Andrew was already in the act of going towards a wide oaken door, adorned with a coat of arms and much carved work, when the Tartar pulled him by the sleeve and showed him a small door in the lateral wall. This door admitted them into a passage through which they passed into a room, which Andrew began to examine with attention. The daylight, coming through a hole in the window-shutter, fell upon a crimson drapery, upon a gilded cornice, and upon the wall covered with pictures. The Tartar made a sign to him to remain here, and went into an adjoining room from which came a ray of candlelight. He heard a whisper and a subdued voice which made him shudder. Through the door which now opened he caught a glimpse of a finely-shaped female figure with long luxuriant hair, which fell upon an uplifted arm. The Tartar returned and bade him enter. He could not account for how he entered or how the door closed behind him.
Two candles burned in the room, a lamp was lighted before an image, under which stood a high-backed chair (like those used by Papists), with steps for kneeling during prayer. But this was not what his eyes were in search of. He turned to another side, and saw a woman who seemed to have been suddenly petrified whilst in some rapid motion. All her figure appeared to betoken that she had been throwing herself forward towards him and had then suddenly stopped. He, too, stopped astonished; he could not have expected to meet her such as she now was; she was no longer the girl he had formerly known. Nothing remained of what she was before; but still she was twice as beautiful and handsome as she had been then. Then, there was something unfinished, something to be completed in her; now, she was like a picture to which the painter had given the last stroke of his brush. Then, she was a pretty giddy girl; now, she was a beauty, a woman who had attained the utmost development of her loveliness. Every feeling of her being was now expressed in her uplifted eyes—not one particular feeling or another—but all her feelings at once. Tears had not yet dried in her eyes, but covered them with a glittering moisture which it made the heart ache to behold. Her bust, her neck, and her shoulders now filled those splendid limits which are the dowry of a perfect beauty; her hair, which formerly curled in light ringlets round her face, now formed a thick luxuriant plait, part of which remained plaited, while the remainder hung down the whole length of her arm and fell over her bosom in long, thin, beautifully waving locks. Every outline of her features seemed to have undergone a change. Andrew tried in vain to find some of those which were pressing on his recollection; not one was to be found. Notwithstanding the extreme pallor of her face, her beauty was not lessened by it; but, on the contrary, seemed to gain something intrepid, and unconquerably victorious from it. Andrew felt his heart overflow with the tremor of adoration, and stood motionless before her. She seemed also to be astonished at the appearance of the Cossack, who stood before her in all the beauty and vigour of youthful manhood; even motionless, as they were, his limbs betrayed the freedom and elasticity of their action; his eyes shone with firmness; his velvet eyebrows made a bold curve; his sunburnt cheeks were covered with the brightness of fiery youth, and his young black mustachios had the gloss of silk.
"No, I cannot, by any means, thank thee enough, generous knight," said she, and her silvery voice seemed to waver. "God in Heaven alone can repay thee! Not I, a weak woman!"
She cast her eyes down, hiding them beneath beautiful, snowy, semicircular eyelids, fringed with long arrow-like eyelashes; she bent her lovely face, and a fine rosy hue spread over it. Andrew knew not what to answer; he wished to tell her at once all that he had in his heart, to tell it as warmly as he felt it—but he could not. Something stopped his lips; even his voice failed him; he felt that he could not answer her words —he who had been brought up in the college and in migratory warfare; and he cursed his being a Cossack!
At this moment the Tartar came into the room. She had already cut the loaf brought by Andrew into slices, which she brought on a golden dish and set before her mistress. The lovely girl looked at her, at the bread, and lifted her eyes on Andrew: and much did those eyes express! That affecting look, which betrayed her sufferings and the impossibility of telling all the feelings which filled her bosom, was more easily understood by Andrew than any speech. He felt his heart lightened at once; he seemed to have at once lost all confusion, the motions and feelings of his soul which had till then appeared held in subjection by some heavy hand, now seemed to be set free, and uncontrollable streams of words ready to flow forth. But the young beauty turned abruptly towards the Tartar, and hastily asked, "And my mother? hast thou taken it to her?"
"She is asleep."
"And to my father?"
"I have; he said that he would come himself to thank the knight."
She took a piece of bread and raised it to her lips. Andrew looked at her with inexpressible delight as she broke it with her white fingers and began eating; but suddenly he remembered the man, driven to frenzy by hunger, who died before his eyes from swallowing a morsel of bread. He turned pale, and seizing her hand, shrieked, "Enough! eat no more! Thou hast not eaten for so long a time, bread may bring death to thee!" She let her hand fall directly, put the bread upon the dish and, like an obedient child, looked into his eyes. And could any words describe -but no; neither chisel, nor brush, nor even the loftiest and most powerful language can express what may sometimes be seen in the eyes of a maiden, or the delightful sensation of him who looks into such eyes.
"Queen!" cried Andrew, overwhelmed by his feelings; "what dost thou want? what dost thou wish? order me to it! Set me the task—the most impossible that ever was in the world. I will fly to accomplish it! Tell me to do what no man can do—I will do it! I will perish myself! Yes, that I will! And to perish for thee—I swear by the holy cross—will be sweet to me. No—but I shall never be able to say it—I have three farms, half of my father's horses are mine; all the dowry of my mother; all that she has kept hidden even from him—all is mine! None of our Cossacks has now such arms as I have; for the hilt alone of my sabre they will give me the best herd of horses and three thousand sheep. All this I will renounce: I will throw it away: I will burn it: drown it if thou sayest but a word; nay, if thou only movest thy fine dark eyebrow! I know that my speech is foolish, that it is out of time, out of place; that I, who was brought up in the college and in the Ssiecha, shall never be able to speak like kings, like princes and like the best man among the noble knights. I see that thou art another creature of God unlike us, and that far below thee are all other noble maidens!"