“As true as life I propose it myself.”
“Then listen, Pan Kuklinovski,” Here Kmita inclined and looked into the very eyes of the ruffian. “You are a rascal, a traitor, a scoundrel, a crab-monger, an arch-cur! Have you enough, or shall I spit in your eyes yet?”
Kuklinovski was astounded to such a degree that for a time there was silence.
“What is this? How is this? Do I hear correctly?”
“Have you enough, you cur? or do you wish me to spit in your eyes?”
Kuklinovski drew his sabre; but Kmita caught him with his iron hand by the wrist, twisted his arm, wrested the sabre from him, then slapped him on the cheek so that the sound went out in the darkness; seized him by the other side, turned him in his hand like a top, and kicking him with all his strength, cried,—
“To a private man, not to an envoy!”
Kuklinovski rolled down like a stone thrown from a ballista. Pan Andrei went quietly to the gate.
The two men parted on the slope of the eminence; hence it was difficult to see them from the walls. But Kmita found waiting for him at the gate Kordetski, who took him aside at once, and asked,—
“What were you doing so long with Kuklinovski.”