Once more the peasant’s whistle startles the still air, and with a prodigious effort his horses leave the others behind. Transfigured by the waking of their unknown blood, carried away by a secret ecstacy, with floating manes and sonorous breath, they rush on toward the expected goal.
They reach it—victorious—winners by three lengths.
For one long moment the people rest mute with stupefaction, literally incapable of applause. They stare open-mouthed at the sordid beasts that have beaten the noblest blood of the land, then like one man they dash forward to look at them, to ask their race, and the name of their uncouth driver.
As the victors pass Veta leans out to look at them. “I must see them,” she says aloud.
At the sound of that voice, the peasant starts. Lifting his head their eyes meet. She pales but that is all.
Months have passed, and the extraordinary event that astonished the Peterbourgeois is no more than ancient history. Nobody has learned the identity of the mysterious peasant. Many believed him a sorcerer. Others thought him a great doctor of some unknown science, whose powerful potion had galvanized the exhausted beasts. But it is all only a memory now. A new sensation is on the tapis.
All St. Petersburg is talking of the marriage of Prince Alexander Repine to Princess Elisaveta Palorna.
It is evening, and Veta stands for the first time in her husband’s home. She is alone, on a great veranda that half circles the palace. She still wears her wedding dress, and the stones of a diamond tiara sparkle in her hair.
“Mistress,” says a voice behind her. She turns to confront her husband’s faithful old servant. “Mistress, a present awaits you at the palace gate. Shall I lead you thither?”
“Yes.”