On that point he said no more. She coloured for a moment at his reference to it, and then became pale again; but paleness was the normal condition of her face.
This brilliant woman loved him, and had not cared much to conceal that she did so. What was he to say to her—what to tell—how to explain all? It was impossible for him to put in clear, cold words before her the mortifying fear that he could not—should not love her in return, because he was affianced—so hopelessly, as he supposed—to another.
Could he ask her to take back a heart he certainly had never sought? It was in every way a perplexing and grotesque situation.
'You have become very silent,' said she, in a tone of pique, while switching, and then checking her horse. 'Of what are you thinking?'
'That if some of those wild Circassians, of whom I have been told, were only to appear now——'
'Heaven forbid! why?'
'That I might empty a saddle or two, and risk in your service the life you saved, and thus make an atonement——'
'I want no such risk run; and what,' she asked a little sharply, 'do you mean by atonement?'
'Only this, that you saved my life, Margarita, and may claim its whole future, if you will,' said he, while Mary's face came reproachfully to memory, for the speech was disloyalty to her, however gallantly meant to Margarita, whom the peculiarity of its tenor irritated rather than flattered.
'This is an idle speech, and I know its value. I thank you for your escort, but we shall part at Palenka, and as another day will see me on the road for Vienna, we shall never meet again; and you may become to me, what I shall never be to you—a dream, without pain perhaps.'