"Monseigneur, monseigneur," moaned the silver voice. Before all the household, and Adrian's guards, Iría clutched Stanief's stained and blackened coat with small, eager hands and fainted on his breast.
"Stand back!" the master commanded as a score of dismayed attendants rushed forward and the Countess Marya sprang toward her mistress. And lifting her easily in his arms, he carried her back to the cream-tinted boudoir left so shortly before and so nearly left for ever.
On the way the gold-and-topaz eyes opened, but she did not protest or move until Stanief set her down.
"John is safe," he said, with a tenderness that had long passed beyond jealousy. "Did they not tell you, dear?"
Iría caught the chair beside her.
"You," she panted. "They said you were hurt. Oh, your hands—"
"It is nothing."
"It is, to me. I thought you would die and never know that I loved you so, monseigneur."
"Iría!" he cried.
She held out her hands to him with passionate innocence and grief, the loose sleeves falling back to her shoulders with the gesture.