For a moment Rezanov stared at her, through
her. Then his heavy eyes opened and flashed. It
seemed to him that for the first time he saw how
beautiful, how desirable she was, set in that gray
volcanic rock with the heavens gray above her, and
the stars fading out. It was not the bower he would
have imagined for the wooing of a mate, but neither
moonlight nor the romantic glades of La Bellissima
could have awakened in him a passion so sudden
and final. Her face between the black folds turned
whiter and she shrank back against the jagged wall:
and when his eyes flashed again with a wild eager
hope she involuntarily crossed herself. He threw
himself against the horse and snatched her down
and kissed her as he had kissed no woman yet,
recognizing her once for all.

When he finally held her at arm's length for a
moment he laughed confusedly.

"The Russian bear is no longer a figure of
speech," he said. "Forgive me. I forgot that you
are as tender as you are strong."

Her hands were tightly clasped against her
breast and the breath was short in her throat, but
she made no protest. Her eyes were radiant, her
mouth was the only color in that gray dawn. In a
moment she too laughed.