"You love me," he laughed. "I know it now." And as she still turned from him: "And you'll marry me, too, Hermia."
"Never!"
"Yes," he repeated, "you'll marry me. There isn't anything else for you to do."
She was dumb with surprise and could only gasp with rage, but before she could speak he had released her, and, catching up his hat form the table, was out of the door and on his way to the stable.
He laughed up at the sky. Subterfuge could not avail her now. He had learned the truth. Neither mockery, scorn nor any other pretence could divert the genial current of his soul. She loved him. And, whatever he had shown of mastery in her presence, his precious knowledge made him suddenly strangely gentle in his thoughts of her. The sky smiled back at him from over the leafy glades of the Comte de Cahors, and, as his gaze sought the spot in the woods where a moment ago Olga had disappeared, a sober look came into his eyes. Tell? Would she? Would Olga tell? He didn't believe it. He had learned many things. Olga kindled her altar fires not for the warmth of them, but for their incense, the odor of which was breath to her nostrils. The symbols of love—not love itself—what could Olga know of love? He knew—and Hermia? Hermia knew, for he had taught her.
He filled his bucket at the well and sought Clarissa, who was sleeping the sleep of satiety. She had eaten until she could eat no more. Watered, he led her back to the lodge, fastened his hitching strap at the door and went inside, his own appetite advising him that neither he nor Hermia had eaten since yesterday afternoon. His companion had huddled into a chair and was gazing into the fireplace. She did not offer to continue their conversation, nor did he. And so he got out his spirit lamp and made coffee, unpacked some chicken sandwiches, and, helping himself freely to the crockery of the Marquis, presently served the breakfast.
She would not eat at first and he did not insist upon her doing so, but sat comfortably, and in a moment was smacking his lips. The coffee was excellent—the best that could be had in Alençon, and its odor was delicious. He saw from where he sat her eyes shifting uncertainly. He drained his cup with a great sigh of content, set it down upon the saucer and was in the act of pouring out another helping for himself when she rose and reached forward quickly, appetite triumphant.
"I'd better eat, I suppose," she said jerkily.
He smiled politely and handed her the sandwiches, noting from the tail of his eye that several times during the meal her look sought his face for an explanation of his change of manner, which, not being forthcoming, she sat rather demurely at her meat, emptying the pot of coffee and finishing the last of the bread and chicken. Markham would have smiled if he had dared! What chance had any of the lighter passions against the craving hunger of the healthy young animal? It was another triumph of his philosophy, almost its greatest—Nature at a bound eliminating art and the feminine calculus. When he had finished eating, without a word he rose, and went out to pack Clarissa, and while he was thus engaged Hermia passed him silently with a bucket on the way to the pump for water, and in another moment he was aware that she was washing the dishes. He made no effort to help her, but sat on the door-sill, thoughtfully smoking his pipe.
She came out in a moment and announced that she was ready to go, and he saw that breakfast had done her no harm. So they followed Olga Tcherny's instructions as far as he remembered them and found a path through the woods which led northward. Clarissa had so gorged herself with the stolen fodder (which may have been sweeter on that account) that Markham had to cut a new goad to speed her upon her way. They kept a watch ahead and behind them, and emerged as Olga had prophesied without adventure or accident through a hole in a hedge upon a highroad, along which, still bending their steps northward, they took their way.