Basia’s nostrils dilated still more, and her forelock fell to her flashing eyes. “Do you hold me in contempt?” inquired she, panting quickly.
“Not your person; God save me from that!”
“I cannot endure Pan Michael!”
“You learned fencing from a schoolmaster.” Again he turned to Zagloba: “I think snow is beginning to fall.”
“Here is snow! snow for you!” repeated Basia, giving thrust after thrust.
“Basia, that is enough! you are barely breathing,” said Pani Makovetski.
“Now hold to your sabre, for I will strike it from your hand.”
“We shall see!”
“Here!” And the little sabre, hopping like a bird out of Basia’s hands, fell with a rattle near the stove.
“I let it go myself without thinking! It was not you who did that!” cried the young lady, with tears in her voice; and seizing the sabre, in a twinkle she thrust again: “Try it now.”