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 some one 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.”
