"And now," he said at last, pausing to look down into her dear face, "forsake, I beg of you, this scene of trouble. Leave this strange land, half West, half East, and come away with me to England. There I will try to make you happy, and the day will come, I hope, when you will forget that this threatening evil ever came into your life. I do not know even yet the reasons that seem to demand this marriage with your cousin. Come! it shall not be, even though the Tsar demands it. By marrying me, you will become a British subject, and we then can laugh at any human will that would take you from me."
And then he saw a tear upon her lovely cheek. Like a pearl upon the snow it was. Paul took her in his arms, and her beautiful weary head sank upon his shoulder.
"You weep, dear heart!" he said to her, for she was sobbing softly. "Surely this dreadful union must not be. Come—early to-morrow we will start for Kieff, and then—in a few days more—England and freedom!"
She recovered quickly and shook her head.
"No!" she told him. "That can not be. To-morrow morning you must leave this unhappy place. To stay here would be of no avail. It would only make matters worse. Boris is furious now, I know. And it will only make my lot harder if you remain."
Paul could not move her though he pleaded with her for a long time; and his heart was heavy as they at last drew near the house again.
That night, at dinner, Natalie tried bravely to be gay, but even the brilliancy of her conversation and her brother's effort to entertain his guest did not conceal from Paul the strain of the situation. A young relative, Alexis Vseslavitch by name, was present at the board, having ridden in that afternoon from his estate back in the hills. He was a high-spirited youth and loved dearly to tease his cousin Natalie. But even he saw that for once an unusual restraint seemed upon her.
Afterward, they passed the long evening in the great hall where Paul had waited in the morning. The room was ablaze with candles—and even then the pale lady rang for a servant to bring in more. It was a wild night. A storm had come with the darkness, and outside the wind howled a savage symphony to accompanying crashes of thunder. Mademoiselle sat by her brother, with her hand on the head of an old wolf-hound which frequently looked up at her in dumb adoration as she chattered with the men upon a hundred topics—chiefly travel—for they all loved it.
"Hush, Moka!" she said to the great beast when he sprang up once with a sudden growl. "He does not like the thunder," she explained. "Some people who were not welcome came here once, on a wild night like this, when he was but a puppy. They forced their way into this very room—and the old fellow never has forgotten."
In spite of her soothing words, the old dog was restless, and when, as the hour grew late, Paul said good-night, he noticed that the faithful brute was bristling as with anger at some unseen enemy.