A pedant, the growth of the righteous, though a nobleman thin - and at the same time a sarmat, who did not like abroad - could not turn his eyes distant from the books and without ceasing to slog over volumes in the home book.
Once a night came and found him again with a candle at reading. The night, without respect to it, as usual the black veil dropped over the field, above the woods, fastened the moon decoratively on the sky in the form of a silver sickle, and the stars themselves scattered like sparks of burning wood. The noble Pedant's eyes besides flickered with a unusual glow erstwhile he reads into poetry, dramas and historical chronicles, but besides love epigrams. He had forgotten about Her Majesty in bed.
And the court was asleep. The windows closed the lace eyelids, the fog slipped neatly from the roof shingles and began to wrap the walls and yard for night rest. The clocks 1 by 1 were beating at midnight - they were beating once, they were beating two, they were beating 3 times already - and Pedant was as if he had left this planet so immersed in reading. Already the chickens stretched their wings on foam in the hens, the councils of morning solstice tightened their claws, opened their beaks and combed feathers. They were prepared to announce the black mantle of the night without hold from the court's cloister and to churfully celebrate the loud corn coming a rosemary.
Then, rapidly, inactive in the darkness of the night, a tap in the glass filled with books of the chamber awakened the pedant's nobleman from his thoughts. The book slipped out of his hand, the physiology faded, the book slow fell on the floor, and from his mouth it “For God! Who Was Waczpanna”?
He ran up to the window to look at the beautiful face, the golden pukles, the lips in red, like poppy-colored them, the pupils completely dark and burning firemen that pierced his heart with an icy pint, and even though the abrupt spasm of the sting passed away, inactive unknown pain consumed him.
Then he heard words he could no longer resist, and even from a long time awaited them, for he trembled and whispered to himself. Meanwhile, the face outside the window seemed to pulsate, it drifted away, it was in the approach to flog, and her Velvet voice whispered - “I am on the road lost, let Wajapan open the window, let Wajapan open the window, the wind is on me, I will come a small warm, for the horses have carried the penalty, let Wajapan open the window.”
Pedant's heart was beating as church bells – “it is she? Who is she?” – he repeated in his head astonished. He reached his finger to undermine the grip and almost freed it, erstwhile the abrupt creaking doubles and the voice of his angry spouse interrupted him in this - "Man, without a tiny morning, time to bed." Mrs. Pedantova, a female with a small carcase but inactive full of grace and beauty, burned with anger. Pedant shrunk in himself and suffocated – “I am coming.”
The door closed with a crack and heard Her Majesty open the second door in the alcove. A dense chill passed from his chest, on his back, to his ankles, and sweat flowed drops on his head. He looked at an empty window. The wind kept beating them with an apple branch. The ear caught someone's laughter and crying outside the window on the membrane, like a violin playing and dancing, then a gallop of horses.
The wind kept groaning and the leaves of the trees were playing in the yard. The pedant shuddered, but his hand stretched out for the book in a leather frame, but he could not lift it and left it on the floor. He made the sign of the cross, "sleep mara, God of faith," murmured troubled, blew out a candle, and rapidly went to his wife.
AgnieszkaS
