look at it. “We can . . . undisturbed, eh? I’m quite calm again. You can dress. Now . . . your uncle told me that . . . that I’m obliged . . . that it’s a question of honour for me to make it possible for you . . . to repair your slip and that I must . . . simply must . . . earn the right to a title . . . sell myself, and pay for the sacrifice which you”
She got up deathly pale and wanted to say something. “Wait,” he interrupted her. “I haven’t yet— You all thought . . . and have your own ideas about honour. But you made a terrible mistake. I’m nota nobleman. I’m . . . the son of a cobbler. That doesn’t matter much, but . . . I’m a pariah, you understand? An absolutely commonplace person. I haven't any honour. You can drive me away like a thief or send me off to a fortress. I won’t give it up. I won’t give Krakatit up. You may think . . . that I’m base. You can tell them . . . what I think about war. I was in the war and I saw poison gases . . . and know what people are capable of. I won’t give up Krakatit. Why should I trouble to explain it all to you? You won’t understand me; you’re simply a Tartar princess and too lofty. . . . I only want to tell you I won’t give it up and I humbly thank you for the honour—incidentally, I’m engaged already; I certainly don’t know her, but I’ve betrothed myself to her—that’s my baseness again. I’m sorry that. . . I’m not worthy of your sacrifice.”
She stood as if petrified, digging her nails into the wall. It was painfully quiet. He got up slowly and heavily: “Have you anything to say?”
