She galloped off, never noticing that her pony’s feet were shod with felt. She looked neither to the right nor the left, and she saw nothing of the strange restlessness which seemed to pervade the camp. Everywhere the shadows of men were moving noiselessly about. Spectral guns were surrounded by little groups of whispering soldiers. There was no bivouacing, the camp-fires burned low. Every now and then, when challenged, she mechanically repeated the countersign. All the while her lips were moving in one ceaseless, passionate prayer.
They took her pony at the summit, and a silent sentry pointed to where a single dark figure stood out against the empty background. A few yards to his left was the great beacon, and a row of torches burned in a stand, ever ready for the signal. She called to him softly, and even to herself her voice seemed to come from a long way off.
“Nicholas! Nicholas!”
He turned towards her, and she saw that his face was livid. He was horrified to see her.
“Marie! The good God! What has happened?”
“I have deceived you, Nicholas,” she whispered, hoarsely. “The writing was not the writing of the King. It was Domiloff’s plot, and I wanted to see you King. The King has saved my life. Forever, Nicholas, you and I must be his faithful subjects. I have given my word. I have pledged your honour.”
Then into the face of Nicholas of Reist there came a transfiguring and almost holy joy. He uttered no word of reproach. The glory of life was once more hot in his pulses. He drew her to him.
“Thank God!” he sobbed. “This way, Marie! Now listen!”
She stooped with him over that awful chaos. From below came a sound like the falling of autumn rains upon dead leaves. He held her to him.
“It is the Turks,” he whispered.