"You poor child! Hush, I pray you! I cannot bear this! Have I really grieved you--I--why, 'tis ridiculous--I, who would have my hand cut off to serve you? Come, be calm." And he draws her down upon a rustic bench and takes a seat beside her.
Her chest heaves as does that of a child who, although the cause of its grief has been removed, cannot stop crying at once. He takes her hand in his and strokes it gently.
A delightful sensation of content, even of happiness, steals upon him, but mingling with it comes a tormenting unrest, the dawning consciousness that he is entering upon a crooked path, that he is in danger of doing a wrong, and yet he goes on holding the girl's hand in his and gazing into her eyes.
"Why are you not always kind to me?" she asks him simply.
He is confused, and drops her hand.
"For a whole week past you have seemed scarcely to see me," she says, reproachfully. "Have you been vexed with me? Did I do anything to displease you?"
"I have had so much to worry me," he murmurs.
"Poor Lato! I thought so. If you only knew how my heart aches for you! Can you not tell me some of your troubles? They are so much easier to bear when shared with another."
And before he can reply she takes his hand in both of hers, and presses it against her cheek.
Just at that moment he sees the Pole, who has paused in departing and turned towards the pair; the man's sallow face, seen in the distance above Olga's dark head, seems to wear a singularly malevolent expression.