“Horsemen of some kind are pushing on after us.”
“What? How? Who?” asked the drowsy Zagloba.
“Horsemen of some kind are coming.”
“Oh! they will come up directly. The tramp of horses is to be heard; perhaps some one is going in the same direction—”
“They are robbers, I am sure!”
Basia was sure, for the reason that in her soul she was eager for adventures,—robbers and opportunities for her daring,—so that when Zagloba, puffing and muttering, began to draw out from the seat pistols, which he took with him always for “an occasion,” she claimed one for herself.
“I shall not miss the first robber who approaches. Auntie shoots wonderfully with a musket, but she cannot see in the night. I could swear that those men are robbers! Oh, if they would only attack us! Give me the pistol quickly!”
“Well,” answered Zagloba, “but you must promise not to fire before I do, and till I say fire. If I give you a weapon, you will be ready to shoot the noble that you see first, without asking, ‘Who goes there?’ and then a trial will follow.”
“I will ask first, ‘Who goes there?’”
“But if drinking-men are passing, and hearing a woman’s voice, say something impolite?”