Meanwhile Plavitski held his face hidden on his palm, and was silent.
“I should like to say something,” began Pan Stanislav, at last.
But the old man waved his hand, indicating that he wished to be alone with his thoughts for a time yet. On a sudden he raised his face, which had grown radiant,—
“Stas,” said he, “why are we disputing, when there is such a simple way out of it?”
“How?”
“Take the marl.”
“What?”
“Bring thy partner, bring some specialist; we will set a price on my marl, and form a company of three. Thy—what’s his name? Bigiel, isn’t it? will pay me so much, whatever falls to him; thou wilt either add something or not; and we’ll all go on together. The profits may be colossal.”
Pan Stanislav rose. “I assure you,” said he, “that there is one thing to which I am not accustomed, that is to be made sport of. I do not want your marl; I want only my money; and what you tell me I regard simply as an unworthy or stupid evasion.”
A moment of oppressive silence followed. Jove’s anger began to gather on the brows and forehead of Plavitski. For a while he threatened boldly with his eyes, then, moving quickly to the hooks on which his weapons were hanging, he took down a hunter’s knife, and, offering it to Pan Stanislav, said,—