all the beauty and might of his young manhood, and in the very
immovability of his limbs personified the utmost freedom of movement.
His eyes beamed with clear decision; his velvet brows curved in a bold
arch; his sunburnt cheeks glowed with all the ardour of youthful fire;
and his downy black moustache shone like silk.

"No, I have no power to thank you, noble sir," 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 semicircles, guarded by lashes long as arrows; her wondrous face
bowed forward, and a delicate flush overspread it from within. Andrii
knew not what to say; he wanted to say everything. He had in his mind
to say it all ardently as it glowed in his heart--and could not. He
felt something confining his mouth; voice and words were lacking; he
felt that it was not for him, bred in the seminary and in the tumult
of a roaming life, to reply fitly to such language, and was angry with
his Cossack nature.

At that moment the Tatar entered the room. She had cut up the bread
which the warrior had brought into small pieces on a golden plate,
which she placed before her mistress. The lady glanced at her, at the
bread, at her again, and then turned her eyes towards Andrii. There
was a great deal in those eyes. That gentle glance, expressive of her
weakness and her inability to give words to the feeling which
overpowered her, was far more comprehensible to Andrii than any words.
His heart suddenly grew light within him, all seemed made smooth. The
mental emotions and the feelings which up to that moment he had
restrained with a heavy curb, as it were, now felt themselves
released, at liberty, and anxious to pour themselves out in a
resistless torrent of words. Suddenly the lady turned to the Tatar,