Guebhard looked into her cool and defiant face, and read but too plainly an expression of hatred in her beautiful eyes. He saw the curl of careless scorn on her sweet red lips, and a sigh of rage escaped him, though for a moment--but a moment only--his eyes sought hers with an anguish of entreaty. 'Perjurer and deserter!' said she defiantly and bitterly; 'the soldier who is false to his colours--the man who is false to his country--is beneath rebuke; but not beneath vengeance.' 'You saved the man's life on one hand,' said he, hoarsely; 'on the other, you exposed me, compelling me to anticipate an old intention of joining the Turkish standard, which must prevail here and elsewhere. You saved his life and won his gratitude and love; but neither will avail, for by the God who hears us, you shall never see him more!' 'Who will separate us?' 'I shall!' 'Stand aside, Captain Guebhard!' said she haughtily, and now dreading every moment to hear the step of Cecil ascending the path; 'stand aside--from this day you and I must be to each other as the dead.' 'As the dead--yes--be it so. I know you hate me now--though once you did not do so.' 'I never even valued you as a friend, though you flattered yourself that you stood even higher than a friend in my estimation; and now as a deserter from the Servian cause----' 'I am more Bulgarian than Servian in my blood, perhaps more Italian than either,' said he, hotly. 'Milano omitted to give me the cross, though I had won it in our first battle, so I have assumed the crescent in its place; that is all--and the crescent will prevail in the end.' 'Never! we shall live to see the crescent thrust into Asia or the sea; but as I did not come here to talk politics, I have the honour to wish you good-morning, Captain Guebhard, and trust that our comedietta is over.' 'It is a tragedy, as you may find,' was the grim and menacing response. 'What do you mean, sir?' 'Simply what I say.' 'Insolent! But I fear you will never make your fortune as a Romeo.' Oaths never rose to the lips of Guebhard; he was--though a finished villain--too polished a man to indulge in such: but terrible was the hatred that baffled passion was now raising in his lawless breast. A dark and angry red shot for a moment across his usually pallid face, and his eyes gleamed with a vindictiveness of expression that made the heart of Margarita throb wildly, and with sudden apprehension; but she could not pass him. Behind her was a precipice, and before her--barred by him--lay the path which she must descend to elude him. Like a heroine, who is described in a recent novel, 'she knew well enough that forgetfulness was a treasure for evermore beyond the reach of those who once loved her.' Guebhard had loved her, she knew, and this love had well-nigh maddened him--and now Guebhard, in his tiger-like nature, was beginning to hate her--nay, hated her already! He grasped her delicate wrist with a force she could not withstand.