“How he knelt at thy feet in the church!” said Regret, again. “It is a wonder that thy heart did not burst when he looked into thy eyes and begged of thee pity. It was just of thee to give pity to a stranger, but to the loved one, the dearest, what? God bless him! God solace him!”
“Were it not for thy giddiness, that dearest one might depart in joy,” repeated Remorse; “thou mightest walk at his side, as his chosen one, his wife—”
“And be with him forever,” added Regret.
“It is thy fault,” said Remorse.
“Weep, O Krysia,” cried Regret.
“Thou canst not wipe away that fault!” said Remorse, again.
“Do what thou pleasest, but console him,” repeated Regret.
“Volodyovski will slay him!” answered Remorse, at once.
Cold sweat covered Krysia, and she sat on the bed. Bright moonlight fell into the room, which seemed somehow weird and terrible in those white rays.
“What is that?” thought Krysia. “There Basia is sleeping. I see her, for the moon is shining in her face; and I know not when she came, when she undressed and lay down. And I have not slept one moment; but my poor head is of no use, that is clear.” Thus meditating, she lay down again; but Regret and Remorse sat on the edge of her bed, exactly like two goddesses, who were diving in at will through the rays of moonlight, or sweeping out again through its silvery abysses.