Her lips quivered, she averted her eyes.
“Half an hour ago, you were not thus,” I murmured, “tell me if——”
She looked up and her eyes were full of pain.
“Hush!” she cried, “hush! I will not listen. Yonder is the gate—and I go to my cousin—I will obey my father, I——”
“Do you—will you repudiate your husband?” I asked firmly.
Her hands shook; she gave me an imploring look. “If you love me, monsieur,” she faltered, “I beseech you—retire now and leave us. To-morrow you can speak to him—the mad mood will pass if you——”
I leaned over and touched her hand.
“For your sake,” I said, and drew aside and let the cortège pass me and enter the domain of Troïtsa.
And yet, twelve hours later, I counted this act of gallantry as one of arrant folly, but who can lift the veil of destiny unless it be the astrologer?