“Yuchkay—Yuchkay—for never die will we!”
Sometimes in her uncontrolled emotion she pulled some stately nobleman from his chair, and made him dance a measure with her, in a manner that was good to see. Look now! Look! the fat, ivory bald priest she is pulling away from the wine!
“Come, come, my reverend father! Your feet are rested. You can dance.”
The reverend father leaped to the floor, but he was obliged to confess that he knew only the grotesque Slav dance—Podza bucski! Now it chanced that Zajczek was a master of this. Then the fiddles sang shrill their Slovak song, and the reverend gentleman leaped about with zeal in this most foolish dance, leaped and swung his legs till the great gold chain about his neck jingled and jingled—
“A fine fellow—the priest,” whirled the whisper about. “How did he ever conceal all this fun that’s in him!”
To the song of the fiddlers the guests from all the other rooms came running in, and the dancing crowd grew larger and larger—and always the merriment rose higher. Two from another room, one in a light dolman the other in an elegant laced coat of fur—and in this heat—(and they were old, too, over seventy) joined the young dancers and laughed and leaped and rattled their silver spurs.
One pretty girl (she was blond and she wore a crown of fresh flowers on her hair, and huge golden earrings in ears that were very white) lost the lappet from her shoe.
“Who made these shoes?”
“Prakovsky.”
“Where is Prakovsky? Wait you bungler! Bring Prakovsky here. He shall be covered with plaster.”