“You must not come, Burgwan. There would be no Mademoiselle in Belgrade.”
“Chris may wish to see his successor. He is a masterful dog, you know,” I said with a smile.
“This is no jest, Burgwan. I wish you would promise me not to come there. Ah, here comes Karasch. Promise me, Burgwan;” and in her eagerness she leant across and laid a hand on my arm, the earnestness of her manner showing in her eyes.
“I cannot promise,” I answered.
She drew her hand away with a gesture of impatience and said, as she rose: “That is not like Burgwan. The very mention of Belgrade has changed you.”
“Not changed me. I have always meant to go,” I replied. As I got up Karasch reached us, and there was no chance to say more.
He explained that the peasant had been pointing out the way to him and was willing to lead us to the proper road.
The horses were saddled at once and when they were ready, I went to Mademoiselle, who had been standing apart gazing at the rugged scenery with intense enjoyment.
“Are we ready, Burgwan?”
“Yes; we may start now.”