“I won't.”
“You think not?”
She smiled languidly. It was her arch, mysterious way of smiling that had first attracted him. “Why don't you go?” she whispered in her hoarse, parched voice. “You loathe and despise me. You grudge me every moment we're together. I've done what was right; I'm willing to pay the penalty. I've earned a rest. I'm tired—you can't guess how tired.”
Now that she wanted him to go, he gazed at her with a new interest. If the trackers were hot upon his trail, what would be his sensations? Would he be able to be courteous and to talk calmly? Whatever might be her crimes, she had courage. What if it were true that by some tortuous process of reasoning she did actually believe she had done right? And what if it were true that she had intended him no harm, but had only attempted to win him by violence? The uneasy doubt took shape in his mind that he might have misjudged her. It would be a splendid memory to have, if she were wrongly executed—this gleaming morning, the larks singing, the blue-patched sky, the valiant sun, the rosy-tinted dew, and himself fleeing from the forlornness of a woman! Every man's hand was against her. She believed she had done right.
He regarded her less coldly. She was perfect as on the day when all Europe had gone wild over her. And this masterpiece of loveliness, which had been known as Santa Gorlof, was doomed to be destroyed!
“Go.” She stamped her foot hysterically. “You torture me.”
He faced her obstinately. “What are you proposing? You've some plan in mind. Madame Varen-sky called this 'the road out.' Is it possible for you to take it?”
“I know a shorter route.”
“You're certain?”
“Please leave me. You must leave me. I'm a woman who has nothing to offer. You're a man who has everything to lose.”