Sss! Thrust away by her elbow, Prokop jumped up and rubbed his forehead as if he were drunk. The Princess sat up and arranged her hair. “Give me your hand,” she ordered coolly, hastily looked round, and then quickly pressed the hand which he had stretched out against her burning face. Suddenly she pushed it away, stood up, and, rigid, gazed with large eyes into the distance. Prokop felt quite embarrassed. He was about to approach her again, but she made a nervous movement with her shoulder, as if she were shaking something off. He saw that she was biting her lips deeply. Only then did he remember Carson, whom he found some distance away lying on his back—but not in the ditch—and gazing up happily at the blue sky. “Is it all over?” he said, without getting up, and twiddled his thumbs on his stomach. “I’m frightfully afraid of such things. Can I get up now?” He jumped up and shook himself like a dog. “Magnificent explosion,” he said enthusiastically, and again looked, as it were casually, at the Princess.
The Princess turned round; she was as white as a sheet, but had herself completely under control. “Was that all?” she asked carelessly.
“My God,” cried Carson, “as if that were not enough! One little box of powder! Man, you’re a magician, a devil, the king of hell or someone like that. What? Really. The king of matter. Princess, behold the king! A genius, eh? A unique person. Honestly, compared to him we’re ragpickers. What name have you given to the stuff?” The disconcerted Prokop regained his equilibrium. “Let the Princess christen it,” he said, glad to be able to rise to the occasion. “It’s … hers.”
The Princess trembled. “You might call it ‘Vicit,’ ” she said sharply through her teeth.
“What?” cried Mr. Carson. “Aha! Vicit. That means ‘he conquered,’ eh? Princess, you’re a genius! Vicit! Magnificent. Aha! Hurrah!”
But through Prokop’s head there flashed another and a terrible etymology. Vitium. Vice. He looked with horror at the Princess, but it was impossible to read any answer on her strained face.
XXX
Mr. Carson ran ahead to the seat of the explosion. The Princess—evidently on purpose—behind. Prokop thought that she had something to say to him, but she only pointed with her finger at his face. Prokop quickly felt his face; on it he found the bloody traces of her teeth, and, picking up a handful of soil, rubbed it over the marks, as if he had been struck by a clod at the explosion.
The hole in which the powder had been placed had become a crater about fifteen feet across. It was difficult to calculate the power of the explosion, but Carson estimated it at five times that of oxy-liquid. “Fine stuff,” he said, “but a bit too strong for ordinary usage.” Mr. Carson took the whole conversation in hand, slipping adroitly over its serious gaps. When on the way back he took leave of them with an affability that was somewhat too evident, saying that he had this and that to do, Prokop became conscious of an oppressive weight. What was he to talk about now? For some curious reason he had the impression that he must not refer in any way to the dark and mysterious happening which took place at the same time as the explosion when “the heavens were cleft by a fiery power.” He entertained a bitter and unpleasant feeling that the Princess had coldly dismissed him like a lackey with whom—with whom—He clenched his fists in his disgust, and began to mumble something of secondary interest about the horses; the words stuck in his throat, and the Princess accelerated her step noticeably, evidently wishing to get back to the castle as soon as possible. Prokop limped heavily, but did not let her see that he was doing so. Having reached the park, he wished to take leave of her, but the Princess turned down a side path. He followed her irresolutely; then she drew close to his shoulder, turned back her head and placed her thirsty lips on his own.
The Princess’s chow, Toy, scented the approach of his mistress, and, whining with delight, rushed towards her across the lawn. And here he was! But what was this? He stopped. The Big Unfriendly Person was shaking her, they were biting one another, swaying in a silent and desperate struggle. Oho! his Lady was beaten, her arms sank, and she lay moaning in the arms of the Big Person; now he was crushing her. And Toy began to cry “Help! help!” in his dog’s language.
The Princess tore herself out of Prokop’s arms. “Even the dog, even the dog,” she smiled nervously. “Let’s go!” Prokop’s head was spinning; it was only with the greatest difficulty that he could make a few steps. The Princess hung on to him (Insanity! Supposing somebody. …), drawing him along, but her legs suddenly failed her; she gripped his arm with her fingers, as if she wished to tear it or something of the sort, drew in her breath sharply, knitted her brows, and a dark light came into her eyes. Then with a hoarse sob, seeking his lips, she flung her arms round his neck, so that he staggered. Prokop crushed her in his arms; a long breathless embrace, and her body, stretched taut like a bow, collapsed softly and helplessly against him. She lay on his breast with closed eyes. Sweet and
