“Lady Marie, good morrow!” It was Bozevsky, who, clicking his spurred heels together, saluted me with a radiant smile. His morning canter seemed to have given him an added touch of beauty and of daring; his fair hair gleamed in the sunshine, his smile was reckless and resplendent.
I bowed without speaking and attempted to pursue my way to the house, but he took my hand and detained me.
“Why go in? Everybody is still asleep. Come now,” he urged, with a frank engaging smile, “stay here for awhile and practise at the targets.”
So saying he chose a rifle and loaded it. Then he held it out to me. I took it from him and put it to my shoulder. I aimed carefully and was about to press the trigger when suddenly Bozevsky, with a lightning movement, put out his hand and pressed his palm against the muzzle of my gun.
“Wait!” he cried, with a wild, extravagant laugh. “Wait a moment! Before you press the trigger I want you to say—'Alexis, I love you!'”
“You are mad!” I exclaimed. “Take away your hand!”
“No. First you must say—'Alexis, I love you.'”
I felt a hot flush rise to my brow. “Take away your hand!” I repeated and looked steadily at him.
He did not move.
“Take it away, I implore you!”