She drew a case from her pocket, and opened it.  It showed the portrait of a young man with the sombre eyes and cynical mouth of the northern European, a face revealing intellect, will, passion, and much recklessness.  Eyes and hair were dark, the face smooth but for a slight mustache.

Natalie burst into wild tears, revelling in the solitude that gave her freedom.  She pressed the picture against her face, and cried her agony aloud to the ocean.  Thrilling memories rushed through her, and she lived again the first ecstasy of grief.  She did not fling herself upon the ground, or otherwise indulge in the acrobatics of woe, but she shook from head to foot.  Between the heavy sobs her breath came in hard gasps, and tears poured, hiding the gray desolation of the scene.

Suddenly, through it all, she became conscious that some one was watching her.  Instinctively she knew that it was the same gaze which so often had alarmed her.  Fear routed every other passion.  She realized that she was unprotected, a mile from the Fort, out of the line of its vision.  The brutal head of the miller’s son seemed to thrust itself before her face.  Overwhelmed with terror, she turned swiftly and ran, striking blindly among the low bushes, her glance darting from right to left.  No one was to be seen for a moment; then she turned the corner of a boulder and came upon a man.  She shrieked and covered her face with her hands, now too frightened to move.  The man neither stirred nor spoke; and, despite this alarming circumstance, her disordered brain, in the course of a moment, conceived the thought that no subject of Rotscheff would dare to harm her.

Moreover, her brief glance had informed her that this was not the miller’s son; which fact, illogically, somewhat tempered her fear.  She removed her hands and compelled herself to look sternly at the creature who had dared to raise his eyes to the Countess Natalie Ivanhoff.  She was puzzled to find something familiar about him.  His grizzled hair was long, but not unkempt.  The lower part of his face was covered by a beard.  He was almost fleshless; but in his sunken eyes burned unquenchable fire, and there was a determined vigour in his gaunt figure.  He might have been any age.  Assuredly, the outward seeming of youth was not there, but its suggestion still lingered tenaciously in the spirit which glowed through the worn husk.  And about him, in spite of the rough garb and blackened skin, was an unmistakable air of breeding.

Natalie, as she looked, grew rigid.  Then she uttered a cry of rapturous horror, staggered, and was caught in a fierce embrace.  Her stunned senses awoke in a moment, and she clung to him, crying wildly, holding him with straining arms, filled with bitter happiness.

In a few moments he pushed her from him and regarded her sadly.

“You are as beautiful as ever,” he said; “but I—­look at me!  Old, hideous, ragged!  I am not fit to touch you; I never meant to.  Go!  I shall never blame you.”