Kmita breathed heavily, looking absently at Jendzian all the time.
“I beg humbly, your great mightiness,” began the starosta again. “Your great mightiness saw that I did not know those people, and was not a friend of theirs. They fell upon your grace, and now they have their pay; but why should I be made to suffer? Why should my property be lost? How am I to blame? If it cannot be otherwise, I will pay a ransom to the soldiers of your great mightiness, though there is not much remaining to me, poor man. I will give them a thaler apiece, so that their labor be not lost—I will give them two; and your great mightiness will receive from me also—”
“Cover the wagons!” cried Kmita, suddenly. “But do you take the wounded men and go to the devil!”
“I thank your grace humbly,” said the lord tenant of Vansosh.
Then old Kyemlich approached, pushing out his underlip with the remnants of his teeth, and groaning—
“Your grace, that is ours. Mirror of justice, that is ours.”
But Kmita gave him such a look that the old man cowered, and dared not utter another word.
Jendzian’s people rushed, with what breath they had, to put the horses to the wagons. Kmita turned again to the lord starosta—
“Take all the wounded and killed, carry them to Pan Volodyovski, and tell him from me that I am not his enemy, but may be a better friend than he thinks. I wish to avoid him, for it is not yet time for us to meet. Perhaps that time will come later; but today he would neither believe me, nor have I that wherewith to convince him—perhaps later—Do you understand? Tell him that those people fell upon me and I had to defend myself.”
“In truth it was so,” responded Jendzian.
“Wait; tell Pan Volodyovski, besides, to keep the troops together, for Radzivill, the moment he receives cavalry from Pontus de la Gardie, will move on them. Perhaps now he is on the road. Yanush and Boguslav Radzivill are intriguing with the Elector of Brandenburg, and it is dangerous to be near the boundary. But above all, let them keep together, or they will perish for nothing. The voevoda of Vityebsk wishes to come to Podlyasye; let them go to meet him, so as to give aid in case of obstruction.”
“I will tell everything, as if I were paid for it.”
“Though Kmita says this, though Kmita gives warning, let them believe him, take counsel with other colonels, and consider that they will be stronger together. I repeat that the hetman is already on the road, and I am not an enemy of Pan Volodyovski.”
“If I had some sign from your grace, that would be still better,” said Jendzian.
“What good is a sign?”
“Pan Volodyovski would straightway have greater belief in your grace’s sincerity; would think, ‘There must be something in what he says if he has sent a sign.’ ”
“Then here is the ring; though there is no lack of signs of me on the heads of those men whom you are taking to Pan Volodyovski.”
Kmita drew the ring from his finger. Jendzian on his part took it hastily, and said—
“I thank your grace humbly.”
An hour later, Jendzian with his wagons and his people, a little shaken up however, rode forward quietly toward Shchuchyn, taking three killed and the rest wounded, among whom were Yuzva Butrym, with a cut face and a broken head. As he rode along Jendzian looked at the ring, in which the stone glittered wonderfully in the moonlight, and he thought of that strange and terrible man, who having caused so much harm to the confederates and so much good to the Swedes and Radzivill, still wished apparently to save the confederates from final ruin.
“For he gives sincere advice,” said Jendzian to himself. “It is always better to hold together. But why does he forewarn? Is it from love of Volodyovski, because the latter gave him his life in Billeviche? It must be from love! Yes, but that love may come out with evil result for the hetman. Kmita is a strange man; he serves Radzivill, wishes well to our people, and is going to the Swedes; I do not understand this.” After a while he added: “He is a bountiful lord; but it is evil to come in his way.”
As earnestly and vainly as Jendzian, did old Kyemlich rack his brain in effort to find an answer to the query, “Whom does Pan Kmita serve?”
“He is going to the king, and kills the confederates, who are fighting specially on the king’s side. What is this? And he does not trust the Swedes, for he hides from them. What will happen to us?”
Not being able to arrive at any conclusion, he turned in rage to his sons: “Rascals! You will perish without blessing! And you could not even pull away a little from the slain?”
“We were afraid!” answered Kosma and Damian.
Soroka alone was satisfied, and he clattered joyously after his colonel.
“Evil fate has missed us,” thought he, “for we killed those fellows. I’m curious to know whom we shall kill next time.”
And it was all one to him, as was also this—whither he was faring.
No one dared approach Kmita or ask him anything, for the young colonel was as gloomy as night. He grieved terribly that he had to kill those men, at the side of whom he would have been glad to stand as quickly as possible in the ranks. But if he had yielded and let himself be taken to Volodyovski, what would Volodyovski have thought on learning that he was seized making his way in disguise to the Swedes, and with passes to the Swedish commandants?
“My old sins
