"What shall I swear by? by this little hand? by that fair form? by your own sweet self, which I could devour for love?"
"By your honour!"
The voice had no longer its former coaxing tone--the words came with an effort, as if the raging storm oppressed her.
And his answer, too, came hesitatingly and forced: "Upon my honour!"
His eyes, which before had been raised full of passion towards her, avoided hers; she drew her hand hastily out of his, turned her horse sharply round, and galloped away.
The movement had been so sudden that it was not possible for him to have prevented it. But now he even held back his horse, which had also turned and wished to follow its companion.
"Shall I let her go?"
That was his first thought, followed by a stream of others: an unavoidable duel with Ottomar, his own desperate financial position, which would hardly be improved by Carla's hundred thousand thalers; the recollection of a cousin in Silesia, who would have brought him a dowry of a million, and a marriage with whom had been proposed to him the other day most unexpectedly--he had been for years at daggers drawn with that branch of the family. And then she who was riding away really did not suit him at all; he was merely in love with her, and had never contemplated marriage.
The spirited horse, already startled by the storm, and seeing its companion disappearing in the distance, reared high, and as its rider forced it down, darted forward like an arrow. The Count could not perhaps at this moment have held it in, but he did not wish to do so; he dug in his spurs, and in a few seconds--his hesitation had been only momentary--had overtaken Carla.
"Carla, Carla!"