Pan Andrei pressed up to the front pew to see the face of the unknown when he rose. Mass was then drawing to an end. The priest was singing Pater noster. The people who wished to be at the following Mass were coming in through the main entrance. The church was filled gradually with figures with heads shaven at the sides, dressed in cloaks with long sleeves, in military burkas, in fur cloaks, and in brocade coats. It became somewhat crowded. Kmita then pushed with his elbow a noble standing at his side, and whispered—
“Pardon, your grace, that I trouble you during service, but my curiosity is most powerful. Who is that?” He indicated with his eyes the man lying in the form of a cross.
“Have you come from a distance, that you know not?” asked the noble.
“Certainly I come from a distance, and therefore I ask in hope that if I find some polite man he will not begrudge an answer.”
“That is the king.”
“As God lives!” cried Kmita.
But at that moment the king rose, for the priest had begun to read the Gospel.
Pan Andrei saw an emaciated face, yellow and transparent, like church wax. The eyes of the king were moist, and his lids red. You would have said that all the fate of the country was reflected in that noble face, so much was there in it of pain, suffering, care. Sleepless nights divided between prayer and grief, terrible deceptions, wandering, desertion, the humiliated majesty of that son, grandson, and great-grandson of powerful kings, the gall which his own subjects had given him to drink so bountifully, the ingratitude of that country for which he was ready to devote his blood and life—all this could be read in that face as in a book, and still it expressed not only resignation, obtained through faith and prayer, not only the majesty of a king and an anointed of God, but such great, inexhaustible kindness that evidently it would be enough for the greatest renegade, the most guilty man, only to stretch out his hands to that father, and that father would receive him, forgive him, and forget his offences.
It seemed to Kmita at sight of him that someone had squeezed his heart with an iron hand. Compassion rose in the ardent soul of the young hero. Compunction, sorrow, and homage straitened the breath in his throat, a feeling of immeasurable guilt cut his knees under him so that he began to tremble through his whole body, and at once a new feeling rose in his breast. In one moment he had conceived such a love for that suffering king that to him there was nothing dearer on earth than that father and lord, for whom he was ready to sacrifice blood and life, bear torture and everything else in the world. He wished to throw himself at those feet, to embrace those knees, and implore forgiveness for his crimes. The noble, the insolent disturber, had died in him in one moment, and the royalist was born, devoted with his whole soul to his king.
“That is our lord, our unhappy king,” repeated he to himself, as if he wished with his lips to give witness to what his eyes saw and what his heart felt.
After the Gospel, Yan Kazimir knelt again, stretched out his arms, raised his eyes to heaven, and was sunk in prayer. The priest went out at last, there was a movement in the church, the king remained kneeling.
Then that noble whom Kmita had addressed pushed Pan Andrei in the side.
“But who are you?” asked he.
Kmita did not understand the question at once, and did not answer it directly, so greatly were his heart and mind occupied by the person of the king.
“And who are you?” repeated that personage.
“A noble like yourself,” answered Pan Andrei, waking as if from a dream.
“What is your name?”
“What is my name? Babinich; I am from Lithuania, from near Vityebsk.”
“And I am Pan Lugovski, of the king’s household. Have you just come from Lithuania, from Vityebsk?”
“No; I come from Chenstohova.”
Pan Lugovski was dumb for a moment from wonder.
“But if that is true, then come and tell us the news. The king is almost dead from anxiety because he has had no certain tidings these three days. How is it? You are perhaps from the squadron of Zbrojek, Kalinski, or Kuklinovski, from near Chenstohova.”
“Not from near Chenstohova, but directly from the cloister itself.”
“Are you not jesting? What is going on there, what is to be heard? Does Yasna Gora defend itself yet?”
“It does, and will defend itself. The Swedes are about to retreat.”
“For God’s sake! The king will cover you with gold. From the very cloister do you say that you have come? How did the Swedes let you pass?”
“I did not ask their permission; but pardon me, I cannot give a more extended account in the church.”
“Right, right!” said Pan Lugovski. “God is merciful! You have fallen from heaven to us! It is not proper in the church—right! Wait a moment. The king will rise directly; he will go to breakfast before high Mass. Today is Sunday. Come stand with me at the door, and when the king is going out I will present you. Come, come, there is no time to spare.”
He pushed ahead, and Kmita followed. They had barely taken their places at the door when the two pages appeared, and after them came Yan Kazimir slowly.
“Gracious King!” cried
