“Traitor! that will not go with you! But she—what—tell me everything. Did she accept?”
“She refused me on the spot, without thinking.”
A moment of silence followed. Kmita breathed heavily, and fixed his eyes on Volodyovski, who said,—
“Why call me traitor? Am I your brother or your best man? Have I broken faith with you? I conquered you in battle, and could have done what I liked.”
“In old fashion one of us would seal this with his blood,—if not with a sabre, with a gun. I would shoot you; then let the devils take me.”
“Then you would have shot me, for if she had not refused I should not have accepted a second duel. What had I to fight for? Do you know why she refused me?”
“Why?” repeated Kmita, like an echo.
“Because she loves you.”
That was more than the exhausted strength of the sick man could bear. His head fell on the pillows, a copious sweat came out on his forehead, and he lay there in silence.
“I am terribly weak,” said he, after a while. “How do you know that she loves me?”