Here the prince stretched his hands, as if wishing to seize some unseen crown, and gleamed up altogether, like a torch; from emotion the breath failed in his throat again.
After a while he calmed himself and said with a broken voice—
“Behold—where my soul flies—as if to the sun—Disease utters its warning—let it work its will—I would rather death found me on the throne—than in the antechamber of a king.”
“Shall the physician be called?” asked Kmita.
Radzivill waved his hand.
“No need of him—I feel better now—That is all I had to say—In addition keep your eyes open, your ears open—See also what the Pototskis will do. They hold together, are true to the Vazas (that is, to Yan Kazimir)—and they are powerful—It is not known either how the Konyetspolskis and Sobyeskis will turn—Observe and learn—Now the suffocation is gone. Have you understood everything clearly?”
“Yes. If I err, it will be my own fault.”
“I have letters written already; only a few remain. When do you wish to start?”
“Today! As soon as possible.”
“Have you no request to make?”
“Your highness,” began Kmita, and stopped suddenly. The words came from his mouth with difficulty, and on his face constraint and confusion were depicted.
“Speak boldly,” said the hetman.
“I pray,” said Kmita, “that Billevich and she—suffer no harm while here.”
“Be certain of that. But I see that you love the girl yet.”
“Impossible,” answered Kmita. “Do I know! An hour I love her, an hour I hate her. The devil alone knows! All is over, as I have said—suffering only is left. I do not want her, but I do not want another to take her. Your highness, pardon me, I know not myself what I say. I must go—go with all haste! Pay no heed to my words, God will give back my mind the moment I have gone through the gate.”
“I understand that, because till love has grown cold with time, though not wanting her yourself, the thought that another might take her burns you. But be at rest on that point, for I will let no man come here, and as to going away they will not go. Soon it will be full of foreign soldiers all around, and unsafe. Better, I will send her to Tanrogi, near Tyltsa, where my daughter is. Be at rest, Yendrek. Go, prepare for the road, and come to me to dine.”
Kmita bowed and withdrew, and Radzivill began to draw deep breaths. He was glad of the departure of Kmita. He left him his squadron and his name as an adherent; for his person the prince cared less.
But Kmita in going might render him notable services; in Kyedani he had long since grown irksome to the hetman, who was surer of him at a distance than near at hand. The wild courage and temper of Kmita might at any instant bring an outburst in Kyedani and a rupture very dangerous for both. The departure put danger aside.
“Go, incarnate devil, and serve!” muttered the prince, looking at the door through which the banneret of Orsha had passed. Then he called a page and summoned Ganhoff.
“You will take Kmita’s squadron,” said the prince to him, “and command over all the cavalry. Kmita is going on a journey.”
Over the cold face of Ganhoff there passed as it were a ray of joy. The mission had missed him, but a higher military office had come. He bowed in silence, and said—
“I will pay for the favor of your highness with faithful service.” Then he stood erect and waited.
“And what will you say further?” asked the prince.
“Your highness, a noble from Vilkomir came this morning with news that Pan Sapyeha is marching with troops against your highness.”
Radzivill quivered, but in the twinkle of an eye he mastered his expression.
“You may go,” said he to Ganhoff.
Then he fell into deep thought.
XXV
Kmita was very busily occupied in preparations for the road, and in choosing the men of his escort; for he determined not to go without a certain-sized party, first for his own safety, and second for the dignity of his person as an envoy. He was in a hurry, since he wished to start during the evening of that day, or if the rain did not cease, early next morning. He found men at last—six trusty fellows who had long served under him in those better days when before his journey to Lyubich he had stormed around Hovanski—old fighters of Orsha, ready to follow him even to the end of the earth. They were themselves nobles and attendant boyars, the last remnant of that once powerful band cut down by the Butryms. At the head of them was the sergeant Soroka, a trusty servant of the Kmitas—an old soldier and very reliable, though numerous sentences were hanging over him for still more numerous deeds of violence.
After dinner the prince gave Pan Andrei the letters and a pass to the Swedish commanders whom the young envoy might meet in the more considerable places; he took farewell of him and sent him away with much feeling, really like a father, recommending wariness and deliberation.
Meanwhile the sky began to grow clear; toward evening the weak sun of autumn shone over Kyedani and went down behind red clouds, stretched out in long lines on the west.
There was nothing to hinder the journey. Kmita was just drinking a stirrup cup with Ganhoff, Kharlamp, and some other officers when about dusk Soroka came in and asked—
“Are you going, Commander?”
“In an hour,” answered Kmita.
“The horses and men are ready now in the yard.”
The sergeant went out, and the officers began to strike glasses still more; but Kmita rather pretended to drink than to drink in reality. The wine had no
