“You are to give us some answer,” said the man who had brought the letter. The two had been watching me in silence during those few distraction-filled minutes. “An answer concerning Petrov here.”
“You are safe from me, Petrov,” I replied. “I will let you go, but keep out of my way for the future.”
“I meant no harm, Burgwan, on my soul none to you. I did what I did for you,” he said, and stooped to cut the cords that bound my feet. “I did wrong and am sorry.”
He was an idiot, but he couldn’t help that; and I let him free my hands.
“Get me some paper,” I said, and he hurried away and returned with it. My hands were too numbed from the cords and the efforts I had made to release myself for me to be able to do more than scratch senseless hieroglyphics on the paper. I could scarcely hold the pencil, indeed, and he and the other man chafed them until the blood was set in circulation.
Even after some minutes of this I could only write in large, uncouth letters—a sort of illiterate scrawl which was no more than a caricature of my handwriting. But time was pressing. Mademoiselle might be gone before my letter could reach her, so I wrote as best I could.
“I agree on condition that you see me. Burgwan.”
I spelt my name as she had been accustomed to pronounce it; and having sent Petrov to deliver it, I ordered the other man to get me some food and milk.
I had no appetite; but I had eaten nothing for many hours and knew I must keep up my strength; so I forced myself to take it. The milk was grateful enough, for I was feverish and consumed with thirst. But all the time I was waiting impatiently for Petrov’s return with the answer to my letter; and as soon as I had finished the meal I paced up and down the low, narrow room feeling like a caged beast.
But my resolve was fixed. She should not go without my seeing her; and when minute after minute passed and Petrov did not return, I could barely keep within the house, and was seized with a fierce longing to rush off to the priest’s house and find her.