“Oh, as God lives! if what I think should come true!” cried Basia, blushing with delight.
And she stood at once in position with a light Polish sabre in her right hand; the left she put behind her, and with breast pushed forward, with raised head and dilated nostrils, she was so pretty and so rosy that Zagloba whispered to Pan Michael’s sister, “No decanter, even if filled with Hungarian a hundred years old, would delight me so much with the sight of it.”
“Remember,” said the little knight to Basia, “that I will only defend myself; I will not thrust once. You may attack as quickly as you choose.”
“Very well. If you wish me to stop, give the word.”
“The fencing could be stopped without a word, if I wished.”
“And how could that be done?”
“I could take the sabre easily out of the hand of a fencer like you.”
“We shall see!”
“We shall not, for I will not do so, through politeness.”
“There is no need of politeness in this case. Do it if you can. I know that I have less skill than you, but still I will not let that be done.”