What had happened to Pan Andrei, and in what way had he been able to
carry out his plan?
After leaving the fortress he advanced some time with a sure and wary
step. At the very end of the slope he halted and listened. It was
silent around,—so silent in fact that his steps were heard clearly on
the snow. In proportion as he receded from the walls, he stepped more
carefully. He halted again, and again listened. He was somewhat afraid
of slipping and falling, and thus dampening his precious roll; he drew
out his rapier therefore and leaned on it. That helped him greatly.
Thus feeling his way, after the course of half an hour he heard a
slight sound directly in front.
“Ah! they are watching. The sortie has taught them wariness,” thought
he.
And he went farther now very slowly. He was glad that he had not gone
astray, for the darkness was such that he could not see the end of the
rapier.
“Those trenches are considerably farther: I am advancing well then!”
whispered he to himself.
He hoped also not to find men before the intrenchment; for, properly
speaking, they had nothing to do there, especially at night. It might
be that at something like a hundred or fewer yards apart single
sentries were stationed; but he hoped to pass them in such darkness. It
was joyous in his soul.
Kmita was not only daring but audacious. The thought of bursting the
gigantic gun delighted him to the bottom of his soul,—not only as
heroism, not only as an immortal service to the besieged, but as a
terrible damage to the Swedes. He imagined how Miller would be
astounded, how he would gnash his teeth, how he would gaze in
helplessness on those walls; and at moments pure laughter seized him.
And as he had himself said, he felt no emotion, no fear, no unquiet. It
did not even enter his head to what an awful danger he was exposing
himself. He went on as a school-boy goes to an orchard to make havoc
among apples. He recalled other times when he harried Hovanski, stole
up at night to a camp of thirty thousand with two hundred such fighters
as himself.
His comrades stood before his mind: Kokosinski, the gigantic
Kulvyets-Hippocentaurus, the spotted Ranitski, of senatorial stock, and
others; then for a moment he sighed after them. “If they were here
now,” thought he, “we might blow up six guns.” Then the feeling of
loneliness oppressed him somewhat, but only for a short while; soon
memory brought before his eyes Olenka. Love spoke in him with
immeasurable power. He was moved to tenderness. If she could see him,
the heart would rejoice in her this time. Perhaps she thinks yet that
he is serving the Swedes. He is serving them nicely! And soon he will
oblige them! What will happen when she learns of all these perils? What
will she think? She will think surely, “He is a whirlwind, but when it
comes to a deed which no other can do, he will do it; where another
dares not go, he will go. Such a man is that Kmita!”
“Another such deed I shall never accomplish,” said Pan Andrei; and
boastfulness seized him completely. Still, in spite of these thoughts
he did not forget where he was, whither he was going, what he intended
to do; and he began to advance like a wolf on a night pasture. He
looked behind once and a second time. No church, no cloister! All was
covered with thick, impenetrable gloom. He noted, however, by the time,
that he must have advanced far already, and that the trench might be
right there.
“I am curious to know if there are sentries,” thought he.
But he had not advanced two steps after giving himself this question,
when, in front of him, was heard the tramp of measured steps and a
number of voices inquired at various distances,—
“Who goes?”
Pan Andrei stood as if fixed to the earth. He felt hot.
“Ours,” answered a number of voices.
“The watchword!”
“Upsala.”
“The counter-sign!”
“The crown.”
Kmita saw at this moment that there was a change of sentries. “I’ll
give you Upsala and a crown!” And he rejoiced. This was really for him
a very favorable circumstance, for he might pass the line of guards at
the moment of changing sentries, when the tramp of the soldiers drowned
his own steps.
In fact, he did so without the least difficulty, and went after the
returning soldiers rather boldly up to the trench itself. There they
made a turn to go around it; but he pushed quickly into the ditch and
hid in it.
Meanwhile objects had become somewhat more visible; Pan Andrei thanked
Heaven, for in the previous darkness he could not by feeling have found
the gun sought for. Now, by throwing back his head and straining his
vision, he saw above him a black line, indicating the edge of the
trench, and also the black outlines of the baskets between which stood
the guns.
He could indeed see their jaws thrust out a little above the trench.
Advancing slowly in the ditch, he discovered the great gun at last. He
halted and began to listen. From the intrenchment a noise came,—a
murmur; evidently the infantry were near the guns, in readiness. But
the height of the intrenchment concealed Kmita; they might hear him,
they could not see him. Now he had only to rise from below to the mouth
of the gun, which was high above his head.
Fortunately the sides of the ditch were not too steep; and besides the
embankment freshly made, or moist with water, had not frozen, since for
some time there had been a thaw.
Taking note of all this, Kmita began to sink holes quietly in the slope
of the intrenchment and to climb slowly to the gun. After fifteen
minutes’ work he was able to seize the opening of the culverin. Soon he
was hanging in the air, but his uncommon strength permitted him to hold
himself thus till he pushed the roll into the jaws of the cannon.
“Here’s dog sausage for thee!” muttered he, “only don’t choke with it!”
Then he slipped down and began to look for the string, which, fastened
to the inner side of the roll, was hanging to the ditch. After a while
he felt it with his hand. But then came the greatest difficulty, for he
had to strike fire and ignite the string.
Kmita waited for a moment, thinking that the noise would increase
somewhat among the soldiers in the breastworks. At last he began to
strike the flint lightly with the steel. But that moment above his head
was heard in German the question,—
“Who is there in the ditch?”
“It is I, Hans!” answered Kmita, without hesitation; “the devils have
taken my ramrod into the ditch, and I am striking fire to find it.”
“All right, all right,” said the gunner. “It is your luck there is no
firing, for the wind would have taken your head off.”
“Ah!” thought Kmita, “the gun besides my charge has still its own,—so
much the better.”
At that moment the sulphur-string caught, and delicate little sparks
began to run upward along its dry exterior.
It was time to disappear. Kmita hurried along the ditch with all the
strength in his legs, not losing an instant, not thinking overmuch of
the noise he was making. But when he had run twenty yards, curiosity
overcame in him the feeling of his terrible danger.
“The string has gone out, there is moisture in the air!” thought he;
and he stopped. Casting a look behind, he saw a little spark yet, but
much higher than he had left it.
“Eh, am I not too near?” thought he; and fear hurried him forward.
He pushed on at full speed; all at once he struck a stone and fell. At
that moment a terrible roar rent the air; the earth trembled, pieces of
wood, iron, stones, lumps of ice and earth, whistled about his ears,
and here his sensations ended.
After that were heard new explosions in turn. These were powder-boxes
standing near the cannon which exploded from the shock.
But Kmita did not hear these; he lay as if dead in the ditch. He did
not hear also how, after a time of deep silence, the groans of men were
heard, cries and shouts for help; how nearly half the army, Swedish and
allied, assembled.
The confusion and uproar lasted long, till from the chaos of testimony
the Swedish general reached the fact that the siege-gun had been blown
up of purpose by some one. Search was ordered immediately. In the
morning the searching soldiers found Kmita lying in the ditch.
It appeared that he was merely stunned from the explosion. He had lost,
to begin with, control of his hands and feet. His powerlessness lasted
the whole ensuing day. They nursed him with the utmost care. In the
evening he had recovered his power almost completely.
He was brought then by command before Miller, who occupied the middle
place at the table in his quarters; around him sat the Prince of Hesse,
Count Veyhard, Sadovski, all the noted officers of the Swedes, of the
Poles, Zbrojek, Kalinski, and Kuklinovski. The last at sight of Kmita
became blue, his eyes burned like two coals, and his mustaches began to
quiver. Without awaiting the question of the general, he said,—
“I know this bird. He is from the Chenstohova garrison. His name is
Babinich.”
Kmita was silent; pallor and weariness were evident on his face, but
his glance was bold and his countenance calm.
“Did you blow up the siege-gun?” asked Miller.
“I did.”
“How did you do it?”
Kmita stated all briefly, concealed nothing. The officers looked at one
another in amazement.
“A hero!” whispered the Prince of Hesse to Sadovski.
But Sadovski inclined to Count Veyhard. “Count Veyhard,” asked he, “how
are we to take a fortress with such defenders? What do you think, will
they surrender?”
“There are more of us in the fortress ready for such deeds,” said
Kmita. “You know not the day nor the hour.”
“I too have more than one halter in the camp,” said Miller.
“We know that. But you will not take Yasna Gora while there is one man
alive there.”
A moment of silence followed. Then Miller inquired,—
“Is your name Babinich?”
Pan Andrei thought that after what he had done, and in presence of
death, the time had come in which he had no need to conceal his name.
Let people forget the faults and transgressions bound up with it; let
glory and devotion shine over them.
“My name is not Babinich,” said he, with a certain pride, “my name is
Andrei Kmita; I was colonel of my own personal squadron in the
Lithuanian contingent.”
Hardly had Kuklinovski heard this when he sprang up as if possessed,
stuck out his eyes, opened his mouth, and began to strike his sides
with his hands. At last he cried,—
“General, I beg for a word without delay, without delay.”
A murmur rose at the same time among the Polish officers, which the
Swedes heard with wonder, since for them the name Kmita meant nothing.
They noted at once that this must be no common soldier, for Zbrojek
rose, and approaching the prisoner said,—
“Worthy colonel, in the straits in which you are I cannot help you; but
give me your hand, I pray.”
Kmita raised his head and began to snort.
“I will not give a hand to traitors who serve against their country!”
Zbrojek’s face flushed. Kalinski, who stood right behind him, withdrew.
The Swedish officers surrounded them at once, asking what man this
Kmita was whose name had made such an impression. During this time
Kuklinovski had squeezed Miller up to the window, and said,—
“For your worthiness the name Kmita is nothing; but he is the first
soldier, the first colonel, in the whole Commonwealth. All know of him,
all know that name; once he served Radzivill and the Swedes; now it is
clear that he has gone over to Yan Kazimir. There is not his equal
among soldiers, save me. He was the only man who could go alone and
blow up that gun. From this one deed you may know him. He fought
Hovanski, so that a reward was put on his head. He with two or three
hundred men kept up the whole war after the defeat at Shklov, until
others were found who, imitating him, began to tear at the enemy. He is
the most dangerous man in all the country—”
“Why do you sing his praises to me?” inquired Miller. “That he is
dangerous I know to my own irreparable loss.”
“What does your worthiness think of doing with him?”
“I should give orders to hang him; but being a soldier myself, I know
how to value daring and bravery. Besides, he is a noble of high
birth,—I will order him shot, and that to-day.”
“Your worthiness, it is not for me to instruct the most celebrated
soldier and statesman of modern times; but I permit myself to say that
that man is too famous. If you shoot him, Zbrojek’s squadron and
Kalinski’s will withdraw at the latest this very day, and go over to
Yan Kazimir.”
“If that is true, I’ll have them cut to pieces before they go!” cried
Miller.
“Your worthiness, a terrible responsibility! for if that becomes
known,—and the cutting down of two squadrons is hard to hide,—the whole
Polish army will leave Karl Gustav; at present their loyalty is
tottering, as you know. The hetmans are not reliable. Pan Konyetspolski
with six thousand of the best cavalry is at the side of our king. That
force is no trifle. God defend us if these too should turn against us,
against the person of his Royal Grace! Besides, this fortress defends
itself; and to cut down the squadrons of Zbrojek and Kalinski is no
easy matter, for Wolf is here too with his infantry. They might come to
an agreement with the garrison of the fortress.”
“A hundred horned devils!” cried Miller; “what do you want,
Kuklinovski? do you want me to give Kmita his life? That cannot be.”
“I want,” answered Kuklinovski, “you to give him to me.”
“What will you do with him?”
“Ah, I—will tear him alive from his skin.”
“You did not know even his real name, you do not know him. What have
you against him?”
“I made his acquaintance first in the fortress, where I have been twice
as an envoy to the monks.”
“Have you reasons for vengeance?”
“Your worthiness, I wished privately to bring him to our camp. He,
taking advantage of the fact that I laid aside my office of envoy,
insulted me, Kuklinovski, as no man in life has insulted me.”
“What did he do to you?”
Kuklinovski trembled and gnashed his teeth. “Better not speak of it.
Only give him to me. He is doomed to death anyhow, and I would like
before his end to have a little amusement with him,—all the more
because he is the Kmita whom formerly I venerated, and who repaid me in
such fashion. Give him to me; it will be better for you. If I rub him
out, Zbrojek and Kalinski and with them all the Polish knighthood will
fall not upon you, but upon me, and I’ll help myself. There will not be
anger, wry faces, and mutiny. It will be my private matter about
Kmita’s skin, of which I shall have a drum made.”
Miller fell to thinking; a sudden suspicion flashed over his face.
“Kuklinovski,” said he, “maybe you wish to save him?”
Kuklinovski smiled quietly, but that smile was so terrible and sincere
that Miller ceased to doubt.
“Perhaps you give sound advice,” said he.
“For all my services I beg this reward only.”
“Take him, then.”
Now both returned to the room where the rest of the officers were
assembled. Miller turned to them and said,—
“In view of the services of Pan Kuklinovski I place at his absolute
disposal this prisoner.”
A moment of silence followed; then Pan Zbrojek put his hands on his
sides, and asked with a certain accent of contempt,—
“And what does Pan Kuklinovski think to do with the prisoner?”
Kuklinovski bent, straightened himself quickly, his lips opened with an
ill-omened smile, and his eyes began to quiver.
“Whoso is not pleased with what I do to the prisoner, knows where to
find me.” And he shook his sabre.
“Your promise, Pan Kuklinovski,” said Zbrojek.
“Promise, promise!”
When he had said this he approached Kmita. “Follow me, little worm;
come after me, famous soldier. Thou’rt a trifle weak; thou needst
swathing,—I’ll swathe thee.”
“Ruffian!” said Kmita.
“Very good, very good, daring soul! Meanwhile step along.”
The officers remained in the room; Kuklinovski mounted his horse before
the quarters. Having with him three soldiers, he commanded one of them
to lead Kmita by a lariat; and all went together toward Lgota, where
Kuklinovski’s regiment was quartered.
On the way Kmita prayed ardently. He saw that death was approaching,
and he committed himself with his whole soul to God. He was so sunk in
prayer and in his own doom that he did not hear what Kuklinovski said
to him; he did not know even how long the road was.
They stopped at last before an empty, half-ruined barn, standing in the
open field, at some distance from the quarters of Kuklinovski’s
regiment. The colonel ordered them to lead Kmita in, and turning
himself to one of the soldiers, said,—
“Hurry for me to the camp, bring ropes and a tar bucket!”
The soldier galloped with all the breath in his horse, and in quarter
of an hour returned at the same pace, with a comrade. They had brought
the requisite articles.
“Strip this spark naked!” ordered Kuklinovski; “tie his hands and feet
behind him with a rope, and then fasten him to a beam.”
“Ruffian!” said Kmita.
“Good, good! we can talk yet, we have time!”
Meanwhile one of the soldiers climbed up on the beam, and the others
fell to dragging the clothes from Kmita. When he was naked the three
executioners placed Pan Andrei with his face to the ground, bound his
hands and feet with a long rope, then passing it still around his waist
they threw the other end to the soldier sitting on the beam.
“Now raise him, and let the man on the beam pull the rope and tie it!”
said Kuklinovski.
In a moment the order was obeyed.
“Let him go!”
The rope squeaked. Pan Andrei was hanging parallel with the earth, a
few ells above the threshing-floor. Then Kuklinovski dipped tow in the
burning tar-bucket, walked up to him, and said,—
“Well, Pan Kmita, did not I say that there are two colonels in the
Commonwealth?—only two, I and thou! And thou didst not wish to join
company with Kuklinovski, and kicked him! Well, little worm, thou art
right! Not for thee is the company of Kuklinovski, for Kuklinovski is
better. Hei! a famous colonel is Pan Kmita, and Kuklinovski has him in
his hand, and Kuklinovski is roasting his sides!”
“Ruffian!” repeated Kmita, for the third time.
“This is how he will roast his sides!” finished Kuklinovski, and he
touched Kmita’s side with the burning tow; then he said,—
“Not too much at first; we have time.”
Just then the tramp of horses was heard near the barn-door.
“Whom are the devils bringing?” asked Kuklinovski.
The door squeaked and a soldier entered. “General Miller wishes to see
your grace at once!”
“Ah! that is thou, old man?” asked Kuklinovski. “What business? What
devil?”
“The general asks your grace to come to him straightway.”
“Who came from the general?”
“There was a Swedish officer; he has ridden off already. He had almost
driven the breath out of his horse.”
“I’ll go,” said Kuklinovski. Then he turned to Kmita: “It was hot for
thee; cool off now, little worm. I’ll come again soon, we’ll have
another talk.”
“What shall be done with the prisoner?” asked one of the soldiers.
“Leave him as he is. I shall return directly. Let one go with me.”
The colonel went out, and with him that soldier who had sat on the beam
at first. There remained only three, but soon three new ones entered
the barn.
“You may go to sleep,” said he who had reported Miller’s order to
Kuklinovski, “the colonel has left the guard to us.”
“We prefer to remain,” replied one of the first three soldiers, “to see
the wonder; for such a—”
Suddenly he stopped. A certain unearthly sound was wrested from his
throat like the call of a strangled cock. He threw out his arms and
fell as if struck by lightning.
At the same moment the cry of “Pound” was heard through the barn, and
two of the newly arrived rushed like leopards on the two remaining
soldiers. A terrible, short struggle surged up, lighted by the gleams
of the burning tar-bucket. After a moment two bodies fell in the straw,
for a moment longer were heard the gasps of the dying, then that voice
rose which at first seemed familiar to Kmita.
“Your grace, it is I, Kyemlich, and my sons. We have been waiting since
morning for a chance, we have been watching since morning.” Then he
turned to his sons: “Now out, rogues, free the colonel in a
breath,—quickly!”
And before Kmita was able to understand what was taking place there
appeared near him the two bushy forelocks of Kosma and Damian, like two
gigantic distaffs. The ropes were soon cut, and Kmita stood on his
feet. He tottered at first; his stiffened lips were barely able to
say,—
“That is you?—I am thankful.”
“It is I!” answered the terrible old man. “Mother of God! Oh—let his
grace dress quickly. You rogues—” And he began to give Kmita his
clothes.
“The horses are standing at the door,” said he. “From here the way is
open. There are guards; maybe they would let no one in, but as to
letting out, they will let out. We know the password. How does your
grace feel?”
“He burned my side, but only a little. My feet are weak—”
“Drink some gorailka.”
Kmita seized with eagerness the flask the old man gave him, and
emptying half of it said,—
“I was stiff from the cold. I shall be better at once.”
“Your grace will grow warm on the saddle. The horses are waiting.”
“In a moment I shall be better,” repeated Kmita. “My side is smarting a
little—that’s nothing!—I am quite well.” And he sat on the edge of a
grain-bin.
After a while he recovered his strength really, and looked with perfect
presence of mind on the ill-omened faces of the three Kyemliches,
lighted by the yellowish flame of the burning pitch. The old man stood
before him.
“Your grace, there is need of haste. The horses are waiting.”
But in Pan Andrei the Kmita of old times was roused altogether.
“Oh, impossible!” cried he, suddenly; “now I am waiting for that
traitor.”
The Kyemliches looked amazed, but uttered not a word,—so accustomed
were they from former times to listen blindly to this leader.
The veins came out on his forehead; his eyes were burning in the dark,
like two stars, such was the hate and the desire of vengeance that
gleamed in them. That which he did then was madness, he might pay for
it with his life; but his life was made up of a series of such
madnesses. His side pained him fiercely, so that every moment he seized
it unwittingly with his hand; but he was thinking only of Kuklinovski,
and he was ready to wait for him even till morning.
“Listen!” said he; “did Miller really call him?”
“No,” answered the old man. “I invented that to manage the others here
more easily. It would have been hard for us three against five, for
some one might have raised a cry.”
“That was well. He will return alone or in company. If there are any
people with him, then strike at once on them. Leave him to me. Then to
horse! Has any one pistols?”
“I have,” said Kosma.
“Give them here! Are they loaded, is there powder in the pan?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. If he comes back alone, when he enters spring on him and
shut his mouth. You can stuff his own cap into it.”
“According to command,” said the old man. “Your grace permits us now to
search these? We are poor men.”
He pointed to the corpses lying on the straw.
“No! Be on the watch. What you find on Kuklinovski will be yours.”
“If he returns alone,” said the old man, “I fear nothing. I shall stand
behind the door; and even if some one from the quarters should come, I
shall say that the colonel gave orders not to admit.”
“That will do. Watch!”
The tramp of a horse was heard behind the barn. Kmita sprang up and
stood in the shadow at the wall. Kosma and Damian took their places
near the door, like two cats waiting for a mouse.
“He is alone,” said the old man.
“Alone,” repeated Kosma and Damian.
The tramp approached, was right there and halted suddenly.
“Come out here, some one,—hold the horse!”
The old man jumped out quickly. A moment of silence followed, then to
those waiting in the barn came the following conversation,—
“Is that you, Kyemlich? What the thunder! art mad, or an idiot? It is
night, Miller is asleep. The guard will not give admission; they say
that no officer went away. How is that?”
“The officer is waiting here in the barn for your grace. He came right
away after you rode off; he says that he missed your grace.”
“What does all this mean? But the prisoner?”
“Is hanging.”
The door squeaked, and Kuklinovski pushed into the barn; but before he
had gone a step two iron hands caught him by the throat, and smothered
his cry of terror. Kosma and Damian, with the adroitness of genuine
murderers, hurled him to the ground, put their knees on his breast,
pressed him so that his ribs began to crack, and gagged him in the
twinkle of an eye.
Kmita came forward, and holding the pitch light to his eyes, said,—
“Ah! this is Pan Kuklinovski! Now I have something to say to you!”
Kuklinovski’s face was blue, the veins were so swollen that it seemed
they might burst any moment; but in his eyes, which were coming out of
his head and bloodshot, there was quite as much wonder as terror.
“Strip him and put him on the beam!” cried Kmita.
Kosma and Damian fell to stripping him as zealously as if they wished
to take the skin from him together with his clothing.
In a quarter of an hour Kuklinovski was hanging by his hands and feet,
like a half goose, on the beam. Then Kmita put his hands on his hips
and began to brag terribly.
“Well, Pan Kuklinovski,” said he, “who is better, Kmita or
Kuklinovski?” Then he seized the burning tow and took a step nearer.
“Thy camp is distant one shot from a bow, thy thousand ruffians are
within call, there is thy Swedish general a little beyond, and thou art
hanging here from this same beam from which ’twas thy thought to roast
me.—Learn to know Kmita! Thou hadst the thought to be equal to Kmita,
to belong to his company, to be compared with him? Thou cut-purse, thou
low ruffian, terror of old women, thou offscouring of man. Lord
Scoundrel of Scoundrelton! Wry-mouth, trash, slave! I might have thee
cut up like a kid, like a capon; but I choose to roast thee alive as
thou didst think to roast me.”
Saying this, he raised the tow and applied it to the side of the
hanging, hapless man; but he held it longer, until the odor of the
burned flesh began to spread through the barn.
Kuklinovski writhed till the rope was swinging with him. His eyes,
fastened on Kmita, expressed terrible pain and a dumb imploring for
pity; from his gagged lips came woful groans; but war had hardened the
heart of Pan Andrei, and there was no pity in him, above all, none for
traitors.
Removing at last the tow from Kuklinovski’s side, he put it for a while
under his nose, rubbed with it his mustaches, his eyelashes, and his
brows; then he said,—
“I give thee thy life to meditate on Kmita. Thou wilt hang here till
morning, and now pray to God that people find thee before thou art
frozen.”
Then he turned to Kosma and Damian. “To horse!” cried he, and went out
of the barn.
Half an hour later around the four riders were quiet hills, silent and
empty fields. The fresh breeze, not filled with smoke of powder,
entered their lungs. Kmita rode ahead, the Kyemliches after him. They
spoke in low voices. Pan Andrei was silent, or rather he was repeating
in silence the morning “Our Father,” for it was not long before dawn.
From time to time a hiss or even a low groan was rent from his lips,
when his burned side pained him greatly. But at the same time he felt
on horseback and free; and the thought that he had blown up the
greatest siege gun, and besides that had torn himself from the hands of
Kuklinovski and had wrought vengeance on him, filled Pan Andrei with
such consolation that in view of it the pain was nothing.
Meanwhile a quiet dialogue between the father and the sons turned into
a loud dispute.
“The money belt is good,” said the greedy old man; “but where are the
rings? He had rings on his fingers; in one was a stone worth twenty
ducats.”
“I forgot to take it,” answered Kosma.
“I wish you were killed! Let the old man think of everything, and these
rascals haven’t wit for a copper! You forgot the rings, you thieves?
You lie like dogs!”
“Then turn back, father, and look,” muttered Damian.
“You lie, you thieves! You hide things. You wrong your old father,—such
sons! I wish that I had not begotten you. You will die without a
blessing.”
Kmita reined in his horse somewhat. “Come this way!” called he.
The dispute ceased, the Kyemliches hurried up, and they rode farther
four abreast.
“And do you know the road to the Silesian boundary?” asked Pan Andrei.
“O Mother of God! we know, we know,” answered the old man.
“There are no Swedish parties on the road?”
“No, for all are at Chenstohova, unless we might meet a single man; but
God give us one!”
A moment of silence followed.
“Then you served with Kuklinovski?” asked Kmita.
“We did, for we thought that being near we might serve the holy monks
and your grace, and so it has happened. We did not serve against the
fortress,—God save us from that! we took no pay unless we found
something on Swedes.”
“How on Swedes?”
“For we wanted to serve the Most Holy Lady even outside the walls;
therefore we rode around the camp at night or in the daytime, as the
Lord God gave us; and when any of the Swedes happened alone, then
we—that is—O Refuge of sinners!—we—”
“Pounded him!” finished Kosma and Damian.
Kmita laughed. “Kuklinovski had good servants in you. But did he know
about this?”
“He received a share, an income. He knew, and the scoundrel commanded
us to give a thaler a head. Otherwise he threatened to betray us. Such
a robber,—he wronged poor men! And we have kept faith with your grace,
for not such is service with you. Your grace adds besides of your own;
but he, a thaler a head, for our toil, for our labor. On him may God—”
“I will reward you abundantly for what you have done,” said Kmita. “I
did not expect this of you.”
The distant sound of guns interrupted further words. Evidently the
Swedes had begun to fire with the first dawn. After a while the roar
increased. Kmita stopped his horse; it seemed to him that he
distinguished the sound of the fortress cannon from the cannon of the
Swedes, therefore he clinched his fist, and threatening with it in the
direction of the enemies’ camp said,—
“Fire away, fire away! Where is your greatest gun now?”