“A little!” I repeated passionately. “A little—after all—when I risked my life for your love, and it is, after all—only a little!”
Then she smiled, and the first sunbeams made her face luminous as the morning star.
“A little, I said, monsieur,” she whispered, “a little—at first!”
Then I drew her to me. “And now?” I cried; “and now, my princess?”
“Nay,” she said, “not the princess, but your wife, because”—she raised her head a little again and met my eyes—“because I love you, monsieur!” she faltered, blushing like a rose as I kissed her.
It was half an hour later; we had forgotten that the sun had risen, and were walking hand in hand, under the fir-trees, when Vassalissa came running toward us.
“You stay too long,” she cried; “too long! They will be calling for you, Daria Kirilovna. You must either return with me or flee.”
“And if she stays with me, mademoiselle?” I said, amused at the young girl’s eagerness; caring little for any risk that did not involve the princess.
“Then fly—for your lives!” cried Lissa, and she pointed to the tall figure of old Piotr, holding the horses, “there is not an hour to lose!”
“Ah, Lissa, Lissa!” cried my wife fondly; “how can I leave you here?”