She follows him down the steps with all the lazy insolence of a fine lady who grants a favor; her long gown sweeps the dew off the grass, and the moonlight mirrors itself in the soft curves of her naked arms and shoulders.
Presently she stops, stricken by a mysterious influence.
A moment more and a strange sight meets her view.
They are the winners of the Neva.
With a wave from her hand, Ivan goes.
The horses whinny softly at the sound of her voice, and nose her hair and face with dog-like gentleness.
“Why are you here?” she whispers, a sudden catch in her throat that she stifles against the emaciated cheek nearest her.
From out of the deep shadow comes a trembling voice. “Why do you weep, Princess?” it says.
She sees him now for the first time, still in his peasant’s garb and with head uncovered, low before her. It is a noble head, with splendid lines and a beautiful mouth, but worn and shadowed as those of the famished beasts beside him.
“Why are they like this, Sergius? The best racers in the kingdom could have brought their price; there certainly was no need to starve them.”