Silence succeeded; but soon something began to rustle in the near
thicket, as if wild beasts were passing. The movement, however, grew
slower the nearer it came. Then there was silence a second time.
"How many of them are there?" asked Kmita.
"About six, and perhaps eight; for to tell the truth I could not count
them surely," said Soroka.
"That is our luck! They cannot stand against us."
"They cannot. Colonel; but we must take one of them alive, and scorch
him so that he will show the road."
"There will be time for that. Be watchful!"
Kmita had barely said, "Be watchful," when a streak of white smoke
bloomed forth from the thicket, and you would have said that birds had
fluttered in the near grass, about thirty yards from the cabin.
"They shot from old guns, with hob-nails!" said Kmita; "if they have
not muskets, they will do nothing to us, for old guns will not carry
from the thicket."
Soroka, holding with one hand the musket resting on the saddle of the
horse standing in front of him, placed the other hand in the form of a
trumpet before his mouth, and shouted,--
"Let any man come out of the bushes, he will cover himself with his
legs right away."
A moment of silence followed; then a threatening voice was heard in the
thicket,--
"What kind of men are you?"
"Better than those who rob on the highroad."
"By what right have you found out our dwelling?"
"A robber asks about right! The hangman will show you right! Come to
the cabin."
"We will smoke you out just as if you were badgers."
"But come on; only see that the smoke does not stifle you too."
The voice in the thicket was silent; the invaders, it seemed, had begun
to take counsel. Meanwhile Soroka whispered to Kmita,--
"We must decoy some one hither, and bind him; we shall then have a
guide and a hostage."
"Pshaw!" answered Kmita, "if any one comes it will be on parole."
"With robbers parole may be broken."
"It is better not to give it!" said Kmita.
With that questions sounded again from the thicket.
"What do you want?"
Now Kmita began to speak. "We should have gone as we came if you had
known politeness and not fired from a gun."
"You will not stay there,--there will be a hundred horse of us in the
evening."
"Before evening two hundred dragoons will come, and your swamps will
not save you, for they will pass as we passed."
"Are you soldiers?"
"We are not robbers, you may be sure."
"From what squadron?"
"But are you hetman? We will not report to you."
"The wolves will devour you, in old fashion."
"And the crows will pick you!"
"Tell what you want, a hundred devils! Why did you come to our cabin?"
"Come yourselves, and you will not split your throat crying from the
thicket. Nearer, nearer!"
"On your word."
"A word is for knights, not for robbers. If it please you, believe; if
not, believe not."
"May two come?"
"They may."
After a while from out the thicket a hundred yards distant appeared two
men, tall and broad-shouldered. One somewhat bent seemed to be a man of
years; the other went upright, but stretched his neck with curiosity
toward the cabin. Both wore short sheepskin coats covered with gray
cloth of the kind used by petty nobles, high cowhide boots, and fur
caps drawn down to their ears.
"What the devil!" said Kmita, examining the two men with care.
"Colonel!" cried Soroka, "a miracle indeed, but those are our people."
Meanwhile they approached within a few steps, but could not see the men
standing near the cabin, for the horses concealed them.
All at once Kmita stepped forward. Those approaching did not recognize
him, however, for his face was bound up; they halted, and began to
measure him with curious and unquiet eyes.
"And where is the other son, Pan Kyemlich?" asked Kmita; "he has not
fallen, I hope."
"Who is that--how is that--what--who is talking?" asked the old man, in
a voice of amazement and as it were terrified.
And he stood motionless, with mouth and eyes widely open; then the son,
who since he was younger had quicker vision, took the cap from his
head.
"For God's sake, father! that's the colonel!" cried he.
"O Jesus! sweet Jesus!" cried the old man, "that is Pan Kmita!"
And both took the fixed posture of subordinates saluting their
commanders, and on their faces were depicted both shame and wonder.
"Ah! such sons," said Pan Andrei, laughing, "and greeted me from a
gun?"
Here the old man began to shout,--
"Come this way, all of you! Come!"
From the thicket appeared a number of men, among whom were the second
son of the old man and the pitch-maker; all ran up at breakneck speed
with weapons ready, for they knew not what had happened. But the old
man shouted again,--
"To your knees, rogues, to your knees! This is Pan Kmita! What fool was
it who fired? Give him this way!"
"It was you, father," said young Kyemlich.
"You lie,--you lie like a dog! Pan Colonel, who could know that it was
your grace who had come to our cabin? As God is true, I do not believe
my own eyes yet."
"I am here in person," answered Kmita, stretching his hand toward him.
"O Jesus!" said the old man, "such a guest in the pine-woods. I cannot
believe my own eyes. With what can we receive your grace here? If we
expected, if we knew!"
Here he turned to his sons: "Run, some blockhead, to the cellar, bring
mead!"
"Give the key to the padlock, father."
The old man began to feel in his belt, and at the same time looked
suspiciously at his son.
"The key of the padlock? But I know thee, gypsy; thou wilt drink more
thyself than thou'lt bring. What's to be done? I'll go myself; he wants
the key of the padlock! But go roll off the logs, and I'll open and
bring it myself."
"I see that you have spoons hidden under the logs, Pan Kyemlich," said
Kmita.
"But can anything be kept from such robbers!" asked the old man,
pointing to the sons. "They would eat up their father. Ye are still
here? Go roll away the logs. Is this the way ye obey him who begat
you?"
The young men went quickly behind the cabin to the pile of logs.
"You are in disagreement with your sons in old fashion, it seems?" said
Kmita.
"Who could be in agreement with them? They know how to fight, they know
how to take booty; but when it comes to divide with their father, I
must tear my part from them at risk of my life. Such is the pleasure I
have; but they are like wild bulls. I beg your grace to the cabin, for
the cold bites out here. For God's sake! such a guest, such a guest!
And under the command of your grace we took more booty than during this
whole year. We are in poverty now, wretchedness! Evil times, and always
worse; and old age, too, is no joy. I beg you to the cabin, over our
lowly threshold. For God's sake! who could have looked for your grace
here!"
Old Kyemlich spoke with a marvellously rapid and complaining utterance,
and while speaking cast quick, restless glances on every side. He was a
bony old man, enormous in stature, with a face ever twisted and sullen!
He, as well as his two sons, had crooked eyes. His brows were bushy,
and also his mustaches, from beneath which protruded beyond measure an
underlip, which when he spoke came to his nose, as happens with men who
are toothless. The agedness of his face was in wonderful contrast to
the quickness of his movements, which displayed unusual strength and
alertness. His movements were as rapid as if a spring stirred him; he
turned his head continually, trying to take in with his eyes everything
around,--men as well as things. Toward Kmita he became every minute
more humble, in proportion as subservience to his former leader, fear,
and perhaps admiration or attachment were roused in him.
Kmita knew the Kyemliches well, for the father and two sons had served
under him when single-handed he had carried on war in White Russia with
Hovanski. They were valiant soldiers, and as cruel as valiant. One son,
Kosma, was standard-bearer for a time in Kmita's legion; but he soon
resigned that honorable office, since it prevented him from taking
booty. Among the gamblers and unbridled souls who formed Kmita's
legion, and who drank away and lost in the day what they won with blood
in the night from the enemy, the Kyemliches were distinguished for
mighty greed. They accumulated booty carefully, and hid it in the
woods. They took with special eagerness horses, which they sold
afterward at country houses and in towns. The father fought no worse
than the twin sons, but after each battle he dragged away from them the
most considerable part of the booty, scattering at the same time
complaints and regrets that they were wronging him, threatening a
father's curse, groaning and lamenting. The sons grumbled at him, but
being sufficiently stupid by nature they let themselves be tyrannized
over. In spite of their endless squabbles and scoldings, they stood up,
one for the other, in battle venomously without sparing blood. They
were not liked by their comrades, but were feared universally, for in
quarrels they were terrible; even officers avoided provoking them.
Kmita was the one man who had roused indescribable fear in them, and
after Kmita, Pan Ranitski, before whom they trembled when from anger
his face was covered with spots. They revered also in both lofty birth;
for the Kmitas, from old times, had high rank in Orsha, and in Ranitski
flowed senatorial blood.
It was said in the legion that they had collected great treasures, but
no one knew surely that there was truth in this statement. On a certain
day Kmita sent them away with attendants and a herd of captured horses;
from that time they vanished. Kmita thought that they had fallen; his
soldiers said that they had escaped with the horses, the temptation in
this case being too great for their hearts. Now, as Pan Andrei saw them
in health, and as in a shed near the cabin horses were neighing, and
the rejoicing and subservience of the old man were mingled with
disquiet, he thought that his soldiers were right in their judgment.
Therefore, when they had entered the cabin he sat on a plank bed, and
putting his hands on his sides, looked straight into the old man's eyes
and asked,--
"Kyemlich, where are my horses?"
"Jesus! sweet Jesus!" groaned the old man. "Zolotarenko's men took the
horses; they beat us and wounded us, drove us ninety miles; we hardly
escaped with our lives. Oh, Most Holy Mother! we could not find either
your grace or your men. They drove us thus far into these pine-woods,
into misery and hunger, to this cabin and these swamps. God is kind
that your grace is living and in health, though, I see, wounded. Maybe
we can nurse you, and put on herbs; and those sons of mine went to roll
off the logs, and they have disappeared. What are the rogues doing?
They are ready to take out the door and get at the mead. Hunger here
and misery; nothing more! We live on mushrooms; but for your grace
there will be something to drink and a bite to eat. Those men took the
horses from us, robbed us,--there is no denying that! And they deprived
us of service with your grace. We shall not have a bit of bread for old
age, unless your grace takes us back into service."
"That may happen too," answered Kmita.
Now the two sons of the old man came in,--Kosma and Damian, twins, big
fellows, awkward, with enormous heads completely overgrown with an
immensely thick bush of hair, stiff as a brush, sticking out unevenly
around the ears, forming hair-screws and fantastic tufts on their
skulls. When they came in they stood near the door, for in presence of
Kmita they dared not sit down; and Damian said,--
"The cellar is cleared."
"'Tis well," answered old Kyemlich, "I will go to bring mead."
Here he looked significantly at his sons.
"And Zolotarenko's men took the horses," said he, with emphasis; and
went out of the cabin.
Kmita glanced at the two who stood by the door, and who looked as if
they had been hewn out of logs roughly with an axe.
"What are you doing now?"
"We take horses!" answered the twins at the same time.
"From whom?"
"From whomsoever comes along."
"But mostly?"
"From Zolotarenko's men."
"That is well, you are free to take from the enemy; but if you take
from your own you are robbers, not nobles. What do you do with those
horses?"
"Father sells them in Prussia."
"Has it happened to you to take from the Swedes? Swedish companies are
not far from here. Have you attacked the Swedes?"
"We have."
"Then you fall on single men or small companies; but when they defend
themselves, what then?"
"We pound them."
"Ah, ha, you pound them! Then you have a reckoning with Zolotarenko's
men and with the Swedes, and surely you could not have got away dry had
you fallen into their hands."
Kosma and Damian were silent.
"You are carrying on a dangerous business, more becoming to robbers
than nobles. It must be, also, that some sentences are hanging over you
from old times?"
"Of course there are!" answered Kosma and Damian.
"So I thought. From what parts are you?"
"We are from these parts."
"Where did your father live before?"
"In Borovichko."
"Was that his village?"
"Yes, together with Pan Kopystynski."
"And what became of him?"
"We killed him."
"And you had to flee before the law. It will be short work with you
Kyemliches, and you'll finish on trees. The hangman will light you, it
cannot be otherwise!"
Just then the door of the room creaked, and the old man came in
bringing a decanter of mead and two glasses. He looked unquietly at his
sons and at Kmita, and then said,--
"Go and cover the cellar."
The twins went out at once. The old man poured mead into one glass; the
other he left empty, waiting to see if Kmita would let him drink with
him.
But Kmita was not able to drink himself, for he even spoke with
difficulty, such pain did the wound cause him. Seeing this, the old man
said,--
"Mead is not good for the wound, unless poured in, to clear it out more
quickly. Your grace, let me look at the wound and dress it, for I
understand this matter as well as a barber."
Kmita consented. Kyemlich removed the bandage, and began to examine the
wound carefully.
"The skin is taken off, that's nothing! The ball passed along the
outside; but still it is swollen."
"That is why it pains me."
"But it is not two days old. Most Holy Mother! some one who must have
been very near shot at your grace."
"How do you know that?"
"Because all the powder was not burned, and grains like cockle are
under the skin. They will stay with your grace. Now we need only bread
and spider-web. Terribly near was the man who fired. It is well that he
did not kill your grace."
"It was not fated me. Mix the bread and the spider-web and put them on
as quickly as possible, for I must talk with you, and my jaws pain me."
The old man looked suspiciously at the colonel, for in his heart there
was fear that the talk might touch again on the horses said to have
been taken by the Cossacks; but he busied himself at once, kneaded the
moistened bread first, and since it was not hard to find spider-webs in
the cabin he attended promptly to Kmita.
"I am easy now," said Pan Andrei; "sit down, worthy Kyemlich."
"According to command of the colonel," answered the old man, sitting on
the edge of a bench and stretching out his iron-gray bristly head
uneasily toward Kmita.
But Kmita, instead of conversing, took his own head in his hands and
fell into deep thought. Then he rose and began to walk in the room; at
moments he halted before Kyemlich and gazed at him with distraught
look; apparently he was weighing something, wrestling with thoughts.
Meanwhile about half an hour passed; the old man squirmed more and more
uneasily. All at once Kmita stopped before him.
"Worthy Kyemlich," said he, "where are the nearest of those squadrons
which rose up against the prince voevoda of Vilna?"
The old man began to wink his eyes suspiciously. "Does your grace wish
to go to them?"
"I do not request you to ask, but to answer."
"They say that one squadron is quartered in Shchuchyn,--that one which
came here last from Jmud."
"Who said so?"
"The men of the squadron themselves."
"Who led it?"
"Pan Volodyovski."
"That's well. Call Soroka!"
The old man went out, and returned soon with the sergeant.
"Have the letters been found?" asked Kmita.
"They have not, Colonel," answered Soroka.
Kmita shook his hands. "Oh, misery, misery! You may go, Soroka. For
those letters which you have lost you deserve to hang. You may go.
Worthy Kyemlich, have you anything on which to write?"
"I hope to find something," answered the old man.
"Even two leaves of paper and a pen."
The old man vanished through the door of a closet which was evidently a
storeroom for all kinds of things, but he searched long. Kmita was
walking the while through the room, and talking to himself,--
"Whether I have the letters or not," said he, "the hetman does not know
that they are lost, and he will fear lest I publish them. I have him in
hand. Cunning against cunning! I will threaten to send them to the
voevoda of Vityebsk. That is what I will do. In God is my hope, that
the hetman will fear this."
Further thought was interrupted by old Kyemlich, who, coming out of the
closet, said,--
"Here are three leaves of paper, but no pens or ink."
"No pens? But are there no birds in the woods here? They may be shot
with a gun."
"There is a falcon nailed over the shed."
"Bring his wing hither quickly!"
Kyemlich shot off with all speed, for in the voice of Kmita was
impatience, and as it were a fever. He returned in a moment with the
falcon's wing. Kmita seized it, plucked out a quill, and began to make
a pen of it with his dagger.
"It will do!" said he, looking at it before the light; "but it is
easier to cut men's heads than quills. Now we need ink."
So saying, he rolled up his sleeve, cut himself deeply in the arm, and
moistened the quill in blood.
"Worthy Kyemlich," said he, "leave me."
The old man left the room, and Pan Andrei began to write at once:--
I renounce the service of your highness, for I will not serve traitors
and deceivers. And if I swore on the crucifix not to leave your
highness, God will forgive me; and even if he were to damn me, I would
rather burn for my error than for open and purposed treason to my
country and king. Your highness deceived me, so that I was like a blind
sword in your hand, ready to spill the blood of my brethren. Therefore
I summon your highness to the judgment of God, so that it may be known
on whose side was treason, and on whose honest intention. Should we
ever meet, though you are powerful and able to strike unto death, not
only a private man, but the whole Commonwealth, and I have only a sabre
in my hand, still I will vindicate my own, and will strike your
highness, for which my regret and compunction will give me power. And
your highness knows that I am of those who without attendant squadrons,
without castles and cannon, can injure. While in me there is breath,
over you there is vengeance, so that you can be sure neither of the day
nor the hour. And this is as certain to be as that this is my own blood
with which I write. I have your letters, letters to ruin you, not only
with the King of Poland, but the King of Sweden, for in them treason to
the Commonwealth is made manifest, as well as this too, that you are
ready to desert the Swedes if only a leg totters under them. Even had
you twice your present power, your ruin is in my hands, for all men
must believe signatures and seals. Therefore I say this to your
highness: If a hair falls from the heads which I love and which are
left in Kyedani, I will send those letters and documents to Pan
Sapyeha, and I will have copies printed and scattered through the land.
Your highness can go by land or water (you have your choice); but after
the war, when peace comes to the Commonwealth, you will give me the
Billeviches, and I will give you the letters, or if I hear evil tidings
Pan Sapyeha will show them straightway to Pontus de la Gardie. Your
highness wants a crown, but where will you put it when your head falls
either from the Polish or the Swedish axe? It is better, I think, to
have this understanding now; though I shall not forget revenge
hereafter, I shall take it only in private, excepting this case. I
would commend you to God were it not that you put the help of the devil
above that of God. Kmita.
P. S. Your highness will not poison the confederates, for there will be
those who, going from the service of the devil to that of God, will
forewarn them to drink beer neither in Orel nor Zabludovo.
Here Kmita sprang up and began to walk across the room. His face was
burning, for his own letter had heated him like fire. This letter was a
declaration of war against the Radzivills; but still Kmita felt in
himself some extraordinary power, and was ready, even at that moment,
to stand eye to eye before that powerful family who shook the whole
country. He, a simple noble, a simple knight, an outlaw pursued by
justice, who expected assistance from no place, who had offended all so
that everywhere he was accounted an enemy,--he, recently overthrown,
felt in himself now such power that he saw, as if with the eyes of a
prophet, the humiliation of Prince Yanush and Boguslav, and his own
victory. How he would wage war, where he would find allies, in what way
he would conquer, he knew not,--what is more, he had not thought of
this. But he had profound faith that he would do what he ought to
do,--that is, what is right and just, in return for which God would be
with him. He was filled with confidence beyond measure and bounds. It
had become sensibly easier in his soul. Certain new regions were opened
as it were entirely before him. Let him but sit on his horse and ride
thither to honor, to glory, to Olenka.
"But a hair will not fall from her head," repeated he to himself, with
a certain feverish joy; "the letters will defend her. The hetman will
guard her as the eye in his head,--as I myself would. Oh, I have
settled this! I am a poor worm, but they will be afraid of my sting."
Then this thought came to him: "And shall I write to her too? The
messenger who will take the letter to the hetman can give a slip of
paper to her secretly. Why not inform her that I have broken with the
Radzivills, and that I am going to seek other service?"
This thought struck his heart greatly. Cutting his arm again, he
moistened the pen and began to write,--
Olenka,--I am no longer on the Radzivill side, for I have seen through
them at last--
But suddenly he stopped, thought awhile, and said to himself, "Let
deeds, not words, bear witness for me henceforth; I will not write."
And he tore the paper. But he wrote on a third sheet a short letter to
Volodyovski in the following words,--
Gracious Colonel,--The undersigned friend warns you and the other
colonels to be on your guard. There were letters from the hetman to
Prince Boguslav and Pan Harasimovich to poison you, or to have men
under you in your own quarters. Harasimovich is absent, for he has gone
with Prince Boguslav to Tyltsa in Prussia; but there may be similar
commands to other managers. Be careful of those managers, receive
nothing from them, and at night do not sleep without guards. I know
also to a certainty that the hetman will march against you soon with an
army; he is waiting only for cavalry which General de la Gardie is to
send, fifteen hundred in number. See to it, therefore, that he does not
fall upon you and destroy you singly. But better send reliable men to
the voevoda of Vityebsk to come, with all haste and take chief command.
A well-wisher counsels this,--believe him. Meanwhile keep together,
choosing quarters for the squadrons one not far from the other, so that
you may be able to give mutual assistance. The hetman has few cavalry,
only a small number of dragoons, and Kmita's men, but they are not
reliable. Kmita himself is absent. The hetman found some other office
for him; it being likely that he does not trust him. Kmita too is not
such a traitor as men say; he is merely led astray. I commit you to
God.
Babinich.
Pan Andrei did not wish to put his own name to the letter, for he
judged that it would rouse in each one aversion and especially
distrust. "In case they understand," thought he, "that it would be
better for them to retreat before the hetman than to meet him in a
body, they will suspect at once, if they see my name, that I wish to
collect them, so that the hetman may finish them at a blow; they will
think this a new trick, but from some Babinich they will receive
warning more readily."
Pan Andrei called himself Babinich from the village Babiniche, near
Orsha, which from remote times belonged to the Kmitas.
When he had written the letter, at the end of which he placed a few
timid words in his own defence, he felt new solace in his heart at the
thought that with that letter he had rendered the first service, not
only to Volodyovski and his friends, but to all the colonels who would
not desert their country for Radzivill. He felt also that that thread
would go farther. The plight into which he had fallen was difficult,
indeed, almost desperate; but still there was some help, some issue,
some narrow path which would lead to the highroad.
But now when Olenka in all probability was safe from the vengeance of
Radzivill, and the confederates from an unexpected attack. Pan Andrei
put the question, What was he to do himself?
He had broken with traitors, he had burned the bridges in the rear, he
wished now to serve his country, to devote to it his strength, his
health, his life; but how was he to do this, how begin, to what could
he put his hand?
Again it came to his head to join the confederates; but if they will
not receive him, if they will proclaim him a traitor and cut him down,
or what is worse, expel him in disgrace?
"I would rather they killed me!" cried Pan Andrei; and he flushed from
shame and the feeling of his own disgrace. Perhaps it is easier to save
Olenka or the confederates than his own fame.
Now the position was really desperate, and again the young hero's soul
began to seethe.
"But can I not act as I did against Hovanski?" asked he of himself. "I
will gather a party, will attack the Swedes, burn, pursue. That is
nothing new for me! No one has resisted them; I will resist until the
time comes when the whole Commonwealth will ask, as did Lithuania, who
is that hero who all alone dares to creep into the mouth of the lion?
Then I will remove my cap and say, 'See, it is I, it is Kmita!'"
And such a burning desire drew him on to that bloody work that he
wished to rush out of the room and order the Kyemliches, their
attendants, and his own men to mount and move on. But before he reached
the door he felt as if some one had suddenly punched him in the breast
and pushed him back from the threshold. He stood in the middle of the
room, and looked forward in amazement.
"How is this? Shall I not efface my offences in this way?"
And at once he began to reckon with his own conscience.
"Where is atonement for guilt?" asked his conscience. "Here something
else is required!"
"What?" asked Kmita.
"With what can thy guilt be effaced, if not with service of some kind,
difficult and immense, honorable and pure as a tear? Is it service to
collect a band of ruffians and rage like a whirlwind with them through
the fields and the wilderness? Dost thou not desire this because
fighting has for thee a sweet odor, as has roast meat for a dog? That
is amusement, not service; a carnival, not war; robbery, not defence of
the country! And didst thou not do the same against Hovanski, but what
didst thou gain? Ruffians infesting the forests are ready also to
attack the Swedish commands, and whence canst thou get other men? Thou
wilt attack the Swedes, but also the inhabitants; thou wilt bring
vengeance on these inhabitants, and what wilt thou effect? Thou art
trying to escape, thou fool, from toil and atonement."
So conscience spoke in Kmita; and Kmita saw that it was right, and
vexation seized him, and a species of grief over his own conscience
because it spoke such bitter truth.
"What shall I begin?" asked he, at last; "who will help me, who will
save me?"
Here somehow his knees began to bend till at last he knelt down at the
plank bed and began to pray aloud, and implore from his whole soul and
heart,--
"O Jesus Christ, dear Lord," said he, "as on the cross thou hadst pity
for the thief, so now have pity for me. Behold I desire to cleanse
myself from sins, to begin a new life, and to serve my country
honestly; but I know not how, for I am foolish. I served those
traitors, O Lord, also not so much from malice, but especially as it
were through folly; enlighten me, inspire me, comfort me in my despair,
and rescue me in thy mercy, or I perish."
Here Pan Andrei's voice quivered; he beat his broad breast till it
thundered in the room, and repeated, "Be merciful to me, a sinner! be
merciful to me, a sinner! Be merciful to me, a sinner!" Then placing
his hands together and stretching them upward, he said, "And thou, Most
Holy Lady, insulted by heretics in this land, take my part with thy
Son, intercede for my rescue, desert me not in my suffering and misery,
so that I may be able to serve thee, to avenge the insults against
thee, and at the hour of my death have thee as a patroness for my
unhappy soul."
When Pan Andrei was imploring thus, tears began to fall from his eyes;
at last he dropped his head on the plank bed and sank into silence, as
if waiting for the effect of his ardent prayer. Silence followed in the
room, and only the deep sound of the neighboring pine-trees entered
from outside. Then chips crackled under heavy steps beyond the window,
and two men began to speak,--
"What do you think, Sergeant? Where shall we go from here?"
"Do I know?" answered Soroka. "We shall go somewhere, maybe far off, to
the king who is groaning under the Swedish hand."
"Is it true that all have left him?"
"But the Lord God has not left him."
Kmita rose suddenly from the bed, but his face was clear and calm; he
went straight to the door, and opening it said to the soldier,--
"Have the horses ready! it is time for the road!"