as a man of honor. Let us see this
death."

He rose suddenly before the levelled weapon.

"Don't move or you are a dead man," the thief cried again to him.

But Lorand, face to face with the pistol levelled within a foot of his
head calmly put his finger to the trigger of the weapon he himself held
and drew it back.

At this the thief suddenly sprang back and rushed to the door, so
alarmed that at first he attempted to open it the wrong way.

Lorand took careful aim at him.

But as he stretched out his arm, the lady sprang up from the table,
crept to him and seized his arm, shrieking:

"Don't kill him, oh, don't!"

Lorand gazed at her in astonishment.

The beautiful woman's face was convulsed in a torture of terror: the
staring look in her beautiful eyes benumbed the young man's sinews. As
she threw herself upon his bosom and held down his arms, the embrace
quite crippled him.

The highwayman, seeing he could escape, after much fumbling undid the
bolt of the door. When he was at last able to open it, his gypsy humor
returned to take the place of his fear. He thrust his dishevelled head
in at the half-opened door, and remarked in that broken voice which is
peculiarly that of the terrified man:

"A plague upon you, you devil's cur of a student: student, inky-fingered
student. Had my pistol been loaded, as the other was, which was in your
hand, I would have just given you a pass to hell. Just fall into my
hands again! I know that...."

Then he suddenly withdrew his head, affording a very humorous
illustration to his threat: and like one pursued he ran out into the
court. A few moments later a clatter of hoofs was heard--the robber was
making his escape. When he reached the road he began to swear godlessly,
reproaching and cursing every student, legatus, and hound of a priest,
who, instead of praising God at home, prowled about the high-roads, and
spoiled a hard working man's business. Even after he was far down the
road his loud cursing could still be heard. For weeks that swearing
would fill the air in the bog of Lankadomb, where he had made himself at
home in the wild creature's unapproachable lair.

To Lorand this was all quite bewildering.

The arrogant, almost jesting, conversation, by the light of that
mysterious flame, between a murderous robber and his victim:--the
inexplicable riddle that a night-prowling highwayman should have entered
a house with an empty pistol, while in his belt was another,