“No, it isn’t my head this time,” I said drily.
“Your leg, you mean? Or did they do anything to you at Poabja?”
“Yes, it all happened at Poabja, Karasch. I must go back there and see that priest again;” and I pulled my horse up and turned him. I would have given much to have taken Karasch’s view and have ridden on, but the thought of Mademoiselle’s eyes stopped me. Even if I persuaded myself, I could not tell the lie to her.
Karasch sat facing me stolidly.
“You are ill, Burgwan, or it wouldn’t be like this with you. Go back to Poabja and I’ll seek you there.”
“What do you mean? Where are you going?”
“To Samac. I will not desert her.”
The grim irony of this was too much for me and I smiled. Here was I, consumed with intense longing to go to her and compelled to hold myself back with a curb of iron—and to Karasch my act seemed no more than paltry cowardice and desertion. My smile seemed to anger him.
“You have not been so free with your laughter till now,” he said, curtly, “and I see no cause for it.”
“If I laugh it is not for joy, Karasch; but you don’t understand. Do as you say. Go on to Samac and bring me any news you may find there.”