“For God’s sake, what is it?”
“Kettling refuses!”
“All here are ruffians, scoundrels, arch-curs! How is this? And he will not help?”
“Not only will he not help,” answered she, complaining like a little child, “but he says that he will prevent, even should it come to him to die.”
“Why? by the Lord’s wounds, why?”
“For such is our fate! Kettling is not a traitor; but such is our fate, for we are the most unhappy of all people.”
“May the thunderbolts crush all those heretics!” cried Billevich. “They attack virtue, plunder, steal, imprison. Would that all might perish! It is not for honest people to live in such times!”
Here he began to walk with hurried step through the chamber, threatening with his fists; at last he said, gritting his teeth,—
“The voevoda of Vilna was better; I prefer a thousand times even Kmita to these perfumed ruffians without honor and conscience.”
When Olenka said nothing, but began to cry still more, Billevich grew mild, and after a while said,—