“For God’s sake! We are living in the house of that man!” said Makovetski. “We must find an inn somehow to-morrow, or even pitch tents in the field, only not to live longer here.”
“Wait for news from me, or we shall lose each other,” said Zagloba. “If Ketling is killed—”
“Speak more quietly, by Christ’s wounds!” said Pani Makovetski, “for the servants will hear and tell Krysia; she is barely alive as it is.”
“I will go to her,” said Basia.
And she sprang upstairs. Those below remained in anxiety and fear. No one slept in the whole house. The thought that maybe Ketling was already a corpse filled their hearts with terror. In addition, the night became close, dark; thunder began to roar and roll through the heavens; and later bright lightning rent the sky each moment. About midnight the first storm of the spring began to rage over the earth. Even the servants woke.
Krysia and Basia went from their chamber to the dining-room. There the whole company prayed and sat in silence, repeating in chorus, after each clap of thunder, “And the Word was made flesh!” In the whistling of the whirlwind was heard at times, as it were, a certain horse-tramp, and then fear and terror raised the hair on the heads of Basia, Pani Makovetski, and the two men; for it seemed to them that at any moment the door might open, and Pan Michael enter, stained with Ketling’s blood. The usually mild Pan Michael, for the first time in his life, oppressed people’s hearts like a stone, so that the very thought of him filled them with dread.
However, the night passed without news of the little knight. At daylight, when the storm had abated in a measure, Zagloba set out a second time for the city. That whole day was a day of still greater alarm. Basia sat till evening in the window in front of the gate, looking at the road along which Pan Zagloba might return.
Meanwhile the servants, at command of Pan Makovetski, were packing the trunks slowly for the road. Krysia was occupied in directing this work, for thus she was able to hold herself at a distance from the others. For though Pani Makovetski did not mention Pan Michael in the young lady’s presence even by one word, still that very silence convinced Krysia that Pan Michael’s love for her, their former secret engagement, and her recent refusal had been discovered; and in view of this, it was difficult to suppose that those people, the nearest to Pan Michael, were not offended and grieved. Poor Krysia felt that it must be so, that it was so,—that those hearts, hitherto loving, had withdrawn from her; therefore she wished to suffer by herself.
Toward evening the trunks were ready, so that it was possible to move that very day; but Pan Makovetski was waiting yet for news from Zagloba. Supper was brought; no one cared to eat it; and the evening began to drag along heavily, insupportably, and as silent as if all were listening to what the clock was whispering.
“Let us go to the drawing-room,” said Pan Makovetski, at last. “It is impossible to stay here.”