“Do you say this as a private man?”
“Yes,”
“And may I give answer to you as to a private man?”
“As true as life I propose it myself.”
“Then listen, Pan Kuklinovski,” Here Kmita inclined and looked into the very eyes of the ruffian. “You are a rascal, a traitor, a scoundrel, a crab-monger, an arch-cur! Have you enough, or shall I spit in your eyes yet?”
Kuklinovski was astounded to such a degree that for a time there was silence.
“What is this? How is this? Do I hear correctly?”
“Have you enough, you cur? or do you wish me to spit in your eyes?”
Kuklinovski drew his sabre; but Kmita caught him with his iron hand by the wrist, twisted his arm, wrested the sabre from him, then slapped him on the cheek so that the sound went out in the darkness; seized him by the other side, turned him
