“I have,” replied Pan Michael—“in those words which I hear in this place daily, and repeat, and which I desire to repeat till my death, memento mori. In death is consolation for me.”
“H’m! death is more easily found on the battlefield than in the cloister, where life passes as if someone were unwinding thread from a ball, slowly.”
“There is no life here, for there are no earthly questions; and before the soul leaves the body, it lives, as it were, in another world.”
“If that is true, I will not tell you that the Belgrod horde are mustering in great force against the Commonwealth; for what interest can that have for you?”
Pan Michael’s mustaches quivered on a sudden, and he stretched his right hand unwittingly to his left side; but not finding a sword there, he put both hands under his habit, dropped his head, and repeated, “Memento mori!”
“Justly, justly!” answered Zagloba, blinking his sound eye with a certain impatience. “No longer ago than yesterday Pan Sobieski, the hetman, said: ‘Only let Volodyovski serve even through this one storm, and then let him go to whatever cloister he likes. God would not be angry for the deed; on the contrary, such a monk would have all the greater merit.’ But there is no reason to wonder that you put your own peace above the happiness of the country, for prima charitas ab ego (the first love is of self).”
A long interval of silence followed; only Pan Michael’s mustaches stood out somewhat and began to move quickly, though lightly.
“You have not taken your vows yet,” asked Zagloba, at last, “and you can go out at any moment?”
“I am not a monk yet, for I have been waiting for the favor of God, and waiting till all painful thoughts of earth should leave my soul. His favor is upon me now; peace is returning to me. I can go out; but I have no wish to go, since the time is drawing near in which I can make my vows with a clear conscience and free from earthly desires.”
“I have no wish to lead you away from this; on the contrary, I applaud your resolution, though I remember that when Yan in his time intended to become a monk, he waited till the country was free from the storm of the enemy. But do as you wish. In truth, it is not I who will lead you away; for I myself in my own time felt a vocation for monastic life. Fifty years ago I even began my novitiate; I am a rogue if I did not. Well, God gave me another direction. Only I tell you this, Michael, you must go out with me now even for two days.”
“Why must I go out? Leave me in peace!” said Volodyovski.
Zagloba raised the skirt of his coat to his eyes and began to sob. “I do not beg rescue for myself,” said he, in a broken voice, “though Prince Boguslav Radzivill is hunting me with vengeance; he puts his murderers in ambush against me, and there is no one to defend and protect me, old man. I was thinking that you—But never mind! I will love you all my life, even if you are unwilling to know me. Only pray for my soul, for I shall not escape Boguslav’s hands. Let that come upon me which has to come; but another friend of yours, who shared every morsel of bread with you, is now on his deathbed, and wishes to see you without fail. He is unwilling to die without you; for he has some confession to make on which his soul’s peace depends.”
Pan Michael, who had heard of Zagloba’s danger with great emotion, sprang forward now, and seizing him by the arms, inquired, “Is it Pan Yan?”
“No, not Yan, but Ketling!”
“For God’s sake! what has happened to him?”
“He was shot by Prince Boguslav’s ruffians while defending me; I know not whether he will be alive in twenty-four hours. It is for you, Michael, that we have both fallen into these straits, for we came to Warsaw only to think out some consolation for you. Come for even two days, and console a dying man. You will return later; you will become a monk. I have brought the recommendation of the primate to the prior to raise no impediment against you. Only hasten, for every moment is precious.”
“For God’s sake!” cried Pan Michael; “what do I hear? Impediments cannot keep me, for so far I am here only on meditation. As God lives, the prayer of a dying man is sacred! I cannot refuse that.”
“It would be a mortal sin!” cried Zagloba.
“That is true! It is always that traitor, Boguslav—But if I do not avenge Ketling, may I never come back! I will find those ruffians, and I will split their skulls! O Great God! sinful thoughts are already attacking me! Memento mori! Only wait here till I put on my old clothes, for it is not permitted to go out in the habit.”
“Here are clothes!” cried Zagloba, springing to the bundle, which was lying there on the bench near them. “I foresaw everything, prepared everything! Here are boots, a rapier, a good overcoat.”
“Come to the cell,” said the little knight, with haste.
They went to the cell; and when they came out again, near Zagloba walked, not a white monk, but an officer with yellow boots to the knees, with a rapier at his side, and a white pendant across his shoulder. Zagloba blinked and smiled under his mustaches at sight of the brother at the door, who, evidently scandalized, opened the gate to the two.
Not far from the cloister and lower down, Zagloba’s wagon was waiting, and with it two attendants. One was sitting on the seat, holding the reins of four well-attached horses; at these Pan Michael cast
