“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!”
Zagloba inquired no further, but went out and made arrangements. When he returned, Pan Michael was no longer in the room. The officers told Zagloba that the sick woman had called her husband, it was unknown whether in a fever or in her senses.
The old noble convinced himself soon, by inspection, that it was in a fever.
Basia’s cheeks were bright red; her eyes, though glittering, were dull, as if the pupils had mingled with the white; her pale hands were searching for something before her, with a monotonous motion, on the coverlet. Pan Michael was lying half alive at her feet.
From time to time the sick woman muttered something in a low voice, or uttered uncertain phrases more loudly; among them “Hreptyoff” was repeated most frequently: evidently it seemed to her at times that she was still on the road. That movement of her hands on the coverlet disturbed Zagloba especially, for in its unconscious monotony he saw signs of coming death. He was a man of experience, and many people had died in his presence; but never had his heart been cut with such sorrow as at sight of that flower withering so early.
Understanding that God alone could save that quenching life, he knelt at the bed and began to pray, and to pray earnestly.
Meanwhile Basia’s breath grew heavier, and changed by degrees to a rattling. Volodyovski sprang up from her feet; Zagloba rose from his knees. Neither said a word to the other; they merely looked into each other’s eyes, and in that look there was terror. It seemed to them that she was dying, but it seemed so only for some moments; soon her breathing was easier and even slower.
Thenceforth they were between fear and hope. The night dragged on slowly. Neither did the officers go to rest; they sat in the room, now looking at the door of the bedroom, now whispering among themselves, now dozing. At intervals a boy came in to throw wood on the fire; and at each movement of the latch they sprang from the bench, thinking that Volodyovski or Zagloba was coming, and they would hear the terrible words, “She is living no longer!”
At last the cocks crowed, and she was still struggling with the fever. Toward morning a fierce rain-storm burst forth; it roared among the beams, howled on the roof; at times the flames quivered in the chimney, casting into the room puffs of smoke and sparks. About daylight Pan Motovidlo stepped out quietly, for he had to go on a reconnoissance. At last day came pale and cloudy, and lighted weary faces.
On the square the usual movement began. In the whistling of the storm were heard the tramp of horses on the planking of the stable, the squeak of the well-sweeps, and the voices of soldiers; but soon a bell sounded,—Father Kaminski had come.