“I am only a poor man; the friendship is too high for me. I should have to stand on tiptoe, or spring to it; and that in old age is annoying. If your princely grace is speaking of accounts with Pan Kmita, my friend, then I should be glad from my heart to leave that arithmetic.”
“But why so, I pray?” asked the prince.
“For there are four fundamental rules in arithmetic. Though Pan Kmita has a respectable fortune, it is a fly if compared with your princely wealth; therefore Pan Kmita will not consent to division. He is occupied with multiplication himself, and will let no man take aught from him, though he might give something to others, I do not think that your princely grace would be eager to take what he’d give you.”
Though Boguslav was trained in word-fencing, still, whether it was Zagloba’s argument or his insolence that astonished him so much, he forgot the tongue in his own mouth. The breasts of those present began to shake from laughter. Pan Sobieski laughed with his whole soul, and said—
“He is an old warrior of Zbaraj. He knows how to wield a sabre, but is no common player with the tongue. Better let him alone.”
In fact, Boguslav, seeing that he had hit upon an irreconcilable, did not try further to capture Zagloba; but beginning conversation with another man, he cast from time to time malign glances across the table at the old knight.
But Sobieski was delighted, and continued, “You are a master, lord brother—a genuine master. Have you ever found your equal in this Commonwealth?”
“At the sabre,” answered Zagloba, satisfied with the praise, “Volodyovski has come up to me; and Kmita too I have trained not badly.”
Saying this, he looked at Boguslav; but the prince feigned not to hear him, and spoke diligently with his neighbor.
“Why!” said the hetman, “I have seen Pan Michael at work more than once, and would guarantee him even if the fate of all Christendom were at stake. It is a pity that a thunderbolt, as it were, has struck such a soldier.”
“But what has happened to him?” asked Sarbyevski, the sword-bearer of Tsehanov.
“The maiden he loved died in Chenstohova,” answered Zagloba; “and the worst is that I cannot learn from any source where he is.”
“But I saw him,” cried Pan Varshytski, the castellan of Krakow. “While coming to Warsaw, I saw him on the road coming hither also; and he told me that being disgusted with the world and its vanities, he was going to Mons Regius to end his suffering life in prayer and meditation.”
Zagloba caught at the remnant of his hair. “He has become a monk of Camaldoli, as God is dear to me!” exclaimed he, in the greatest despair.
Indeed, the statement of the castellan had made no small impression on all. Pan Sobieski, who loved soldiers, and knew himself best how the country needed them, was pained deeply, and said after a pause—
“It is not proper to oppose the free-will of men and the glory of God, but it is a pity to lose him; and it is hard for me to hide from you, gentlemen, that I am grieved. From the school of Prince Yeremi that was an excellent soldier against every enemy, but against the horde and ruffiandom incomparable. There are only a few such partisans in the steppes, such as Pan Pivo among the Cossacks, and Pan Rushchyts in the cavalry; but even these are not equal to Pan Michael.”
“It is fortunate that the times are somewhat calmer,” said the sword-bearer of Tsehanov, “and that Paganism observes faithfully the treaty of Podhaytse extorted by the invincible sword of my benefactor.”
Here the sword-bearer inclined before Sobieski, who rejoiced in his heart at the public praise, and answered, “That was due, in the first instance, to the goodness of God, who permitted me to stand at the threshold of the Commonwealth, and cut the enemy somewhat; and in the second, to the courage of good soldiers who are ready for everything. That the Khan would be glad to keep the treaties, I know; but in the Crimea itself there are tumults against the Khan, and the Belgrod horde does not obey him at all. I have just received tidings that on the Moldavian boundary clouds are collecting, and that raids may come in; I have given orders to watch the roads carefully, but I have not soldiers sufficient. If I send some to one place, an opening is left in another. I need men trained specially and knowing the ways of the horde; this is why I am so sorry for Volodyovski.”
In answer to this, Zagloba took from his temples the hands with which he was pressing his head, and cried, “But he will not remain a monk, even if I have to make an assault on Mons Regius and take him by force. For God’s sake! I will go to him straightway tomorrow, and perhaps he will obey my persuasion; if not, I will go to the primate, to the prior. Even if I have to go to Rome, I will go. I have no wish to detract from the glory of God; but what sort of a monk would he be without a beard? He has as much hair on his face as I on my fist! As God is dear to me, he will never be able to sing Mass; or if he sings it, the rats will run out of the cloister, for they will think a tomcat is wailing. Forgive me, gentlemen, for speaking what sorrow brings to my tongue. If I had a son, I could not love him as I do that man. God be with him! God be with him! Even if he were to become a Bernardine, but a monk of Camaldoli! As I sit here,
