It was a glorious morning. The sun was hot and bright, but a fresh, invigorating breeze was blowing, and the country looked beautiful. The hardy, stalwart peasantry, men and women alike, were at work everywhere in the fields, toiling with that industry for which they are famed in all the East; and, save that here and there were to be seen the ruined homesteads which told their grim story of the fearful struggle of a few years previously, the landscape seemed redolent of the new blessing of content which the better rule of the Prince had brought in its train, and full of the promise of prosperity, if only the ban of political intrigue could be removed—certainly a land of promise with a great future under a ruler with such high ideals and motives as Christina.
As I thought of it, she seemed farther removed from me than ever. She loved me, and the knowledge was ineffably sweet; but it was a love that could have no fruition; and my face darkened as I thought of the man who was to come between us—not only to thwart our love, but also to stand between her and the realisation of the dream and hopes of her life for these people. My heart was as iron towards him; and the bare thought of his foul treachery in this dastardly attempt to have me branded as a coward—for I did not hesitate to accept that theory of his act—filled me with an irresistible impulse to take his life. I recalled his burning words of insult and contumely, and dwelt upon them till they stabbed and pricked and stung me to a madness of passion and loathing.
We reached the little village in good time, and halted at the trysting spot to wait for news from Zoiloff. This was so long in coming that my patience was ebbing fast, until I saw Spernow approaching at a hand gallop.
“All is arranged, Count,” he said, after I had greeted him. “You are to ride back about half a mile along the road I have come. There is no sign of any interference. But I have something for you.” He drew a small note from his pocket and handed it to me, and turned away to speak to my servant.
I opened it quickly, little guessing the contents:
“I have heard the terrible news of your quarrel with the Duke Sergius, and that you are to meet to-morrow. God preserve you from danger. I am going to ask you the hardest favour that could be put in words. I know of your skill, and of the terrible provocation you have received, but I beg you not to have his death on your soul. Think of what it must mean to us all—to me. For him to be killed by you. I pray you, for my sake.—Christina.”
I stared at the lines in a fever of distraction. At the very moment when the cup was at my lips, it was to be dashed away. Just when I had fed my passion, and had been goaded by the remembrance of the man’s foul acts and insults to a vow of implacable vengeance, I was to do nothing.
I could not grant the wish. The man deserved to die, and die he should if my arm were strong enough. I could not, I would not, let him escape me. He had forced the quarrel, and it must go through. It was a just cause, and I was in the right throughout; and I crushed the paper in my clenched hand and vowed the request was impossible.
Yet how could I face her afterwards and say, “I had your plea and would not hearken to it!” Was ever man more plagued? I paced up and down the turf fighting the fight between my thirst for vengeance and my love for Christina with its desire to grant her wish; and never had I fought a harder battle.
My love won, of course. I had no motives in life but those which were inspired by my love for her; and the thought of myself, appearing red-handed before her, and of her turning from me in abhorrence, or gazing at me with eyes of reproach to bid me never see her again since I cared so little as not to grant her wishes, was unbearable. But it was hard, cruelly hard; and I could have ground my teeth in the stress of my keen disappointment.