"Would to God we were out of Russia!" said I, speaking from my heart. "Then..." I paused and looked into her face.
"All may yet come right," answered Olga, meeting my eyes and putting her hand in mine. My clasp closed on it, and we sat thus for some moments, just hand in hand, each silently happy in the knowledge of the other's love.
Then I bent toward her and gradually drew her to me, my eyes all the time lighted with the light from hers.
"It is love, Olga; lovers' love?" I asked in a passionate whisper.
For answer she smiled and whispered back:
"It has always been, Alexis;" and she met my betrothal kisses with warmth equal to mine. And after that we did not care to say a word, but leant back in the carriage as it flew through the country in the gathering gloom of the evening, bumping, jolting, rolling, and creaking. What cared we for that? Olga was fast in my arms her head on my breast and her face close to mine, so close that we were tempted ever and again to let the story of our love tell itself over and over again in our kisses; and neither Olga nor I had a thought of resisting the temptation.
This would have gone on for hours, so far as I was concerned; I was in a veritable Palace of Delight with freshly avowed love as my one thought. But Olga roused herself suddenly with a start and a little cry.
"Oh, Alexis, what have you made me do? Your wound."
I had forgotten all about it, but now when she mentioned it my left arm felt a little stiff.
"I am ashamed of myself," she cried. "What a love must mine be, that I want to dream of it with selfish pleasure when you are wounded. You make me drink oblivion with your kisses."