“There!” said Pan Michael. And again the sabre was at the stove. “That is enough for to-day,” said the little knight.
Pani Makovetski began to bustle about and talk louder than usual; but Basia stood in the middle of the room, confused, stunned, breathing heavily, biting her lips and repressing the tears which were crowding into her eyes in spite of her. She knew that they would laugh all the more if she burst out crying, and she wished absolutely to restrain herself; but seeing that she could not, she rushed from the room on a sudden.
“For God’s sake!” cried Pani Makovetski. “She has run to the stable, of course, and being so heated, will catch cold. Some one must go for her. Krysia, don’t you go!”
So saying, she went out, and seizing a warm shuba in the ante-room, hurried to the stable; and after her ran Zagloba, troubled about his little haiduk. Krysia wished to go also, but the little knight held her by the hand. “You heard the prohibition. I will not let this hand go till they come back.”
And, in fact, he did not let it go. But that hand was as soft as satin. It seemed to Pan Michael that a kind of warm current was flowing from those slender fingers into his bones, rousing in them an uncommon pleasantness; therefore he held them more firmly. A slight blush flew over Krysia’s face. “I see that I am a prisoner taken captive.”
“Whoever should take such a prisoner would not have reason to envy the Sultan, for the Sultan would gladly give half his kingdom for her.”
“But you would not sell me to the Pagans?”
“Just as I would not sell my soul to the Devil.”
Here Pan Michael remarked that momentary enthusiasm had carried him too far, and he corrected himself: “As I would not sell my sister.”
“That is the right word,” said Krysia, seriously. “I am a sister in affection to your sister, and I will be the same to you.”