I pointed at the steppe, and at the far east, where the sun shone in a narrow rim above the world, like the broken half of a lover’s gold piece.
“Of my life, madame, level and barren as this, until the sun rose on it,” I said softly, “the sun of my love for you.”
She met my eyes fully for an instant, a look of wonder in hers, and then she turned her face proudly away, but I saw her hands tremble.
“Believe me,” I continued gently, “I would not have forced myself upon you, save to keep you from a fate you hated.”
She dropped the horse’s bridle on his neck, and covered her face with her hands.
“Do not speak of it!” she cried passionately; “do you think I am less than other women? that I do not feel it? That cruel czarevna! How dared you, sir?”
I bit my lip; to her I was the goldsmith’s apprentice. So be it, I thought; if she despised the man, she may also despise the marquis. I had meant to tell her, but now I would not.
“Are Russian men then cowards, madame?” I asked drily.
She did not reply; she had no time, for we had come to the clump of trees, and as we turned them, a horseman suddenly barred our way with a drawn sword. She recognised him first, with a little cry of horror, and then I, too, looked into the flushed face of the Boyar Kurakin. My first impulse was to draw my pistol and shoot him down, and then I saw that the man had no weapon but his sword, and was alone. He looked at her, more than at me, and I knew then how near akin such love as his is to hatred.
“Well met!” he cried savagely; “well met, Daria Kirilovna; you ride early with your lover, but you ride no further—by Saint Nikolas of Mojaïsk!”