“I can tell you now because of the barrier between us,” she said.
“Barrier?” He was frankly puzzled.
“The blood of your father and your desire for vengeance stands between us—that is why I can tell you, Peter Petrovitch, that—I loved you——”
His hands loosened upon her arms, and a flood of tears was upon her—silent tears, which shook her frame. And Peter seized her again and threw his arms about her with crushing ferocity.
“Katerin! Katerin!” he cried, and the next instant released her as suddenly as he had swept her to him.
“Oh, God!” he cried, throwing up his clenched fists in a gust of fury. “Have I been brought to my enemy, only to be tormented? What am I to do, my father, what——?”
Michael had leaped from his chair with a cry, and faced Peter.
“What? What?” demanded the old general. “There is love—love between you two—my daughter——!” He was too shaken to frame more words, and his voice wavered and broke and lost itself in the depths of his throat. He stood with his frail legs bending under him, his mouth wide open and his chin quivering, gulping for breath to give him energy to express the emotions which shook his body and rendered him powerless to express himself.
Katerin flung herself at him to sustain and calm him, still fearful that Peter might attack under the slightest provocation—and she was in terror lest her father would give vent to an outburst of anger.
“I shall speak!” he said gently to Katerin, and at once he was strong again, as if he had rallied the last bit of his energy for his new venture of resistance. Katerin let him go on toward Peter, who stood waiting to see what the old man might have to say.