"That is no fault of the dastard who struck at me. It was aimed at my heart."
She showed not the least embarrassment, but appeared bent on making me feel that she trusted me as implicitly as a child. When I had bound up the wound she resumed her dress, taking care to put the stains of blood out of sight; and then, with a few swift, graceful movements, for all the stiffness of the hurt, she coiled up the loose tresses of her hair.
When she had finished she went to a cabinet, and, taking wine and glasses, filled them.
"You will pledge me?" and she looked the invitation. "We women are so weak. I am beginning to feel the reaction."
I was putting the glass to my lips when she stopped me.
"Stay, I wish to know to whom I owe my life?"
So powerful was the strange influence she exerted that I was on the point of blurting out the truth, that I was Gerald Winthrop, an Englishman, when I steadied my scrambled wits, and, mindful of my secret mission in the country and of the part I was playing, I replied:
"I am the Count Benderoff, of Radova."
She saw the hesitation, but put it down to a momentary reluctance to disclose my identity, for she answered:
"You will not repent having trusted me with your name, Count." Then, with a flashing, subtle under-*glance, she added, "And do you know me?"
"As yet, madame, I have not that honour, to my regret."
"Yet I am not unknown in Bulgaria," and she raised her head with a gesture of infinite pride.
