Meanwhile they had arrived at the city; but there their troubles began really. None of them knew where Ketling was lodging, or where Pan Michael might go; to look for either was like looking for a particular poppy-seed in a bushel of poppy-seeds. They went first to the grand hetman’s. People told them there that Ketling was to start that morning on a journey beyond the sea. Pan Michael had come, inquired about the Scot, but whither the little knight had gone, no one knew. It was supposed that he might have gone to the squadron stationed in the field behind the city.
Zagloba commanded to return to the camp; but there it was impossible to find an informant. They went to every inn on Dluga Street; they went to Praga; all was in vain. Meanwhile night fell; and since an inn was not to be thought of, they were forced to go home. They went back in tribulation. Basia cried some; the pious Makovetski repeated a prayer; Zagloba was really alarmed. He tried, however, to cheer himself and the company.
“Ha!” said he, “we are distressed, and perhaps Michael is already at home.”
“Or killed!” said Basia. And she began to wail there in the carriage, repeating, “Cut out my tongue! It was my fault, my fault! Oh, I shall go mad!”
“Quiet there, girl! the fault is not yours,” said Zagloba; “and know this—if any man is killed, it is not Michael.”
“But I am sorry for the other. We have paid him handsomely for his hospitality; there is nothing to be said on that point. O God, O God!”
“That is the truth!” added Pan Makovetski.
“Let that rest, for God’s sake! Ketling is surely nearer to Prussia than to Warsaw by this time. You heard that he is going away; I have hope in God too, that should he meet Volodyovski they will remember old friendship, service rendered together. They rode stirrup to stirrup; they slept on one saddle; they went together on scouting expeditions; they dipped their hands in one blood. In the whole army their friendship was so famous that Ketling, by reason of his beauty, was called Volodyovski’s wife. It is impossible that this should not come to their minds when they see each other.”
“Still, it is this way sometimes,” said the discreet Makovetski, “that just the warmest friendship turns to the fiercest animosity. So it was in our place when Pan Deyma killed Pan Ubysh, with whom he had lived twenty years in the greatest agreement. I can describe to you that unhappy event in detail.”
“If my mind were more at ease, I would listen to you as gladly as I do to her grace, my benefactress, your grace’s spouse, who has the habit also of giving details, not excepting genealogies; but what you say of friendship and animosity has stuck in my head. God forbid! God forbid that it should come true this time!”
“One was Pan Deyma, the other Pan Ubysh. Both worthy men and fellow-soldiers—”
“Oi, oi, oi!” said Zagloba, gloomily. “We trust in the mercy of God that it will not come true this time; but if it does, Ketling will be the corpse.”
“Misfortune!” said Makovetski, after a moment of silence. “Yes, yes! Deyma and Ubysh. I remember it as if today. And it was a question also of a woman.”
“Eternally those women! The first daw that comes will brew such beer for you that whoever drinks will not digest it,” muttered Zagloba.
“Don’t attack Krysia, sir!” cried Basia, suddenly.
“Oh, if Pan Michael had only fallen in love with you, none of this would have happened!”
Thus conversing, they reached the house. Their hearts beat on seeing lights in the windows, for they thought that Pan Michael had returned, perhaps. But Pani Makovetski alone received them; she was alarmed and greatly concerned. On learning that all their searching had resulted in nothing, she covered herself with bitter tears and began to complain that she should never see her brother again. Basia seconded her at once in these lamentations. Zagloba too was unable to master his grief.
“I will go again tomorrow before daylight, but alone,” said he; “I may be able to learn something.”
“We can search better in company,” put in Makovetski.
“No; let your grace remain with the ladies. If Ketling is alive, I will let you know.”
“For God’s sake! We are living in the house of that man!” said Makovetski. “We must find an inn somehow tomorrow, or even pitch tents in the field, only not to live longer here.”
“Wait for news from me, or we shall lose each other,” said Zagloba. “If Ketling is killed—”
“Speak more quietly, by Christ’s wounds!” said Pani Makovetski, “for the servants will hear and tell Krysia; she is barely alive as it is.”
“I will go to her,” said Basia.
And she sprang upstairs. Those below remained in anxiety and fear. No one slept in the whole house. The thought that maybe Ketling was already a corpse filled their hearts with terror. In addition, the night became close, dark; thunder began to roar and roll through the heavens; and later bright lightning rent the sky each moment. About midnight the first storm of the spring began to rage over the earth. Even the servants woke.
Krysia and Basia went from their chamber to the dining-room. There the whole company prayed and sat in silence, repeating in chorus, after each clap of thunder, “And the Word was made flesh!” In the whistling of the whirlwind was heard at times, as it were, a certain horse-tramp, and then fear and terror raised the hair on the heads of Basia, Pani Makovetski, and the two men; for it seemed to them that at any moment the door
