“Let Pan Michael eat them himself; I am not a child,” said Basia, whose cheeks flushed as if from sudden pain.
“Then you will not be glad to see him? Are you angry at him?” asked Zagloba.
But Basia merely muttered something in low tones, and really settled down in anger, thinking some of how lightly Pan Michael was treating her, and a little about the bustard and that pelican, which roused her curiosity specially.
Krysia sat there during the reading with closed eyes, turned from the light; in truth, it was lucky that those present could not see her face, for they would have known at once that something uncommon was happening. That which took place in the church, and the letter of Pan Volodyovski, were for her like two blows of a club. The wonderful dream had fled; and from that moment the maiden stood face to face with a reality as crushing as misfortune. She could not collect her thoughts to wait, and indefinite, hazy feelings were storming in her heart. Pan Michael, with his letter, with the promise of his coming, and with a bundle of ermine, seemed to her so flat that he was almost repulsive. On the other hand, Ketling had never been so dear. Dear to her was the very thought of him, dear his words, dear his face, dear his melancholy. And now she must go from love, from homage, from him toward whom her heart is struggling, her hands stretching forth, in endless sorrow and suffering, to give her soul and her body to another, who for this alone, that he is another, becomes well-nigh hateful to her.
“I cannot, I cannot!” cried Krysia, in her soul. And she felt that which a captive feels whose hands men are binding; but she herself had bound her own hands, for in her time she might have told Pan Michael that she would be his sister, nothing more.
Now the kiss came to her memory—that kiss received and returned—and shame, with contempt for her own self, seized her. Was she in love with Pan Michael that day? No! In her heart there was no love, and except sympathy there was nothing in her heart at that time but curiosity and giddiness, masked with the show of sisterly affection. Now she has discovered for the first time that between kissing from great love and kissing from impulse of blood, there is as much difference as between an angel and a devil. Anger as well as contempt was rising in Krysia; then pride began to storm in her and against Pan Michael. He too was at fault; why should all the penance, contrition, and disappointment fall upon her? Why should he too not taste the bitter bread? Has she not the right to say when he returns, “I was mistaken; I mistook pity for love. You also were mistaken; now leave me, as I have left you.”
Suddenly fear seized her by the hair—fear before the vengeance of the terrible man; fear not for herself, but for the head of the loved one, whom vengeance would strike without fail. In imagination she saw Ketling standing up to the struggle with that ominous swordsman beyond swordsmen, and then falling as a flower falls cut by a scythe; she sees his blood, his pale face, his eyes closed for the ages, and her suffering goes beyond every measure. She rose with all speed and went to her chamber to vanish from the eyes of people, so as not to hear conversation concerning Pan Michael and his approaching return. In her heart rose greater and greater animosity against the little knight. But Remorse and Regret pursued her, and did not leave her in time of prayer; they sat on her bed when, overcome with weakness, she lay in it, and began to speak to her.
“Where is he?” asked Regret. “He has not returned yet; he is walking through the night and wringing his hands. Thou wouldst incline the heavens for him, thou wouldst give him thy life’s blood; but thou hast given him poison to drink, thou hast thrust a knife through his heart.”
“Had it not been for thy giddiness, had it not been for thy wish to lure every man whom thou meetest,” said Remorse, “all might be different; but now despair alone remains to thee. It is thy fault—thy great fault! There is no help for thee; there is no rescue for thee now—nothing but shame and pain and weeping.”
“How he knelt at thy feet in the church!” said Regret, again. “It is a wonder that thy heart did not burst when he looked into thy eyes and begged of thee pity. It was just of thee to give pity to a stranger, but to the loved one, the dearest, what? God bless him! God solace him!”
“Were it not for thy giddiness, that dearest one might depart in joy,” repeated Remorse; “thou mightest walk at his side, as his chosen one, his wife—”
“And be with him forever,” added Regret.
“It is thy fault,” said Remorse.
“Weep, O Krysia,” cried Regret.
“Thou canst not wipe away that fault!” said Remorse, again.
“Do what thou pleasest, but console him,” repeated Regret.
“Volodyovski will slay him!” answered Remorse, at once.
Cold sweat covered Krysia, and she sat on the bed. Bright moonlight fell into the room, which seemed somehow weird and terrible in those white rays.
“What is that?” thought Krysia. “There Basia is sleeping. I see her, for the moon is shining in her face; and I know not when she came, when she undressed and lay down. And I have not slept one moment; but my poor head is of no use, that is clear.” Thus meditating, she
