The ringing of the bell was answered by the barking of Duna, Bundas, and Ortog, who tore furiously at their iron chains.

A man presently appeared on the other side of the gate.  It was a domestic whom Andras did not know and had never seen.

“Whom do you wish to see?” asked the man.

“The Princess Zilah!”

“Who are you?” demanded the man, his hand upon the inner bolt of the gate.

“Prince Zilah!”

The other stood stock-still in amazement, trying to see, through the darkness, the Prince’s face.

“Do you hear me?” demanded Andras.

And, as the domestic opened the gate, as if to observe the appearance of the visitor, the Prince gave it a nervous push, which threw the servant backward; and, once within the garden, he came close to him, and said: 

“Look well at me, in order that you may recognize me again.  I am master here.”

Zilah’s clear eye and imperious manner awed the man, and he bowed humbly, not daring to speak.

Andras turned on his heel, mounted the steps, and entered the house; then he stopped and listened.

She was with him.  Yes, a man was there, and the man was speaking, speaking to Marsa, speaking doubtless of love.

Menko, with his twisted moustache, his pretty smile and his delicate profile, was there, behind that door.  A red streak of light from the salon where Marsa was showed beneath the door, which the Prince longed to burst open with his foot.  With anger and bitterness filling his heart, he felt capable of entering there, and striking savagely, madly, at his rival.

How these two beings had played with him; the woman who had lied to him, and the coward who had sent him those letters.

Suddenly Marsa’s voice fell upon his ear, that rich, contralto voice he knew so well, speaking in accents of love or joy.

What was he waiting for?  His hot, feverish hand sought the handle of his pistol, and, striding forward, he threw open the door of the room.

The light from an opal-tinted lamp fell full upon his face.  He stood erect upon the threshold, while two other faces were turned toward him, two pale faces, Marsa’s and another’s.

Andras paused in amazement.

He had sought Menko; he found—­Varhely!

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE DUEL

“Yanski!”

Marsa recoiled in fear at hearing this cry and the sudden appearance of the Prince; and, trembling like a leaf, with her face still turned toward that threshold where Andras stood, she murmured, in a voice choked with emotion: 

“Who is there?  Who is it?”

Yanski Varhely, unable to believe his eyes, advanced, as if to make sure.

“Zilah!” he exclaimed, in his turn.

He could not understand; and Zilah himself wondered whether he were not the victim of some illusion, and where Menko could be, that Menko whom Marsa had expected, and whom he, the husband, had come to chastise.