She was mounted astride, as I’ve seen girls ride in the Western States. She had slipped off the skirt of her dark riding-habit, and flung it over her right arm; and was sitting square in her saddle, her long coat reaching to the tops of her high riding-boots.
I felt a lump come to my throat as I looked at the gallant, graceful figure, at the small proud head with its wealth of bright hair gleaming under the little astrachan cap that she wore, at the white face with its brave smile.
I knew well that she was all but dead-beat, and that she only laughed lest she might weep, or faint again.
“It goes well indeed, capitaine,” I answered, with a military salute.
Pavloff, still on foot, came forward and stood beside her, speaking in a low growl; he was an elder edition of his son Mishka.
She listened, looking down at him gravely and kindly. I could not take my eyes from her face, so dear and familiar, and yet in one way so changed. I guessed wherein the change lay. When I had known her before she had only been playing a part, posing as a lovely, light-hearted, capriciously coquettish girl, without a real care in the world. But now I saw her without the mask, knew her for what she was, the woman who was devoting her youth, her beauty, her brilliant talents, to a great cause,—a well-nigh hopeless one,—and I loved her more than ever, with a passionate fervor that, I honestly declare, had no taint of selfishness in it. From that moment I told myself that it was enough for me merely to be near her, to serve her, shield her perhaps, and count, as a rich reward, every chance word or thought or smile she might bestow on me.
“Yes, it is well; your duty lies there,” I heard her say. “God be with you, old friend; and farewell!”
She slipped her right hand out of its loose leather glove, and held it out to him.
When I first saw her at Chelsea, I had decided that hers were the most beautiful hands in the world, not small, but exquisitely shaped,—hands that, in their graceful movements, somehow seemed to convey a subtle idea of power and versatility. She never wore rings. I remembered how Mary once remarked on this peculiarity, and Anne had answered that she did not care for them.