Come on, cast out this dismal phantom, who is, however, thy father, O
splendid bridegroom!'

"I uttered a cry; all the guests rose from their chairs. But the
relentless old man went on: 'My lords, to tear from the evil fruit its
whole covering, I have but two words to say. Be seated, for I still see
on the table dishes not yet eaten.'

"Standing like palings, silent, anxious, the guests remained with hearts
scarce beating. I trembled, my eyes in mist. We were like the dead of
the churchyard about some funeral feast, full of terror and mystery. The
Count grinned sardonically.

"'Thou shalt run in vain, wretch,' said the venerable father, 'the
vengeance of God will surely reach thee! To-day thou makest me bow my
head; but thy bride, if she have some honor, will presently flee from
thee as from the pest, for thou shalt some day hang, accursed of God!' I
rush to the arms of my father-in-law. 'Stop, stop;' but he, leaning down
to my ear, said: 'Without knowing the vine or measuring the furrows,
thou hast bought the wine, mad girl! Go, thou didst not weep all thy
tears in thy swaddling clothes! Knowest thou whom thou hast? a
robber-chief!'"

And the scene continues, weirdly dramatic, like some old romantic tale
of feudal days. Such scenes of gloom and terror are not frequent in
Mistral. This one is probably the best of its kind he has attempted.

On his way to seek Count Sévéran in his fastness, Calendau "enters,
awestruck, into the stupendous valley, deep, frowning, cold, saturnine,
and fierce; the daylight darts into this enclosure an instant upon the