Still, almost at the same time, he asked himself whether he were going to turn coward at the last moment.
Was he not doing an act of equity? How heinously had not this fiend dealt by him! He had put him up against his wife, until, baited, she was almost driven to adultery. No, the justice of God and man would absolve him; if not—well, he had rather be hanged, and put his soul in jeopardy, than forego his vengeance. He was a Slav.
All these thoughts flitted through his brain in an instant, like flashes of lightning following one another on a stormy night.
Radonic watched the approaching shadow, from the cranny of the door ajar, with a beating heart.
Before Vranic came to the doorstep, he stopped. He looked round on one side, then on the other; after that he cast a glance all around. He bent his head forward to try and pierce the darkness that surrounded him. Was he seeing ghosts? Then he seemed to be listening. At last, convinced that he was alone, he again walked on. Now he was by the door, almost on the sill, within reach of Radonic's grasp. He stopped again.
Radonic clasped his knife; he might have flung the door open, and despatched him with a single blow. No, that would have been stupid. It was better by far to let him come in, like a mouse into a trap, and there be caught with his own bait. Yes, he would make the most of his revenge, spit upon him, torture him.
Slowly and noiselessly he glided back into a corner behind the door. Some everlasting seconds passed. He waited breathlessly, for his heart was beating so loud that he could only gasp.
Had Vranic repented at the last instant? Had he gone back? Was he still standing on the doorstep, waiting and watching? At last he moved—he came up to the door—he slowly pushed it open; then again he stopped. The darkness within was blacker than the darkness without.
"Sst, pst!" he hissed, like a snake. Then he waited.
He came a step onward; then, in an undertone: "Milena, Milena, where are you?"