“What it that to you?” I retorted scornfully; “the princess is my wife, and hark ye, M. le Prince, mine she shall be—against the world, and no man shall put asunder.”
Again he half raised his hand to deliver me to his slaves, and again he desisted, but his face was distorted with contending passions, and he pointed to the door with a quivering finger.
“Go, sir!” he said hoarsely; “go, before I violate the bond of host and guest—but, beyond my gates, look to yourself!”
“Nay, M. le Prince,” I said courteously. “Beyond your gates I am at your service. In France we settle these matters on the field of honour. I should be happy, monsieur, I——”
But the goldsmith had me by the arm.
“Saint Denis, man!” he cried in French, “tempt him no more, unless you would imperil the princess as well as your own head and mine!”
And I yielded to this reasoning the more easily because I saw that Galitsyn did not heed my challenge; his ideas of settling the matter differed from mine, as vastly as the customs of his country and mine. He stood there, pointing steadily at the door, and his face was so distorted with passion that I marvelled to see so great a change wrought in a handsome countenance.
I bowed profoundly.
“M. le Prince will find me ready when and where he pleases,” I said pleasantly, “and he will remember that the Princess Daria is my wife.”
I could say no more, for Maître le Bastien was dragging me away by main force, and the serfs, parting to let us go through, closed up behind us like a wall and eyed us so viciously that I saw the goldsmith wipe his brow twice before we reached the gate of the court-yard. The good man was nothing of a fighter, and yet too stout to run.