with clear decision; his velvet brows bent in a bold arch; his sunburnt cheeks glowed with all the ardour of virginal fire; and his youthful black moustache shone like silk.
"No, I have no power to thank you, magnanimous knight," she said, her silvery voice all in a tremble. "God alone can reward you, not I, a weak woman." She dropped her eyes; her lids fell over them in beautiful, snowy crescents, guarded by lashes long as arrows; all her wondrous face bowed forward, and a delicate flush overspread it from below. Andríi knew not what reply to make to this; he wanted to express everything; he had it in his soul to express it with all the ardour he felt, and could not. He felt that something was obstructing his mouth, and words were deprived of sound; he felt that it was not for him, reared in the seminary, and in a warlike, nomadic life, to reply fitly to such language, and was wroth at his kazák nature.
At that moment the Tatár entered the room. She had cut the bread which the knight had brought in slices, and now brought it on a golden plate, and placed it before her young mistress. The beauty glanced at her, at the bread, at her again, then turned her eyes on Andríi; and there was a great deal in those eyes. That gentle glance, expressive of her weakness and her in-
