Paul Zabaroff stood silent, slowly remembering. In the boy's face looking up at him, half-sullenly, half-timidly, he saw the features of his own race mingled with something much more beautiful, oriental, and superb.
Yes: he had forgotten; quite forgotten; but he remembered now.
The people stood around, remembering better than he, but thinking it no wrong in him to have forgotten, because he was their ruler and lord, and did that which seemed right to him; and when he had gone away, in Sacha's bosom there had been a thick roll of gold.
'Where is—the mother?' he said at length.
Old Maritza made answer:
'My Sacha died four summers ago. Always Sacha hoped that the lord might some day return.'
Prince Zabaroff's cheek reddened a little with pain.
'Fool! why did you not marry her?' he said with impatience. 'There were plenty of men. I would have given more dowry.'
'Sacha would not wed. What the lord had honoured she thought holy.'
'Poor soul!' muttered Paul Zabaroff; and he looked again at the boy, who bore his own face, and was as like him as an eaglet to an eagle.