When he had said this, Pan Bogush went out. Azya looked after him a while, and whispered, “But for me a bunchuk, a baton, and, with consent or without, she. Otherwise woe to you!”
Then he finished the gorailka, and threw himself on to the bed, covered with skins. The fire had gone down in the chimney; but through the window came in the clear rays of the moon, which had risen high in the cold wintry sky. Azya lay for some time quietly, but evidently was unable to sleep. At last he rose, approached the window, and looked at the moon, sailing like a ship through the infinite solitudes of heaven. The young Tartar looked at it long; at last he placed his fists on his breast, pointed both thumbs upward, and from the mouth of him who barely an hour before had confessed Christ, came, in a half-chant, a half-drawl, in a melancholy key—
“La Allah illa Allah! Muhammad Rossul Allah!”
XXX
Meanwhile Basia was holding counsel from early morning with her husband and Pan Zagloba how to unite two loving and straitened hearts. The two men laughed at her enthusiasm, and did not cease to banter her; still, yielding to her usually in everything, as to a spoiled child, they promised at last to assist her.
“The best thing,” said Zagloba, “is to persuade old Novoveski not to take the girl with him to Rashkoff; tell him that the frosts have come, and that the road is not perfectly safe. Here the young people will see each other often, and fall in love with all their might.”
“That is a splendid idea,” cried Basia.
“Splendid or not,” said Zagloba, “do not let them out of your sight. You are a woman, and I think this way—you will solder them at last, for a woman carries her point always; but see to it that the Devil does not carry his point in the mean while. That would be a shame for you, since the affair is on your responsibility.”
Basia began first of all to spit at Pan Zagloba, like a cat; then she said, “You boast that you were a Turk in your youth, and you think that everyone is a Turk. Azya is not that kind.”
“Not a Turk, only a Tartar. Pretty image! She would vouch for Tartar love.”
“They are both thinking more of weeping, and that from harsh sorrow. Eva, besides, is a most honest maiden.”
“Still, she has a face as if someone had written on her forehead, ‘Here are lips for you!’ Ho! she is a daw. Yesterday I fixed it in my mind that when she sits opposite a nice fellow, her sighs are such that they drive her plate forward time after time, and she must push it back again. A real daw, I tell you.”
“Do you wish me to go to my own room?” asked Basia.
“You will not go when it is a question of matchmaking. I know you—you’ll not go! But still ’tis too early for you to make matches; for that is the business of women with gray hair. Pani Boski told me yesterday that when she saw you returning from the battle in trousers, she thought that she was looking at Pani Volodyovski’s son, who had gone to the woods on an expedition. You do not love dignity; but dignity, too, does not love you, which appears at once from your slender form. You are a regular student, as God is dear to me! There is another style of women in the world now. In my time, when a woman sat down, the chair squeaked in such fashion that you might think someone had sat on the tail of a dog; but as to you, you might ride bareback on a tomcat without great harm to the beast. They say, too, that women who begin to make matches will have no posterity.”
“Do they really say that?” asked the little knight, alarmed.
But Zagloba began to laugh; and Basia, putting her rosy face to the face of her husband, said, in an undertone, “Ah, Michael, at a convenient time we will make a pilgrimage to Chenstohova; then maybe the Most Holy Lady will change matters.”
“That is the best way indeed,” said Zagloba.
Then they embraced at once, and Basia said, “But now let us talk of Azya and poor Eva, of how we are to help them. We are happy; let them be happy.”
“When Novoveski goes away, it will be easier for them,” said the little knight; “for in his presence they could not see each other, especially as Azya hates the old man. But if the old man were to give him Eva, maybe, forgetting former offences, they would begin to love each other as son-in-law and father-in-law. According to my head, it is not a question of bringing the young people together, for they love each other already, but of bringing over the old man.”
“He is a misanthrope!” said Basia.
“Baska,” said Zagloba, “imagine to yourself that you had a daughter, and that you had to give her to some Tartar—”
“Azya is a prince.”
“I do not deny that Tugai Bey comes of high blood. Ketling was a noble; still Krysia would not have married him if he had not been naturalized.”
“Then try to obtain naturalization for Azya.”
“Is that an easy thing? Though someone were to admit him to his escutcheon, the Diet would have to confirm the choice; and for that, time and protection are necessary.”
“I do not like this—that time is needed—for we could find protection. Surely the hetman would not refuse it to Azya, for he loves soldiers. Michael, write to the hetman. Do you
