Zarka’s eyes were fixed on her like those of a snake, ever ready to dart in the direction his prey might try to escape.
“You have never heard,” he replied, almost softly, “of the Blutrache, the blood vengeance?”
“A kind of vendetta,” she replied, in a tone approaching indifference. “Yes. But you will hardly expect me to stand in terror of that.”
“Ah!” he returned. “Then you know little of it.”
“If I knew everything I should not fear it.”
“Indeed, Fräulein?” His exclamation was an incredulous protest.
“No. For two reasons,” she went on. “In the first place, I am entirely innocent of Prince Roel’s death, and in the second, even did it lie at my door, I can hardly suppose that the most blood-thirsty of his avengers would seek retribution against a woman.”
Zarka gave a shrug of doubt.
“Perhaps not. Although I have never heard that these people allowed the sex of their wronger to stand in the way of their vengeance. What I wish to say, Fräulein,” he continued with a change of tone, “is, that I hope I shall be permitted to stand between you and any danger which may exist. Let me assure you of my devotion both to your safety and happiness as to yourself.”
He spoke earnestly, with a touch of repressed passion in his voice. Before she could reply, to her great relief her father came in, and no more on the subject could be said.