Wild fancies, full of the terrible events of the
evening, and mingled with the ardent desire
for revenge, agitated the brain of the sick
man. From time to time, Terka laid cooling
herbs on the deep, bloody wounds with which
his back and shoulders were covered, and
then seated herself quietly at the head of
his bed.

Day broke at last. The huntsman knew
once more the loving hand that so gently
touched his brow, and found a smile for the
child to which Terka sadly pointed as their
consolation. The little one sat on the floor,
not far from them, playing with the bright
hair that fell in light ringlets on her neck,
and the rich abundance of which was the
joy and pride of her parents.

Towards noon, the trampling of many
horses was heard. The door was flung open,
and the forester, who had on the previous
day arrested his predecessor, and brought him
to the Castle, now entered, accompanied by
several youths.

"Your lord commands you," he cried, in a
tone of peremptory insolence, "instantly to
give up the fire-arms which you no doubt still
have in the house. The Count himself waits
without to be witness of your submission."

The huntsman, unable to speak, cast a look
of deep meaning on Terka.

"Jánös had but the one gun," she said, with
downward look.

"Wretches, beware! A lie plunges you but
deeper in disgrace. Deliver the arms that
you persist in concealing."

The huntsman himself now made a sign of
denial.

"We have hidden nothing," murmured the
young wife, almost inaudibly.

The Count had overheard this conversation
through the open door. "Drag him forth!"
he cried, his voice trembling with rage, "that
the hoof of my horse may trample this lying
Magyar's soul out of its body. Do you hear?
Out with him, or his punishment shall fall
on those who hesitate. Let the house be
searched," continued he, "and if there be
found what he so obstinately denies, he shall
pay for it with his life!"

The youths seized the sick man, and
dragged him to the burning sand, which, at
this place, covers the shore. Terka followed.

"Hold!" she cried, as she saw the raised
whip of the furious Count suspended over the
head of her husband, "Hold! one moment—
I will fetch what you desire."

She went back into the house. In a few
seconds she returned, with a rifle in her hand.

"Here," said she, "is the weapon—and
the ball with it!" and, before they were
aware, she had taken a sure aim, and fired.

The Count, shot through the heart, fell from
his horse. Jánös sprang to his feet; his frantic
wife, clasping him in her arms, whispered a few
words in his ear. In an instant, they threw
themselves together from the bank into the
stream.

Their bodies were never found.

After these terrible events, the deserted
child (then five years old) became an object
of the tenderest care to the whole village.
The inhabitants were incited to this, partly
by a natural feeling of compassion; partly by
a dim, unuttered sympathy, which impelled
them to take charge of the child whose
unhappy mother had avenged them all. Several
times kind-hearted mothers tried to take
the child to their homes, intending to
regard it as one of their own; but she
always returned to the hut of her
parents. Neither kind nor harsh treatment
could induce her to stay; she always seized
the first opportunity to slip away unobserved.
When hungry, she went into the village and
asked for bread; if this were offered to her
on condition of her not returning to the hut,
she sadly bent her head, so beauteously
adorned with sunny curls, and went home—
her hunger unappeased. They asked her
often if she did not fear being alone in the
solitary hut: she then would smile, and,
lifting her dark-blue eyes in wonderment to
the face of the questioner, answer, "Father
and mother are with me—you forget; they
watch all night that no harm befall me." At
last they were obliged to let the strange child
have her way; but supplied her regularly and
abundantly with food and clothes.

By degrees a kind of awe made the country
people shun her. Her strange, reserved
nature—the gentle sadness that was spread
over her features—the ever-repeated assurance
that her parents spent every night with
her, gave occasion to rumours of all sorts
among the superstitious. It was said that
their restless spirits actually rose from their
watery grave, to protect the darling they
had forsaken. This belief at last prevailed
so far that the people gradually avoided
speaking to the girl, or having her in their
homes; but everything she required was
conveyed to a place, whence she, as if by a
tacit agreement, came to fetch it. This
estrangement coincided entirely with her own
inclinations; she did not like the society of
human beings, and had no knowledge of their
ways. Thus, solitary and companionless, she
ripened into a lovely maiden.

From sunrise until evening she was to be
seen on the same spot, sitting on the shore,
either in a musing, dreamy attitude, softly
murmuring to the waves, and bending over
them, as if listening for a reply; or combing
with careful pride her lustrous golden
hair, which dipped in the moving mirror of
the water, and enveloped her in the sunshine,
like a mantle of rays.

Eleven years had elapsed since the day on
which the parents of the orphan had met
their death. The old Count's oppression, far
from being diminished, was redoubled, under
the united sway of the two brothers; who
vied with each other in inflicting pain and
misery. While Franz was the terror of all