“We request you earnestly,” answered Krysia.
“Then I am bold to ask, of what was your conversation?”
“Of love,” cried Basia, without hesitation.
Ketling sat down near Krysia. They were silent for a time; for Krysia, usually self-possessed and with presence of mind, had in some wonderful way become timid in presence of the cavalier; hence he was first to ask,—
“Is it true that the conversation was of such a pleasant subject?”
“It was,” answered Krysia, in an undertone.
“I shall be delighted to hear your opinion.”
“Pardon me, for I lack courage and wit, so I think that I should rather hear something new from you.”
“Krysia is right,” said Zagloba. “Let us listen.”
“Ask a question,” said Ketling. And raising his eyes somewhat, he meditated a little, then, although no one had questioned him, he began to speak, as if to himself: “Loving is a grievous misfortune; for by loving, a free man becomes a captive. Just as a bird, shot by an arrow, falls it the feet of the hunter, so the man struck by love has no power to escape from the feet of the loved one. To love is to be maimed; for a man, like one blind, does not see the world beyond his love. To love is to mourn; for when do more tears flow, when do more sighs swell the breast? When a man loves, there are neither dresses nor hunts in his head; he is ready to sit embracing his knees with his arms, sighing as plaintively as if he had lost some one near to him. Love is an illness; for in it, as in illness, the face becomes pale, the eyes sink, the hands tremble, the fingers grow thin, and the man thinks of death, or goes around in derangement, with dishevelled hair, talks with the moon, writes gladly the cherished name on the sand, and if the wind blows it away, he says, ‘misfortune,’ and is ready to sob.”