The night had begun to grow pale. On its eastern side the dark background of the sky was becoming slightly gray; the stars, going out gradually, twinkled with an uncertain, failing light. Then the roof of the inn became hoary; the trees growing near it were edged with silver. The horses and men seemed to rise out of the shade. After a while it was possible to distinguish faces, and the yellow color of the cloaks. The helmets began to reflect the morning gleam.
Volodyovski opened his arms and stretched himself, yawning from ear to ear; then he looked at the sleeping Zagloba. All at once he threw back his arms and shouted—
“May the bullets strike him! In God’s name! Gracious gentlemen, look here!”
“What has happened?” asked the colonels, opening their eyes.
“Look here, look here!” said Volodyovski, pointing at the sleeping form.
The prisoners turned their glances in the direction indicated, and amazement was reflected on every face. Under the burka, and in the cap of Zagloba, slept, with the sleep of the just, Pan Roh Kovalski; but Zagloba was not in the wagon.
“He has escaped, as God is dear to me!” said the astonished Mirski, looking around on every side, as if he did not yet believe his own eyes.
“Oh, he is a finished rogue! May the hangman—” cried Stankyevich.
“He took the helmet and yellow cloak of that fool, and escaped on his horse.”
“Vanished as if he had dropped into water.”
“He said he would get away by stratagem.”
“They will never see him again!”
“Gentlemen,” said Volodyovski, with delight, “you know not that man; and I swear to you today that he will rescue us yet—I know not how, when, with what means—but I swear that he will.”
“God grant it! One cannot believe his eyesight,” said Pan Stanislav.
The soldiers now saw what had happened. An uproar rose among them. One crowded ahead of the other to the wagon, stared at their commandant, dressed in a camel’s hair burka and lynx-skin cap, and sleeping soundly.
The sergeant began to shake him without ceremony. “Commandant! commandant!”
“I am Kovalski, and this is Pani Kovalski,” muttered Roh.
“Commandant, a prisoner has fled.”
Kovalski sat up in the wagon and opened his eyes. “What?”
“A prisoner has fled—that bulky noble who was talking with the commandant.”
The officer came to his senses. “Impossible!” cried he, with terrified voice. “How was it? What happened? How did he escape?”
“In the helmet and cloak of the commandant; the soldiers did not know him, the night was dark.”
“Where is my horse?” cried Kovalski.
“The horse is gone. The noble fled on him.”
“On my horse?”
“Yes.”
Kovalski seized himself by the head. “Jesus of Nazareth! King of the Jews!”
After a while he shouted, “Give here that dog-faith, that son of a such a one who gave him the horse!”
“Pan Commandant, the soldier is not to blame. The night was dark, you might have struck a man in the face, and he took your helmet and cloak; rode near me, and I did not know him. If your grace had not sat in the wagon, he could not have done it.”
“Kill me, kill me!” cried the unfortunate officer.
“What is to be done?”
“Kill him, catch him!”
“That cannot be done in any way. He is on your horse—the best horse; ours are terribly road-weary. He fled at the first cockcrow; we cannot overtake him.”
“Hunt for a wind in the field!” said Stankyevich.
Kovalski, in a rage, turned to the prisoners. “You helped him to escape! I will—”
Here he balled his gigantic fist, and began to approach them. Then Mirski said threateningly, “Shout not, and remember that you are speaking to superiors.”
Kovalski quivered, and straightened himself involuntarily; for really his dignity in presence of such a Mirski was nothing, and all his prisoners were a head above him in rank and significance.
Stankyevich added: “If you have been commanded to take us, take us; but raise no voice, for tomorrow you may be under the command of any one of us.”
Kovalski stared and was silent.
“There is no doubt you have fooled away your head, Pan Roh,” said Oskyerko. “To say, as you do, that we helped him is nonsense; for, to begin with, we were sleeping, just as you were, and secondly, each one would have helped himself rather than another. But you have fooled away your head. There is no one to blame here but you. I would be the first to order you shot, since being an officer you fell asleep like a badger, and allowed a prisoner to escape in your own helmet and cloak, nay, on your own horse—an unheard of thing, such as has not happened since the beginning of the world.”
“An old fox has fooled the young man!” said Mirski. “Jesus, Mary! I have not even the sabre!” cried Kovalski.
“Will not the sabre be of use to him?” asked Stankyevich, laughing. “Pan Oskyerko has said well—you have fooled away your head. You must have had pistols in the holsters too?”
“I had!” said Kovalski, as if out of his mind.
Suddenly he seized his head with both hands: “And the letter of the prince to the commandant of Birji! What shall I, unfortunate man, do now? I am lost for the ages! God give me a bullet in the head!”
“That will not miss you,” said Mirski, seriously. “How will you take us to Birji now? What will happen if you say that you have brought us as prisoners, and we, superior in rank, say that you are to be thrown into the dungeon? Whom will they believe? Do you think that the Swedish commandant will detain us for the reason simply that Pan Kovalski will beg him to do so? He will rather believe us, and confine you under ground.”
“I am lost!” groaned Kovalski.
“Nonsense!” said Volodyovski.
“What is to be done, Pan Commandant?” asked the sergeant.
“Go to all the devils!” roared Kovalski. “Do I
