ago been condemned as "coxcomby" and bad form. However that might be, the grey-and-green suit and feathered hat were most particularly becoming to the style of this young Hungarian's looks. Upon everybody else the yellow gaiters would have looked outré; but István wore them in such a way that it was impossible to look at the calves of his legs with entire disapproval.
Although he was eating his breakfast with as good an appetite as usual, and although the red wine was in no danger of being neglected, István was doing something most unusual with him – he was thinking.
Two days ago he had confessed his love to Gretchen; and her sudden withdrawal and persistent avoidance of him during the homeward walk considerably puzzled him, although it can hardly be said to have seriously alarmed him. This coyness and half-repelling reluctance was but fuel thrown on a fire, which already burnt high: a little touch of difficulty gave a
