“That is he!” she breathlessly and sadly murmured—­“yes, that is he!  That is a man and a hero!  Ah, I shall die under his glance!”

He still continued to approach, and with every forward step he made she felt her heart contract with anxiety, admiration, and a feverish sadness.

Now he stood on the threshold of the boudoir—­his glance fell upon her.  And she?  She lay, or rather half knelt upon the divan, motionless, pale as a marble statue, with that divine smile which we admire in ancient sculpture.

Touching was she to behold, white and delicate as a lily, so humble and devoted, so shelter-needing and love-imploring!

But Count Orloff felt neither sympathy nor compassion.  He saw only that she was beautiful as an angel, an admirable woman, whom he desired to possess!

Proud as a king, and at the same time very reverential and submissive, he approached and sank upon his knee before the divan upon which she reclined in trembling yet blissful sadness.

“Princess Natalie,” he murmured low, “will you be angry with your slave for daring to intrude upon you without knowing whether he would be welcome?”

She breathed freer.  It was a relief to her to hear his voice—­it made her feel easier.  He was no magician, no demon, he was a man, and spoke to her with human words!  That gave her courage and strength, it gave her back the consciousness of her own dignity.  She was ashamed of her anxiety, her trembling, her childish helplessness.  Yet she could say nothing, answer nothing.  She only gave him her hand, and with a charming smile, an inimitable grace, and welcomed him with a silent inclination of the head.

Taking her hand he pressed it to his lips.  His touch seemed to kindle in her an electric glow, and with something like alarm she withdrew her hand.

“Are you, then, angry with me?” he asked in a tone of sadness.

“No,” said she, “I am not angry, but I fear you.  You are so great a hero, and your sword has done so many brave deeds.  I looked at your sword, and it alarmed me.”

Count Orloff gave her a surprised and interrogating glance.  Why said she that?  Had she some suspicion, some mistrust, or was it only a presentiment, an inexplicable instinct, that made her tremble at his sword?

“No, she suspects nothing,” thought he, as he gazed upon that pure, innocent, childish brow, which was turned toward him in pious confidence, and yet with timid hesitation.

He loosened his sword from his girdle, sparkling with diamonds, and humbly laid both at Natalie’s feet.

“Princess,” said he, “the empress herself girded me with this sword, and I swore it should never leave my side but with my life.  You are dearer to me than my life or my honor, and I therefore break my sacred oath.  Take my sword, I am now without arms, and you will no longer have occasion to tremble before me.”

She smilingly shook her head.  “You still remain a hero, though without arms—­it lies in your eyes!”