Paul could not see Catrina’s face.  She was veiled and furred to the eyelids.  Without a word the girl took her seat in the sleigh, and the servant prepared the bear-skin rugs.  Paul gathered up the reins and took his place beside her.  A few moments were required to draw up the rugs and fasten them with straps; then Paul gave the word and the horses leaped forward.

As they sped down the avenue Catrina turned and looked her last on Thors.

Before long Paul wheeled into the trackless forest.  He had come very carefully, steering chiefly by the moon and stars, with occasional assistance from a bend of the winding river.  At times he had taken to the ice, following the course of the stream for a few miles.  No snow had fallen; it would be easy to return on his own track.  Through this part of the forest no road was cut.

For nearly half an hour they drove in silence.  Only the whistle of the iron-bound runners on the powdery snow, the creak of the warming leather on the horses, the regular breathing of the team, broke the stillness of the forest.  Paul hoped against hope that Catrina was asleep.  She sat by his side, her arm touching his sleeve, her weight thrown against him at such times as the sleigh bumped over a fallen tree or some inequality of the ground.

He could not help wondering what thoughts there were behind her silence.  Steinmetz’s good-natured banter had come back to his memory, during the last few days, in a new light.

“Paul,” said the woman at his side quite suddenly, breaking the silence of the great forest where they had grown to life and sorrow almost side by side.

“Yes.”

“I want to know how this all came about.  It is not my father’s doing.  There is something quick, and practical, and wise which suggests you and Herr Steinmetz.  I suspect that you have done this—­you and he—­for our happiness.”

“No,” answered Paul; “it was mere accident.  Your father heard of our trouble in Kiew.  You know him—­always impulsive and reckless.  He never thinks of the danger.  He came to help us.”

Catrina smiled wanly.

“But it is for our happiness, is it not, Paul?  You know that it is—­that is why you have done it.  I have not had time yet to realize what I am doing, all that is going to happen.  But if it is your doing, I think I shall be content to abide by the result.”

“It is not my doing,” replied Paul, who did not like her wistful tone.  “It is the outcome of circumstances.  Circumstances have been ruling us all lately.  We seem to have no time to consider, but only to do that which seems best for the moment.”

“And it is best that I should go to America with my father?” Her voice was composed and quiet.  In the dim light he could not see her white lips; indeed, he never looked.

“It seems so to me, undoubtedly,” he said.  “In doing this, so far as we can see at present, it seems certain that you are saving your father from Siberia.  You know what he is; he never thinks of his own safety.  He ought never to have come here to-night.  If he remains in Russia, it is an absolute certainty that he will sooner or later be rearrested.  He is one of those good people who require saving from themselves.”