“Now I must be off again,” he said, releasing her. “You need not be afraid,” he added with a smile. “I am going in the opposite direction to the farm.”
Royda would have liked him to stay, but she knew by experience that he was not to be turned from his intentions, and so forbore to try and keep him. When the door had closed behind him she walked to the window, intent on watching his departure. On a table lay his riding whip. Impulsively she caught it up and kissed it, pressing to her lips that part where his hand must have held it. Then from the window she waved her hand to him, and stood watching till the wood hid him from sight.
“Aubray, Aubray, my darling!” she cried, as she turned away; “you shall be mine. If this woman had come between us and taken your love I would have killed her.”
Gun on shoulder, Zarka had set off on foot towards the higher mountain range which backed with abrupt and majestic elevation the dark forest uplands as they rose towards it. He strode resolutely on, soon leaving the warmer and more smiling valley behind him, following a scarcely perceptible path through the superb terraces of woods, making his way through dense thickets, and taking all the while little heed of the furred and feathered inhabitants of those regions as they scampered or whirred away on his approach. His course was continually on an ascending gradient, and after a good half-hour’s walking it became quite steep. Presently the woods grew thinner and lighter, the air cooler. A quarter of an hour more brought the Count to the verge of the forest on the greatest height at which it grew, and he emerged into the blood-red sunshine and keen, cold air above the summit of the great timber-line. Beneath him, as he stood for a few moments to gain breath, stretched away downwards the vast pine forests, like a green velvet robe reaching to the bosom of the mountain; above him majestically towered the bust and head in the dazzling complexion of their eternal snows, and just then brilliantly decked with prismatic gems under the glittering sunlight.
But Zarka seemed in no mood that day for sight-seeing. After his impatient halt he went on, no longer straight upwards, but by a jagged path formed by a ledge on the side of the mountain. There was no fear about the man; his nerves were as strong as the rock he was climbing. Taking his way up the slippery and uneven mountain track, having on one hand a wall of rock and on the other space with a sheer precipice below him, he never seemed in any danger even when most surrounded by it: his character manifestly dominated the inert threatenings of Nature around him. He was master of his fate and, humanly speaking, could defy it to run counter to his will.
Presently his path broadened, descended abruptly, and finally led on to a mountain road evidently the approach to a pass, one of the few points of communication from one side of the great range to the other. Here were, at least, some signs of life and occasional traffic, although dreary and primitive enough. A walk of a few hundred yards towards the pass brought Zarka to a wretched building which served in that desolate region for an inn. He walked into its one public room, called for a glass of brandy, and threw himself on a bench. A bearded man in a rough country dress, sitting with his head resting on his arm, seemingly half asleep over his glass, was the only other occupant of the room.
“A fine autumn day, friend, but cold,” Zarka observed to him carelessly.
Scarcely troubling to change his attitude, the man replied: “On the mountains, where ’tis never hot, we know not cold.”
When he had spoken he raised his head, and the two men glanced keenly at one another. Then they nodded significantly, resuming their indifferent attitude as the innkeeper came in with the Count’s refreshment. When they were alone again the man rose, crossed the floor with heavy step, and flung himself down on the other end of the bench on which Zarka was sitting. He slid his hand stealthily along the space between them; the Count’s came out furtively to meet it, both men the while looking in front of them across the room. When the hands were raised a little two small envelopes lay on the bench. Talking the casual gossip of an inn, each man moved his hand to the paper which the other’s had held, and so drew it back and slipped it into his pocket. The Count sipped his brandy, or at least made a pretence of doing so, for the rough spirit was not likely to be to his taste.