The lady clapped her hands with a laugh. "Ha, ha! To-morrow. So you won't keep me waiting a week. Not until next Sunday? To-morrow I shall learn whether you are Father Peter or Tihamer Csorbai! To-morrow, even to-morrow!"
And with that she jumped up and danced the cushion dance, singing enchantingly as she danced. Then she threw the cap from her head at the feet of the man, and knelt on her cap, as on a cushion.
If Tihamer Csorbai had entered into the joke and set free with a kiss the woman on her knees before him, then would she have plunged a poisoned dagger into his heart, and the other woman, at least, would have been saved. But nothing of the kind entered into the knight's thoughts. The woman rose without a kiss, and danced and danced, until she danced herself out of the room. No expression on her face betrayed what was raging in her soul. She went to her room to waken her boy. She was tenderness itself. Young Cupid complained of the frightful dreams he had had in the night. He saw first Father Peter and then his mother push Saint Nepomeck aside and follow each other down to hell.
"You little goose, you ate too much plum-cake last evening."
"But I did not dream this, I saw it with my own eyes. I was in Father Peter's room."
"Oh, you darling, you were with me all night long. I could not cover you up often enough, you kicked about so."
"Where's my little silver whistle?"
"Your little silver whistle! Dear soul, you left that in the land of dreams."
"I am still cold. I am all of a tremble."
"You are feverish, sweetheart; stay in bed to-day, and I'll bring your playthings to you, and make you a nice tea that will make you well again."