"I regret to say that he did," I replied, slowly and perplexedly.
"You know him, and are certain of this?"
"Certain as that I now address you--most certain, to my sorrow."
"O Gospodi pomiloui!"[[4]] she exclaimed, clasping her hands together, and seeming now pale as the new-fallen snow; "my brother--my brother!"
"Your brother?" I exclaimed, in genuine consternation.
"Slain by you--your hand!" she wailed out, wildly and reproachfully.
"O, it cannot be."
"Speak--how?" She stamped her foot as she spoke, and no prettier foot in all Russia could have struck the carpet with a more imperial air. Her eyes were flashing now through tears; even her teeth seemed to glisten; her hands were clenched, and I felt that she regarded me, for the time, with hate and loathing.
"He fell, and his horse, too--yet, now that I think of it," I urged, "he may be untouched; and from my soul I hope that such may be the case, for personally he is my friend."
I felt deeply distressed by the turn matters had so suddenly taken; while Madame Tolstoff, to whom she now made some explanation in Russian, regarded me with fierce and undisguised hostility.