Kishlaki looked at her with streaming eyes. Shoskuty produced his watch.
"Oh! sir, I know you will send him to prison! What is death to him? It's but the pain of a moment; but we are the sufferers. I have two children—this boy and the other child, which the Liptaka has in her arms—the Liptaka, I mean the old woman at the door; and what am I to do if their father is hanged?"
Zatonyi remarked, very judiciously, that it made no difference to the children whether their father was hanged or sent to prison for life.
"Oh! but it does, sir. It may make no difference to your worships, but it does to us. I know he will be of good behaviour. I will walk to Vienna, I will crawl on my hands and knees after the king until he pardons my husband; and if he will not pardon him, I shall at least be allowed to see him in prison; I can show him the children, and how they have grown! I can bring him something to eat and to put on—oh! for pity's sake, send him to prison! It's a heaven for me; but death is fearful!"
"Fearful, indeed! It's half-past three!" sighed Shoskuty.
"Now do be quiet," said Zatonyi, taking a pinch of snuff. "Besides, it's too late. We've passed the sentence."
"The sentence! The sentence of death!" shrieked Susi.
"It's at your service," sneered Mr. Skinner, pointing to a paper which was just being folded up by Mr. Catspaw.
"But suppose it is bad—it is faulty," muttered the woman. "Suppose I say it's wrong—for death is not a punishment to Viola—it's I that am punished!"
"It's done, and can't be undone," said Zatonyi; "don't bore us with your useless lamentations."