a hot-blooded slur; the clergy can be honest and fair as well, for their work is sacred!
Hvastja. "Caitiff!"
Komar. What?
Hvastja. I told you to conduct penance for naming me a caitiff.
Komar. I am sorry, believe me, I am terribly sorry. "Caitiff" was meant in a different tone . . . Otherwise than the people most usually know this word. Drunken, I simply praised your silent and calm character using such an improper, unsuitable word . . .
Hvastja. For "the final mass and the clerical," I ordered you to conduct penance.
Komar. If penance is a necessity per Your Excellence – respectfully – I ask you for a pardon. Challenge me with a penalty worth a man like myself, and I shall carry the trouble.
Hvastja. I declared you will kneel down and plead to me!
Komar. What nonsense do you order me? God herself would not issue such an order!
Hvastja. I told you to plead on your knees!
Komar. You uttered an order your heart does not voice. Issue me to only sheer one of my cheeks, to visit the Sunday mass bare-foot, to patch a more than obvious sign onto my cloak, order anything you like!
Hvastja. Kneeling, I issued.
Komar. You do not know what a man's honor is! How am I to talk to you any longer, how am I to pass a mirror, how am I to ever enjoy my company and yet hold the truth for myself?
Hvastja. I issued.
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