“Are you certain?”
“I have suffered much in life; my word of a knight that I will not indulge it.”
Then Zagloba opened his arms to him: “Ketling, indulge your heart; indulge it, poor man, as much as you like, for I only wanted to try you. Not Panna Krysia, but the haiduk, have we predestined to Michael.”
Ketling’s face grew bright with a sincere and deep joy, and seizing Zagloba in his embrace, he held him long, then inquired, “Is it certain already that they are in love?”
“But who would not be in love with my haiduk,—who?” asked Zagloba.
“Then has the betrothal taken place?”
“There has been no betrothal, for Michael has barely freed himself from mourning; but there will be,—put that on my head. The maiden, though she evades like a weasel, is very much inclined to him, for with her the sabre is the main thing.”
“I have noticed that, as God is dear to me!” interrupted Ketling, radiant.
“Ha! you noticed it? Michael is weeping yet for the other; but if any one pleases his spirit, it is certainly the haiduk, for she is most like the dead one, though she cuts less with her eyes, for she is younger. Everything is arranging itself well. I am the guarantee that these two weddings will be at election-time.”
Ketling, saying nothing, embraced Zagloba again, and placed his beautiful face against his red cheeks, so that the old man panted and asked, “Has Panna Krysia sewed herself into your skin like that already?”