Before his passion and grief she retreated, mute, colorless, her dazed eyes upon him.
"You!" she gasped, "You—" then suddenly turned and hid her face among the heaped flowers.
"I did not hope that you could love me; I knew better than that," he said. "But I did hope that you would trust me. I thought I had earned that much, Iría. Let my fancies go; I will undo this as far as I may. You shall stay in the capital or go to your own home, whatever you choose. Only this week remains, and I lay down both my charges. Hush, and do not grieve; this is no fault of yours."
She was sobbing helplessly, her golden head among the white and purple blossoms. He drew a quick breath and stood for a moment, struggling to regather around him the poor tattered cloak of reserve. But it was a relief to him that she could not see his expression when he crossed to her side.
"Forgive me," he said sadly. "I am not very wise to-day, or very kind, I am afraid. I have loved you; yes, and I loved Adrian during our quiet years. Some flaw in me there must be, that neither of you could give me the simple gift of trust. We will speak of this no more; somehow I will find a way for you. 'A Stanief guards his own.'"
His voice shook on the sentiment he would have spoken lightly; stooping with the fierceness of pain suppressed, he touched his lips to her bright hair.
"You," panted Iría, as the door closed. "You, monseigneur!"
He had gone; only the silver-fringed curtain still swayed to tell of his passage, the frail, feminine atmosphere of the place still quivered from the presence of a dominant energy.
Down in the open carriage—a massively luxurious vehicle with the imperial arms enameled upon the door—Allard waited for Stanief a long time. The Emperor, just returning from a drive and apparently in haste to have his note reach Iría, had sent the nearest messenger in his own carriage.
"Do you know what one might imagine, seeing this carriage here and you waiting in it?" playfully demanded Vasili, as he lounged against the wheel.