“Another storm tomorrow, but that will be the last,” repeated the priests and the soldiers. “Let him to whom God will send death give thanks that the Lord lets him be present at Mass, and thus opens more surely heaven’s gates, for whoso dies for the faith on the day of Christ’s birth must be received into glory.”
They wished one another success, long years, or a heavenly crown; and so relief dropped into every heart, as if suffering were over already.
But there stood one empty chair near the prior; before it a plate on which was a package of white wafers bound with a blue ribbon. When all had sat down, no one occupied that place. Zamoyski said—
“I see, revered father, that according to ancient custom there are places for men outside the cloister.”
“Not for men outside,” said Father Agustine, “but as a remembrance of that young man whom we loved as a son, and whose soul is looking with pleasure upon us because we keep him in eternal memory.”
“As God lives,” replied Zamoyski, “he is happier now than we. We owe him due thanks.”
Kordetski had tears in his eyes, and Charnyetski said—
“They write of smaller men in the chronicles. If God gives me life, and anyone asks me hereafter, who was there among us the equal of ancient heroes, I shall say Babinich.”
“Babinich was not his name,” said Kordetski.
“How not Babinich?”
“I long knew his real name under the seal of confession; but when going out against that cannon, he said to me: ‘If I perish, let men know who I am, so that honorable repute may rest with my name, and destroy my former misdeeds.’ He went, he perished; now I can tell you that he was Kmita!”
“That renowned Lithuanian Kmita?” cried Charnyetski, seizing his forelock.
“The same. How the grace of God changes hearts!”
“For God’s sake. Now I understand why he undertook that work; now I understand where he got that daring, that boldness, in which he surpassed all men. Kmita, Kmita, that terrible Kmita whom Lithuania celebrates.”
“Henceforth not only Lithuania, but the whole Commonwealth will glorify him in a different manner.”
“He was the first to warn us against Count Veyhard.”
“Through his advice we closed the gates in good season, and made preparations.”
“He killed the first Swede with a shot from a bow.”
“And how many of their cannon did he spoil! Who brought down De Fossis?”
“And that siege gun! If we are not terrified at the storm of tomorrow, who is the cause?”
“Let each remember him with honor, and celebrate his name wherever possible, so that justice be done,” said Kordetski; “and now may God give him eternal rest.”
“And may everlasting light shine on him,” answered one chorus of voices.
But Pan Charnyetski was unable for a long time to calm himself, and his thoughts were continually turning to Kmita.
“I tell you, gentlemen, that there was something of such kind in that man that though he served as a simple soldier, the command of itself crawled at once to his hand, so that it was a wonder to me how people obeyed such a young man unwittingly. In fact, he was commander on the bastion, and I obeyed him myself. Oh, had I known him then to be Kmita!”
“Still it is a wonder to me,” said Zamoyski, “that the Swedes have not boasted of his death.”
Kordetski sighed. “The powder must have killed him on the spot.”
“I would let a hand be cut from me could he be alive again,” cried Charnyetski. “But that such a Kmita let himself be blown up by powder!”
“He gave his life for ours,” said Kordetski.
“It is true,” added Zamoyski, “that if that cannon were lying in the intrenchment, I should not think so pleasantly of tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow God will give us a new victory,” said the prior, “for the ark of Noah cannot be lost in the deluge.”
Thus they conversed with one another on Christmas Eve, and then separated; the monks going to the church, the soldiers, some to quiet rest, and others to keep watch on the walls and at the gates. But great care was superfluous, for in the Swedish camp there reigned unbroken calm. They had given themselves to rest and meditation, for to them too was approaching a most serious day.
The night was solemn. Legions of stars twinkled in the sky, changing into blue and rosy colors. The light of the moon changed to green the shrouds of snow stretching between the fortress and the hostile camp. The wind did not howl, and it was calm, as from the beginning of the siege it had not been near the cloister.
At midnight the Swedish soldiers heard the flow of the mild and grand tones of the organ; then the voices of men were joined with them; then the sounds of bells, large and small. Joy, consolation, and great calm were in those sounds; and the greater was the doubt, the greater the feeling of helplessness which weighed down the hearts of the Swedes.
The Polish soldiers from the commands of Zbrojek and Kalinski, without seeking permission, went up to the very walls. They were not permitted to enter through fear of some snare; but they were permitted to stand near the walls. They also collected together. Some knelt on the snow, others shook their heads pitifully, sighing over their own lot, or beat their breasts, promising repentance; and all heard with delight and with tears in their eyes the music and the hymns sung according to ancient usage.
At the same time the sentries on the walls who could not be in the church, wishing to make up for their loss, began also to sing, and soon was heard throughout the whole circuit of the walls the Christmas hymn:—
“He is lying in the manger;
Who will run
To greet the little stranger?”
In the afternoon of the following day the thunder of guns drowned again every other sound. All the intrenchments began to smoke
