There was a spark lit beneath, and very gradually it broke to the surface: it reached it, and her black eyes flamed.
"You villain!" she panted. "You abandon me – you villain!" and she struck out her closed hand towards him.
The motion would have been a blow had it not come so slowly that István could step back in time. The scorn in her eyes was so supreme that it had the power to arrest him for a moment. She was not beautiful, perhaps, but she was wellnigh sublime in this burst of outraged pride, which, coming so late, had yet come so superbly. She had the blood of ancient Rome in her veins, and it had at last caught fire. The passion of another woman would have spent its strength long before this climax was reached; but Tryphosa's strength was all latent, dormant, difficult to be roused, but fearful when once awoke.
For the first time in his life István quailed before a woman.
But not for long. Her hand was still outstretched, her lips were still quivering with the energy of her last words, when already that one moment of stupefaction was past, and his thoughts plunged back into the current which was dragging them on. Her very presence, so real for a moment, became again distant and indistinct.
"We shall talk when I come back, – there will be much to tell;" and crushing his hat on to his head, he rushed out of the room, leaving Tryphosa standing where she was.
As long as his steps could be heard, she remained fixed and listening, the light of scorn still in her eyes, the very anger seeming to have turned to stone in her face. Then, when the last step had died off, and all had been quiet for some moments, her hand slowly fell, and the rigid hardness of her face began to melt. She sank down on the seat beside her, and she wept. Those tears were for the man whom she had called "villain," whom she would have struck but a minute ago, and whom yet she loved better than all the good men in the world.
Little Codran, hearing the deep-drawn sobs, trotted to his mother's side, pulled down her hands, and held the broken glass to her lips.
"Are you tired, mamma?" he said; "drink this little red drop – I left it for you: it is very sweet."
It was the glass from which István Tolnay had drunk, and, taking it from Codran's hand, Tryphosa dashed it to the ground. Then drawing the child on to her breast, she gave him a kiss, so fierce that it seemed to scorch the freshness of his innocent cheek.
"Can I go back to bed, mamma?" asked Codran, yawning. "I am so sleepy."
Yes. he might go back to bed: the scene was played out, the curtain dropped; and the poor little piece of decoration, which had failed to decorate sufficiently, might be packed away again out of sight.
CHAPTER XXXIII. – THE FALLEN SIGN-POST.
"O, der arme Mensch steht immer mit zugebundenen Augen vor deinem Schwerte, unbegreifliches Schicksal!" – Jean Paul.
This autumn season is bringing strange contrasts in its train. While below in the valley life and activity are slowly sinking
