Nicola was beside himself. He would willingly have gone on his knees, and kissed her feet, so beautiful was she. But he knew if he knelt before her she would only mock him. He approached to embrace her.
“Hold!” cried the Sultana. “I thought there were thieves! Ha, ha! it is you, Boyar Nicola?”
And suddenly, there in the light, she raised a shining scimitar in her right hand. Nicola felt a hard blow on the side of his head. He stood still. His grooms started to run, but one fell, yelling, and covered with blood. Just then a great noise was heard, and the lady’s servants came in.
Nicola fled towards the exit followed by his four companions. Then on into the yard with scimitars flashing on their right and on their left. And once more they are on horseback fleeing towards Vulturesht.
There he dismounted, feeling very bitter, and entered the garden once more, and once more sat on the stone bench, and hid his face in his hands.
“Woe is me!” he murmured miserably. “How wretched is my life! What is to be done? What is to be done?”
He sat there in the October night tortured by his thoughts. Only the breeze carrying the mist from the fields disturbed him.
“Woe is me! How wretched is my life!” and he bent forward, his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees. “What a terrible woman!” he murmured again as he mused. “What eyes she has! Oh, Blessed Virgin! Oh, Blessed Virgin! Do not abandon me, for my heart is breaking!”
For some time he stayed there dreaming. After a while he rose and moved towards the house.
“What a terrible woman, and what eyes!”