De Chauxville mounted slowly, heavily, with twitching lips.  His face was set and cold now.  The pain was getting bearable, the wounded vanity was bleeding inwardly.  In his dull eyes there was a gleam of hatred and malice.  It was the face of a man rejoicing inwardly over a deep and certain vengeance.

“It is well!” he was muttering between his clenched teeth as he rode away, while Steinmetz watched him from the doorstep.  “It is well!  Now I will not spare you.”

He rode down the hill and through the village, with the light of the setting sun shining on a face where pain and deadly rage were fighting for the mastery.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

A TALE THAT IS TOLD

Karl Steinmetz walked slowly upstairs to his own room.  The evening sun, shining through the small, deeply embrasured windows, fell on a face at no time joyous, now tired and worn.  He sat down at his broad writing-table, and looked round the room with a little blink of the eyelids.

“I am getting too old for this sort of thing,” he said.

His gaze lighted on the heavy riding-whip thrown on the ground near the door where he had released Claude de Chauxville, after the terrible punishment meted out to that foe with heavy Teutonic hand.  Steinmetz rose, and picking up the whip with the grunt of a stout man stooping, replaced it carefully in the rack over the mantelpiece.

He stood looking out of the window for a few moments.

“It will have to be done,” he said resolutely, and rang the bell.

“My compliments to the prince,” he said to his servant, who appeared instantly, “and will he come to me here.”

When Paul came into the room a few minutes later Steinmetz was standing by the fire.  He turned and looked gravely at the prince.

“I have just kicked De Chauxville out of the house,” he said.

The color left Paul’s face quite suddenly.

“Why?” he asked, with hard eyes.  He had begun to distrust Etta, and there is nothing so hard to stop as the growth of distrust.

Steinmetz did not answer at once.

“Was it not my privilege?” asked Paul, with a grim smile.  There are some smiles more terrible than any frown.

“No,” answered Steinmetz, “I think not.  It is not as bad as that.  But it is bad enough, mein lieber!—­it is bad enough!  I horsewhipped him first for myself.  Gott! how pleasant that was!  And then I kicked him out for you.”

“Why?” repeated Paul, with a white face.

“It is a long story,” answered Steinmetz, without looking at him.  “He knows too much.”

“About whom?”

“About all of us.”

Paul walked away to the window.  He stood looking out, his hands thrust into the side-pockets of his jacket, his broad back turned uncompromisingly upon his companion.

“Tell me the story,” he said.  “You need not hurry over it.  You need not trouble to—­spare me.  Only let it be quite complete—­once for all.”