“For God’s sake, did he blaspheme?” inquired Kmita, in a whisper.
“He rushed out from her corpse to the antechamber, from the antechamber to the yard, and reeled about like a drunken man. He raised his hands then, and began to cry with a dreadful voice: ‘Such is the reward for my wounds, for my toils, for my blood, for my love of country! I had one lamb,’ said he, ‘and that one, O Lord, Thou didst take from me. To hurl down an armed man,’ said he, ‘who walks the earth in pride, is a deed for God’s hand; but a cat, a hawk, or a kite can kill a harmless dove, and—’ ”
“By the wounds of God!” exclaimed Pani Kmita, “say no more, or you will draw misfortune on this house.”
Kharlamp made the sign of the cross and continued, “The poor soldier thought that he had done service, and still this was his reward. Ah, God knows better what He does, though that is not to be understood by man’s reason, nor measured by human justice. Straightway after this blasphemy he grew rigid and fell on the ground; and the priest read an exorcism over him, so that foul spirits should not enter him, as they might, enticed by his blasphemy.”
“Did he come to himself quickly?”
“He lay as if dead about an hour; then he recovered and went to his room; he would see no one. At the time of the burial I said to him, ‘Pan Michael, have God in your heart.’ He made me no answer. I stayed three days more in Chenstohova, for I was loath to leave him; but I knocked in vain at his door. He did not want me. I struggled with my thoughts: what was I to do—try longer at the door, or go away? How was I to leave a man without comfort? But finding that I could do nothing, I resolved to go to Pan Yan Skshetuski. He is his best friend, and Pan Zagloba is his friend also; maybe they will touch his heart somehow, and especially Pan Zagloba, who is quick-witted, and knows how to talk over any man.”
“Did you go to Pan Yan?”
“I did, but God gave no luck, for he and Zagloba had gone to Kalish to Pan Stanislav. No one could tell when they would return. Then I thought to myself, ‘As my road is toward Jmud, I will go to Pan Kmita and tell what has happened.’ ”
“I knew from of old that you were a worthy cavalier,” said Kmita.
“It is not a question of me in this case, but of Pan Michael,” said Kharlamp; “and I confess that I fear for him greatly lest his mind be disturbed.”
“God preserve him from that!” said Pani Kmita.
“If God preserves him, he will certainly take the habit, for I tell you that such sorrow I have never seen in my life. And it is a pity to lose such a soldier as he—it is a pity!”
“How a pity? The glory of God will increase thereby,” said Pani Kmita.
Kharlamp’s mustache began to quiver, and he rubbed his forehead.
“Well, gracious benefactress, either it will increase or it will not increase. Consider how many Pagans and heretics he has destroyed in his life, by which he has surely delighted our Saviour and His Mother more than any one priest could with sermons. H’m! it is a thing worthy of thought! Let everyone serve the glory of God as he knows best. Among the Jesuits legions of men may be found wiser than Pan Michael, but another such sabre as his there is not in the Commonwealth.”
“True, as God is dear to me!” cried Kmita. “Do you know whether he stayed in Chenstohova?”
“He was there when I left; what he did later, I know not. I know only this: God preserve him from losing his mind, God preserve him from sickness, which frequently comes with despair—he will be alone, without aid, without a relative, without a friend, without consolation.”
“May the Most Holy Lady in that place of miracles save thee, faithful friend, who hast done so much for me that
