“Of what enterprise is your grace speaking?”
“I know you too little to speak confidentially, but be assured that in a week or two the treasury of the King of Sweden will be as weighty as that of the Sultan.”
“Then some alchemist must make money for him, since there is no place from which to get it in this country.”
“In this country? It is enough to stretch forth daring hands. And of daring there is no lack among us, as is shown by the fact that we are now rulers here.”
“True, true,” answered Kmita; “we are very glad of that rule, especially if you teach us how to get money like chips.”
“The means are in your power, but you would rather die of hunger than take one copper.”
Kmita looked quickly at the officer, and said—
“For there are places against which it is terrible, even for Tartars, to raise hands.”
“You are too mysterious. Sir Cavalier,” answered the officer, “and remember that you are going, not to Tartars, but to Swedes for money.”
Further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a new party of men, whom the officer was evidently expecting, for he hurried out of the inn. Kmita followed and stood in the door to see who were coming.
In front was a closed carriage drawn by four horses, and surrounded by a party of Swedish horsemen; it stopped before the inn. The officer who had just been talking to Kmita went up to the carriage quickly, and opening the door made a low bow to the person sitting inside.
“He must be some distinguished man,” thought Kmita.
That moment they brought from the inn a flaming torch. Out of the carriage stepped an important personage dressed in black, in foreign fashion, with a cloak to his knees, lined with fox-skin, and a hat with feathers. The officer seized the torch from the hands of a horseman, and bowing once more, said—
“This way, your excellency!”
Kmita pushed back as quickly as possible, and they entered after him. In the room the officer bowed a third time and said—
“Your excellency, I am Count Veyhard Vjeshchovich, ordinarius proviantmagister, of his Royal Grace Karl Gustav, and am sent with an escort to meet your excellency.”
“It is pleasant for me to meet such an honorable cavalier,” said the personage in black, giving bow for bow.
“Does your excellency wish to stop here some time or to go on at once? His Royal Grace wishes to see your excellency soon.”
“I had intended to halt at Chenstohova for prayers,” answered the newly arrived, “but in Vyelunie I received news that his Royal Grace commands me to hurry; therefore, after I have rested, we will go on. Meanwhile dismiss the escort, and thank the captain who led it.”
The officer went to give the requisite order. Pan Andrei stopped him on the way.
“Who is that?” asked he.
“Baron Lisola, the Imperial Envoy, now on his way from the court of Brandenburg to our lord,” answered the officer. Then he went out, and after a while returned.
“Your excellency’s orders are carried out,” said he to the baron.
“I thank you,” said Lisola; and with great though very lofty affability he indicated to Count Veyhard a place opposite himself. “Some kind of storm is beginning to whistle outside,” said he, “and rain is falling. It may continue long; meanwhile let us talk before supper. What is to be heard here? I have been told that the voevodas of Little Poland have submitted to his Grace of Sweden.”
“True, your excellency; his Grace is only waiting for the submission of the rest of the troops, then he will go at once to Warsaw and to Prussia.”
“Is it certain that they will surrender?”
“Deputies from the army are already in Krakow. They have no choice, for if they do not come to us Hmelnitski will destroy them utterly.”
Lisola inclined his reasoning head upon his breast. “Terrible, unheard of things!” said he.
The conversation was carried on in the German language. Kmita did not lose a single word of it.
“Your excellency,” said Count Veyhard, “that has happened which had to happen.”
“Perhaps so; but it is difficult not to feel compassion for a power which has fallen before our eyes, and for which a man who is not a Swede must feel sorrow.”
“I am not a Swede; but if Poles themselves do not feel sorrow, neither do I,” answered the count.
Lisola looked at him seriously. “It is true that your name is not Swedish. From what people are you, I pray?”
“I am a Cheh” (Bohemian).
“Indeed? Then you are a subject of the German emperor? We are under the same rule.”
“I am in the service of the Most Serene King of Sweden,” said Veyhard, with a bow.
“I wish not to derogate from that service in the least,” answered Lisola, “but such employments are temporary; being then a subject of our gracious sovereign, whoever you may be, whomsoever you may serve, you cannot consider anyone else as your natural sovereign.”
“I do not deny that.”
“Then I will tell you sincerely, that our lord mourns over this illustrious Commonwealth, over the fate of its noble monarch, and he cannot look with a kindly or willing eye on those of his subjects who are aiding in the final ruin of a friendly power. What have the Poles done to you, that you show them such ill will?”
“Your excellency, I might answer many things, but I fear to abuse your patience.”
“You seem to me not only a famous soldier, but a wise man. My office obliges me to observe, to listen, to seek causes; speak then, even in the most minute way, and fear not to annoy my patience. If you incline at any time to the service of the emperor, which I wish most strongly, you will find in me a friend
