“I fear so,” replied Paul gravely, with his baffling self-restraint.  “She has not much in common with her mother, you understand.”

“Ah, yes!”

“It is you to whom she is attached.  Sometimes it is so with children and parents.  One cannot tell why.”

Steinmetz looked as if he could supply information upon the subject:  but he remained silent, standing, as it were, in an acquiescent attitude.

“You have fought your fight,” said Paul.  “A good fight, too.  You have struck your blow for the country.  You have sown your seed, but the harvest is not yet.  Now it is time to think of your own safety, of the happiness of your own child.”

Stepan Lanovitch turned away and sat heavily down.  He leaned his two arms on the table, and his chin upon his clenched hands.

“Why not leave the country now; at all events for a few years?” went on Paul, and when a man who is accustomed to command stoops to persuade, it is strong persuasion that he wields.  “You can take Catrina with you.  You will be assuring her happiness, which, at all events, is something tangible—­a present harvest!  I will drive over to Thors now and bring her back.  You can leave to-night and go to America.”

Stepan Lanovitch raised his head and looked hard into Paul’s face.

“You wish it?”

“I think,” answered Paul steadily, “that it is for Catrina’s happiness.”

Then Lanovitch rose up and took Paul’s hand in his work-stained grip.

“Go, my son!  It will be a great happiness to me.  I will wait here,” he said.

Paul went straight to the door.  He was a man with a capacity for prompt action, which seemed to rise to demand.  Steinmetz followed him out into the passage and took him by the arm.

“You cannot do it,” he said.

“Yes, I can,” replied Paul.  “I can find my way through the forest.  No one will venture to follow me there in the dark.”

Steinmetz hesitated, shrugged his shoulders, and went back into the room.

The ladies at Thors were dressed for dinner—­were, indeed, awaiting the announcement of that meal—­when Paul broke in upon their solitude.  He did not pause to lay aside his furs, but went into the long, low room, withdrawing his seal gloves painfully, for it was freezing as it only can freeze in March.

The countess assailed him with many questions, more or less sensible, which he endured patiently until the servant had left the room.  Catrina, with flushed cheeks, stood looking at him, but said nothing.

Paul withdrew his gloves and submitted to the countess’ futile tugs at his fur coat.  Then Catrina spoke.

“The Baron de Chauxville has left us,” she said, without knowing exactly why.

For the moment Paul had forgotten Claude de Chauxville’s existence.

“I have news for you,” he said; and he gently pushed the chattering countess aside.  “Stepan Lanovitch is at Osterno.  He arrived to-night.”