“Let’s be brief!” cried Vasile, passing his hand through his hair. “One party gives the lady, the other the money. What did I tell you? Cozma would fetch you the devil from hell. From henceforth the lady is yours.”
Racoare turned round, strode to the bottom of the garden, fastened his horse to a tree, drew a cloak of serge from his saddle, spread it out and wrapped himself in it.
“Well! Well!” groaned Boyar Nicola, breathing heavily. “What a terrible man! But I feel as though he had taken a load off my mind.”
Vasile smiled but said nothing. Later, when he was by himself, he began to laugh and whisper: “Ha, ha! He who bears a charmed life is a lucky man!”
The boyar started up as from sleep and looked fearfully at Vasile; then he shook his head and relapsed into thought.
“Ah, yes!” he murmured, without understanding what he was talking about.
When night had fallen Cozma Racoare tightened his horse’s girths and mounted. Then he said:
“Boyar, wait for me in the glade at Vulturesht.”
The gates were opened, the horse snorted and rushed forth like a dragon.
The full moon shone through the veil of an autumnal mist, weaving webs of light, lighting up the silent hills and the dark woods. The rapid flight of the bay broke the deep silence. Racoare rode silently under the overhanging woods with their sparse foliage; he seemed like a phantom in the blue light.