When he had finished writing, Zagloba sprinkled sand on the paper; then he struck it with his hand, read it once more, holding it at a distance from his eyes; then he folded it, took his seal ring from his finger, moistened it, and prepared to seal the letter, at which occupation Ketling found him.
“A good-day to your grace!”
“Good-day, good-day!” said Zagloba. “The weather, thanks be to God, is excellent, and I am just sending a messenger to Pan Yan.”
“Send an obeisance from me.”
“I have done so already. I said at once to myself, ‘It is necessary to send a greeting from Ketling. Both of them will be glad to receive good news.’ It is evident that I have sent a greeting from you, since I have written a whole epistle touching you and the young ladies.”
“How is that?” inquired Ketling.
Zagloba placed his palms on his knees, which he began to tap with his fingers; then he bent his head, and looking from under his brows at Ketling, said, “My Ketling, it is not necessary to be a prophet to know that where flint and steel are, sparks will flash sooner or later. You are a beauty above beauties, and even you would not find fault with the young ladies.”
Ketling was really confused, “I should have to be wall-eyed or be a wild barbarian altogether,” said he, “if I did not see their beauty, and do homage to it.”
“But, you see,” continued Zagloba, looking with a smile on the blushing face of Ketling, “if you are not a barbarian, it is not right for you to have both in view, for only Turks act like that.”
“How can you suppose—”