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It was not until half an hour after Monsieur Pantoufle's
departure, that Nina chanced to see the note lying on the
floor. Thinking it was one of the invitations which she
had dropped, she picked it up and opened it. Running
her eye hastily over it—or rather over both, for there
were two notes folded for the sake of convenience together,
she started and turned pale.

“Oh, me!” cried Nina, in an agonized tone, “how could
Max—”

“Why, daughter,” said the voice of father Von Horn,
behind her, “what pray, has moved you so? I should
imagine that this note you are reading, was your sentence
of death. I heard you say `Max:' what has he to do
with it?—a real mystery!”

Nina placed the notes in her father's hands, with an
expression of anxious terror. Father Von Horn ran his
eye over them.

“Where did these come from?” he said, indignantly,
“I see Mr. Pantoufle's name here!”

“He must have dropped them.”

“Dropped them?”

“He has just gone, father; he came to give me my
music lesson.”

Father Von Horn again read the notes with a frowning
brow.

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“I'll see to this!” he cried, “where is Max—my
nephew—ho, there!”

“Here I am, sir,” said the young man, gravely entering;
his hair disordered like his dress; his face pale and
sombre.

“Do you know this writing?” said father Von Horn,
angrily striking the paper with his finger, and holding it
up before his nephew's eyes.

The young man looked at it, and betrayed some emotion.

“I ask you if you know it?”

“Yes, sir,” Max replied, gloomily, “I know it, for I
wrote it myself; though I do not know how you could
have procured it.”

“Mr. Pantoufle, sir—”

“Mr. Pantoufle has degraded himself,” said the young
man, scornfully. “If he has brought it to you, sir, I can
not understand how you consented to open it.”

“He did not bring it—he dropped it. But I should, in
any event have read it without hesitation.”

The young man remained silent and gloomy, standing
motionless.

“Yes, without hesitation,” repeated father Von Horn,
working himself into a passion, “I hold it to be my right,
as well as my duty, to prevent so unchristian and bloody
an encounter. This, sir, is a challenge—”

“Yes, sir—two challenges.”

“And to whom, in heaven's name, but the intended husband
of my daughter.”

Nina fell sobbing into a chair.

“Yes, sir,” said Max, with gloomy composure, “to
Mr. William Lyttelton, and to the worthy gentleman who
yesterday played a disgraceful trick upon your family.
Uncle!” cried the young man, losing his calmness, and
speaking in a voice of great bitterness, “this thing
went too far! Last night, this Mr. Lyttelton scoffed at

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my agitation upon meeting Nina; laughed at me, uttered
cruel and unmannerly jests at my expense! I could have
forgiven that, though my blood is none of the coolest,
when a man deliberately does me wrong. I went to my
chamber—I recalled every word, every look, every insulting
accent, and in spite of all, I determined to do nothing,
to pass by all these insults, because Nina, Nina—loved
this man!” Max said, through his teeth. “In the morning,
I heard of the infamous trick Mr. Huddleshingle had
been guilty of. He, at least, was a proper object for me
to spend my anger upon, and I went straight to write
him a defiance. On the way, I met Mr. Lyttelton, who
bowed superciliously, and a second time insulted me! I
added his name to Mr. Huddleshingle's;—he was in
worthy company.”

The young man stopped, mastered by his agitation—
and overwhelmed with rage, jealousy, and despair.

“Sir,” said father Von Horn, “you have been guilty
of an unchristian and criminal act!”

“Yes, sir, and ridiculous! I know that—all. Mr
Lyttelton, I suppose, will refuse to fight with his wife's
cousin! A mere boy, too! Yes, sir, I know I am ridiculous;
but I have been wronged, and I will right my
wrong!”

“You are mad! I forbid your keeping this appointment.
I will go at once to this miserable dancing-master,
who is your second forsooth in this unholy matter!
Nephew, I forbid your stirring one step further: I forbid
your leaving the house until I return. You have been
guilty of a criminal and most unchristian act!” repeated
the old man, laboring under great excitement. “There is
Nina, almost in a fainting fit on the day of her marriage!
Here am I, an old gray-headed man, with a heart lacerated
by your conduct! I forbid your leaving this house, sir,
till my return—and were you twice as old as you are, I
would still forbid you. To your room, sir!”

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And father Von Horn angrily putting on his hat hurried
off to Monsieur Pantoufle's.

Max stood overcome with a thousand emotions; anger,
jealousy, mortified pride, and bitter sorrow by turns raged
in his heart. His eye fell upon Nina, whose bosom was
shaken with a storm of sobs.

“Great God!” cried the young man, “is it possible
that this hell should have come into the place I was so
happy in before. Can you be so changed, Nina! Answer
me not; I am going; but not to meet your—husband.
No! that is all over. But I go; were I to stay the roof
tree would fall and crush me!”

And Max hurried to his chamber. Closing the door,
he sat down in great agitation; and for a moment strove
to collect his bitter and wandering thoughts. Then
seizing a pen he commenced writing.

As he wrote his agitation changed slowly into a sombre
melancholy. Then a few tears gathered in his eyes and
ran down upon the paper. In a quarter of an hour he
rose, leaving the sheet open upon the table.

He looked for some minutes around him, at the old
familiar objects; a profound sigh or rather a groan, burst
from his heart: and he went out slowly. Descending to
the stable he saddled his horse—the gift of his aunt—
mounted, and just as dusk began to fall upon the quiet
town went forth toward the south.