“My father is not dead,” she continued; “I know, from what I heard in the palace, that the ring was stolen from him, but he escaped, and is, I hope, at Troïtsa. But, sir, you wronged me—in thinking I went, of my own will, to—to——”
“To Kurakin,” I said briefly.
She drew her hood closer, forgetting that the dusk veiled her features.
“Or the czarevna,” she murmured.
“You mistake me,” I replied cruelly. “I did not think that or the other. It would seem more likely that another would deliver you.”
“Who, sir?” she asked coldly, stopping short.
“The noble Prince Galitsyn, madame,” I retorted. I heard her draw her breath so sharply that it seemed like a sob, but she turned her back on me and walked on swiftly—so swiftly that I had to hasten my steps to keep up with hers, nor would she speak to me again, even in answer to a question. And, in this mood, I placed her, at last, upon a horse I had hired for her, and mounting myself, I bade Maluta go to Le Bastien and await my return, or news from me. Then the princess and I rode on, by lanes and byways, through the Zemlianui-gorod, and, at last, into the open country beyond the town, turning our faces northeast, toward the sacred monastery of Troïtsa, where I was certain of a safe asylum for her, for a time, at least.
XXXIII: THE HUT ON THE ROAD
WE had left the city and its turbulence and bloodshed behind us, and we rode, side by side, along the quiet country highway, in the soft darkness of a May evening, the stars above us, and a sweet freshness in the air. It was impossible not to feel relief and almost joy at our deliverance and our freedom. My spirits rose rapidly, I breathed deeply, and held my head high; the quiet, the serene atmosphere, the even hoof-beats, were all so many blessings, and I thought she shared my exhilaration, for—at the moment—she sat erect and kept her horse at a smart pace; yet she did not speak to me, and I could only discern her outline in the darkness. At first I had almost dreaded pursuit, but after we had traversed a league in safety I cast even this anxiety from me and went on with a light heart.
The curtain of the night hung low, for there was no moon, yet I could discern the vast sweep of the steppe, as we ascended, for the ground rose steadily toward the northeast, and I was watchful to keep to the road, a lonely one at best, save for the pilgrims travelling from Moscow to worship at the famous shrine of Saint Sergius. At another time I should have felt the risk of travelling with a woman upon this highway, without armed attendants, but now I cast care to the four winds. After the horrors of the city, the perils of the night and the lonesome road seemed small and trifling; for a few hours, at least, she was mine, she rode at my side, so close that I could have laid my hand upon her shoulder, and once or twice I thought she looked toward me. A fool’s paradise, I knew, for she was going to her father, or her father’s friends, and I was a gentleman and could not—and would not—force my claim upon her, if she loved me not. Yet I was happy, and once, for some pretext—guiding her horse, I think—I touched her hand and felt the soft, slender fingers, no longer cold, but warm and firm. At least, she feared me not, and if she trusted me!—but this was a perilous line of reflection.