“Quite dead, madame,” I answered.
She made the sign of the cross, and I laid my hand upon her bridle, guiding her frightened horse.
“We must ride,” I said. “We can send others back from Troïtsa for the body—if it is safe to do so.”
For ten minutes we galloped on and then she spoke.
“Why did you not use your pistol?” she asked.
“In France a gentleman takes no advantage of his adversary in weapons,” I replied courteously.
She bit her lip, and then, “But if he had killed you!” she cried.
Then I had my revenge. “Then, madame, instead of the goldsmith you would have had a boyar,” I said coldly.
She looked at me a moment in sheer amazement, and then she turned crimson, and rode on ahead of me without a word.