Behind her was a precipice, and before her—barred by him—lay the path which she must descend to elude him.
Like a heroine, who is described in a recent novel, 'she knew well enough that forgetfulness was a treasure for evermore beyond the reach of those who once loved her.' Guebhard had loved her, she knew, and this love had well-nigh maddened him—and now Guebhard, in his tiger-like nature, was beginning to hate her—nay, hated her already!
He grasped her delicate wrist with a force she could not withstand.
'Listen to me,' said he, with calm yet sad ferocity in his tone and eyes; 'I am not the first, among many, whom your beauty and your wiles have fooled and beguiled—for few women have had such Circe-like power as you—but I shall be the last on whose face you will look.'
'What do you mean?' she asked, in a low and agitated voice.
'That you will soon learn—come here,' he continued, hoarsely; 'here—and look down,' he added, dragging her to the giddy verge of the beetling cliff, at the base of which, spread out like a map, was the woody landscape stretching away towards Katadar, with the Morava winding through it like a silver snake.
'Have pity, Guebhard!' exclaimed Margarita, shrinking back, while a mortal terror seized her now, for the expression of his eyes froze her heart.
'Pity—it is too late—too late!' he replied, yet with something like a sob in his throat.
'Forgiveness is saint-like, Guebhard,' she urged piteously.
'But I am no saint, Margarita—I am only a humble mortal.'