It was with momentary surprise that as she turned her face swiftly towards me I noted there were no traces of tears upon her cheeks, but that her eyes were hard and glittering. Yet I was in no condition to remark upon this at the time, for the warm touch of her hand rendered me scarcely less agitated than she was for some reason herself. As I gazed at the soft, white wrist and jewelled fingers resting quietly in mine, in the silence of the room I could hear the loud beating of my own heart, and I know that my hands were trembling.
For now that I was in such near proximity to her, I fell beneath the spell of her wondrous beauty, as many a better man, I ween, had done before me. So close, indeed, was I, that a fold of her rich gown swept my knee—so close that I could mark every heave of her white bosom as it rose and fell stormily; and the perfume of her presence was in my nostrils.
In that moment, with the lovely, flower-like face in its frame of gold so close to mine, I forgot my promise to the sergeant—the lateness of the hour—the difference of rank—my duty—all!
Kneeling there at her feet, I would have given up honour, life—nay, my very hope of heaven itself, to do her pleasure. Madness, you will say. Aye, such madness as moved the first unhappy parent of our race—madness which women will inspire till time shall be no more.
Something of what was passing in my mind must have appeared in my face, for my lady shrank back a little and made as if to withdraw her hand; and at that I bent my head to hide my tell-tale eyes and made a brief examination of her wrist. There was no sign of bruise upon the white, rounded arm—such an arm as Venus herself might have envied, where the blue veins meandered beneath a skin as soft as velvet.
“I do not think that the injury sustained is serious, madam,” I said after a few moments. “Nevertheless, it were well to avoid using your hand as much as possible until it has been seen by your own physician.”
As I was speaking, I took the silken scarf that I wore at my throat and deftly bound it round her wrist, in the manner that I had watched a little French surgeon do the like for me, when an unlucky fall from my horse had once kept my sword within its sheath for well-nigh a month.
“There, madam,” I said in a low voice, tying the ends of the scarf into a bow, “I think that for the present, at least, that bandage will serve, for fault of a better one.” And, moved by a sudden uncontrollable impulse, I raised her hand to my lips.
Again a quick shudder passed through her, and with a low, startled cry she snatched away her hand almost roughly and rose quickly to her feet.
And I rose, too, and our eyes met.