“I confess that when she puts her fists in her eyes and begins to cry, or just let her pretend to cry, the heart in me is like butter on a frying-pan. It must be that she has given me some herb. As to sending her, I will send her, for her safety is dearer to me than my own life; but when I think that I must torture her so the breath stops in me from pity.”
“Michael, have God in your heart! Don’t be led by the nose!”
“Bah! don’t be led yourself. Who, if not you, said that I have no pity for her?”
“What’s that?” asked Zagloba.
“You do not lack ingenuity, but now you are scratching behind your ear yourself.”
“Because I’m thinking what better argument to use.”
“But if she puts her fists in her eyes at once?”
“She will, as God is dear to me!” said Zagloba, with evident alarm.
And they were perplexed, for, to tell the truth, Basia had measured both perfectly. They had petted her to the last degree in her sickness, and loved her so much that the necessity of opposing her wish and desire filled them with fear. That Basia would not resist, and would yield with submission to the decree, both knew well; but not to mention Pan Michael, it would have been pleasanter for Zagloba to rush himself the third man on a whole regiment of janissaries, than to see her putting her little fists into her eyes.