Now he would betray all.
Lucky for them all that his eyes had mechanically sought Zeneida's.
She, still sitting on the arm of Galban's chair, glanced significantly at the Chevalier.
Pushkin saw him.
"Let us hear it," said Galban, toying with his pile of gold pieces.
Pushkin changed color for an instant as he stared at him, then plunged his hand into his breast-pocket. All followed his movements anxiously. What would he bring out? Perhaps the song of freedom, just composed; and would he declaim or sing it, for Chevalier Galban's edification? Or would he draw that which every conspirator carried, dancing or drinking, a pointed stiletto to strike down the traitor then and there?
He drew out a packet of papers, smiling the while.
"Here is what I promised you, The Romance of the Lovely Gypsy Girl. Shall I read it?"
A romance instead of a song of freedom? Why not? in order to cover an untimely appearance, the wisest thing for a poet to do was to read or recite something, no matter what, so that the others meanwhile could recover their self-possession.
But this was no mere rhyming jingle. No sooner had he begun than the attention of all was riveted on his verses. The poetic form was striking and brilliant, the thought original, the conception fine; there were fire, passion, audacity, and beauty of expression in it, united to a natural grace and simplicity.