Page:Blackwood's Magazine volume 137.djvu/507

1885.] sacrifice, many a torture endured, many a bloody martyrdom, has been less heroic. It is necessary to have watched a Roumanian woman dragging herself through the laziness of her everyday life, before such a heroism can be measured.

And Princess Tryphosa had the agony to see that it was all in vain. Her immolation was disregarded, her martyrdom was uncrowned; there was no aureole for her head, no palm for her hand. Far on in front she could see István by Gretchen's side, giving to the light-footed Gretchen the assistance of which she, the heavy-stepping Tryphosa, stood so much in need. She had torn her long silk dress; she had walked through the soles of her shoes; her lace was hanging in shreds; the amber rosary which she carried in her pocket had snapped its cord, while the yellow beads went bounding down the hill; she had struggled and panted and gasped, battling bravely through it all, and uttering no complaint. But at last, when standing breathless and flushed on the top of a steep path, she looked on, and perceived that those figures in advance had vanished, and found that she herself was abandoned by all save the good-natured Kurt, who had cheered on her passage by an occasional display of his very best French, – now, at last, her strong spirit seemed in danger of breaking.

Collapsing to a limp heap of lilac silk, she sank down at the foot of a beech-tree, and slowly taking out a costly lace handkerchief, she deliberately burst into tears.

What did Kurt do? Did he attempt to dry her beautiful eyes, as some men would have done? Was he terrified at the hysterical storm of feminine emotion, as some other sort of men might have been?

Neither of the two. Kurt put one hand into his pocket, twirled his stick with the other, and, looking down at the sobbing woman, said in an encouraging tone –

"Pleurez, madame; cela vous soulagera!"

The effect might have been expected. Tryphosa, though she was a slow woman, was yet a woman, and, being encouraged to weep, she dried her tears with something that almost approached to alacrity.

"Have we lost our way?" she asked.

Kurt did not think they had lost their way yet, but believed it not at all improbable that they should lose it presently, considering that the others were out of sight, and that he himself had never been in this part of the forest before. He hinted at the advisability of advancing.

"Not yet," said the Princess. "I must rest a little longer, and I must think."

Thinking was much easier when sitting at the foot of a tree than when scrambling up a slippery path.

"Very well," said Kurt.

The Princess began to think. She was reviewing her position. Her tactics had been a failure. She had hoped that her presence would be a check upon Tolnay, and she had found out that it was not. Nor would it ever be, for these three hours up the hill had shown her how wildly and how recklessly István was in love. Her first effort had failed; she must make another, but in another direction. That was what she required to think about.

"Does your sister always walk as fast as this?" she inquired.

"Usually. I am always telling her to take things easily, but she does not listen to me. She likes preaching better than being preached to; and when I hit at her obstinacy, she hits at my expensive habits."