“And won’t you tell me what you think?”
Edith hesitated a little; but she was not one of those women who allow any petty emotion to master them.
“I think, my friend, that she loves you,” she said, with a slight, enchanting smile. “Some unguarded expressions and the fire that kindled in her eyes as soon as we mentioned your name, made me feel almost certain of it. The fact that, notwithstanding, she helped to set me free, is certainly, in the circumstances, only a stronger proof of her magnanimity. But I understand it perfectly. A woman in love, if of noble character, is capable of any act of self-denial.”
Heideck shook his head.
“I think your shrewdness has played you false on this occasion. I am firmly convinced that she is Prince Tchajawadse’s mistress, and, from all I have seen of their relations, it seems to me inconceivable that she would be unfaithful to him for the sake of a stranger, with whom she has only interchanged a few casual words.”
“Well, perhaps we may have an opportunity of settling whether I am wrong or not. But now, my friend, I should first of all like to know what you have decided about me.”
Heideck was in some embarrassment how to answer, and spoke hesitatingly of his intention to send her to Ambala with Morar Gopal. But Edith would not allow him to finish. She interrupted him with a decided gesture of dissent.
“Ask of me what you like—except to leave you again. What shall I do in Ambala without you? I have suffered so unutterably since you were carried off before my eyes at Anar Kali, that I will die a thousand times rather than again expose myself to the torture of such uncertainty.”
A noise behind him made Heideck turn his head. He saw the curtain before the door of the tent slightly lifted, and that it was Morar Gopal who had attempted to draw his attention by coughing discreetly.
He called to the loyal fellow to come in, and thanked him, not condescendingly, as a master recognises the cleverness of his servant, but as one friend thanks another.