“We had better change the conversation altogether, as it has taken so unpleasant a turn, Hallberg is dead; his errors, be they what they may, lie buried with him.  His name stands high with all who knew him Even you, M. D’Effernay—­you were his friend.”

“I his friend?  I hated him!—­I loathed him!” D’Effernay could not proceed; he foamed at the mouth with rage.

“Compose yourself!” said the Captain, rising as he spoke; “you look and speak like a madman.”

A madman!  Who says I am mad?  Now I see it all—­the connection of the whole—­the shameful conspiracy.”

“Your conduct is perfectly incomprehensible to me,” answered the captain, with perfect coolness.  “Did you not attend Hallberg in his last illness, and give him his medicines with your own hand?”

“I!” stammered D’Effernay.  “No! no! no!” he cried, while the captain’s growing suspicions increased every moment, on account of the perturbation which his companion displayed.  “I never gave his medicines; whoever says that is a liar.”

“I say it!” exclaimed the officer, in a loud tone, for his patience was exhausted.  “I say it, because I know that it was so, and I will maintain that fact against any one at any time.  If you choose to contradict the evidence of my senses, it is you who are a liar!”

“Ha! you shall give me satisfaction for this insult.  Depend upon it, I am not one to be trifled with, as you shall find.  You shall retract your words.”

“Never!  I am ready to defend every word I have uttered here on this spot, at this moment, if you please.  You have your pistols in the carriage, you know.”

D’Effernay cast a look of hatred on the speaker, and then dashing down the little hill, to the surprise of the servants, he dragged the pistols from the sword-case, and was by the captain’s side in a moment.  But the loud voices of the disputants had attracted Edward to the spot, and there he stood on D’Effernay’s return; and by his side a venerable old man, who carried a large bunch of keys in his hand.

“In heaven’s name, what has happened?” cried Wensleben.

“What are you about to do?” interposed the rector, in a tone of authority, though his countenance was expressive of horror.  “Are you going to commit murder on this sacred spot, close to the precincts of the church?”

“Murder! who speaks of murder?” cried D’Effernay.  “Who can prove it?” and as he spoke, the captain turned a fierce, penetrating look upon him, beneath which he quailed.

“But, I repeat the question,” Edward began once more, “what does all this mean?  I left you a short time ago in friendly conversation.  I come back and find you both armed—­both violently agitated—­and M. D’Effernay, at least, speaking incoherently.  What do you mean by ’proving it?’—­to what do you allude?” At this moment, before any answer could be made, a man came out of the house with a pick-axe and shovel on his shoulder, and advancing toward the rector, said respectfully, “I am quite ready, sir, if you have the key of the churchyard.”