IN this fashion, riding hard, we came in sight of Troïtsa. In the clear sunshine the cupolas and turrets of the beautiful building rose clearly outlined against the sky. The great monastery, with its chapels and its shrines and its glebe, was a princely territory, and close under the protection of its walls clung a village, grown there, doubtless, through the constant stream of pilgrims, whose wants could not be altogether satisfied at the refectory. Herds of cattle moved placidly along the slopes to the south, the herds of the brotherhood, for there was wealth there and power. From among these monks were chosen the great dignitaries of the church, for the priests, compelled to marry and to work in the parishes, could never receive high offices, and a bitter jealousy raged between the two orders. The sunshine on the golden crosses, and the white walls, and over the green slopes, the peaceful atmosphere, the sweet chimes of the church bells, greeted us and made the scene on the road seem like a nightmare. We slackened our pace and went more slowly up the road which led to the gates, and as we approached, I observed a cortège leaving them and coming toward us. Such a cortège as I had seen commonly in Moscow, the serfs running ahead of an open carriage drawn by three horses, the marten-tails floating in the breeze, and in the vehicle a noble in his rich and gaudy dress, and behind again, the serfs, bare-foot, but sparkling in broad collars and belts of gold on their white caftans. As they appeared the princess drew rein with a sharp exclamation, and I looked around at her, divining the cause of her discomfiture.
“My father!” she gasped, and looked at me strangely.
“Yes, madame,” I said, smiling grimly, “his excellency, the prince; have I not redeemed my pledge?”
“But,” she began, and stammered, “but my father—I must tell him—and you—what can you do?”
My face burned.
“Madame,” I said coldly, “do you think I am afraid to tell your father that I married you?”
It was her turn to blush, and her eyes shone strangely.
“You do not know him,” she replied simply. “He will not listen. I know the customs of your country are different; here, sir, a girl is given in marriage by her parents, as they will. Sometimes she never sees her bridegroom’s face until the hour of the ceremony. My father——” She stopped, bit her lip, and sat looking down at her horse’s ears, and the animal, with his bridle hanging loose, put his head down and cropped the grass.
“And your father intended you to marry Prince Galitsyn,” I suggested coldly, and then—because the pain in my heart was sharp—I added; “and you, madame; do you love him?”
Then I thought a smile quivered about her lips, her head drooped prettily, she would not look up, and the prince’s carriage came swiftly on.