Silence followed, and only sighs interrupted it.
The evening was frosty, clear; the mountains and the summits of the neighboring fir-trees were in purple, farther off in the shadow they had begun to put on violet; but the road on which the king was lying turned as it were into a ruddy and golden ribbon, and rays fell on the king, bishops, and dignitaries.
Then a breeze began from the summits, and bearing on its wings sparks of snow, flew to the valley. Therefore the nearer fir-trees began to bend their snow-covered heads, bow to their lord, and to make a joyous and rustling sound, as if they were singing that old song, “Be welcome to us, thou dear master!”
Darkness had already filled the air when the king’s retinue moved forward. Beyond the defile was spread out a rather roomy plain, the other end of which was lost in the distance. Light was dying all around; only in one place the sky was still bright with red. The king began to repeat “Ave Maria;” after him the others with concentration of spirit repeated the pious words.
Their native land, unvisited by them for a long time; the mountains which night was now covering; the dying twilight, the prayer—all these caused a solemnity of heart and mind; hence after the prayer the king, the dignitaries, and the knights rode on in silence. Night fell, but in the east the sky was shining still more redly.
“Let us go toward that twilight,” said the king, at last; “it is a wonder that it is shining yet.”
Then Kmita galloped up. “Gracious Lord, that is a fire!” cried he.
All halted.
“How is that?” asked the king; “it seems to me that ’tis the twilight.”
“A fire, a fire! I am not mistaken!” cried Kmita.
And indeed, of all of the attendants of the king he knew most in that matter. At last it was no longer possible to doubt, since above that supposed twilight were rising as it were red clouds, rolling now brighter, now darker in turn.
“It is as if Jivyets were burning!” cried the king; “maybe the enemy is ravaging it.”
He had not finished speaking when to their ears flew the noise of men, the snorting of horses, and a number of dark figures appeared before the retinue.
“Halt, halt!” cried Tyzenhauz.
These figures halted, as if uncertain what to do farther.
“Who are you?” was asked from the retinue.
“Ours!” said a number of voices. “Ours! We are escaping with our lives from Jivyets. The Swedes are burning Jivyets, and murdering people.”
“Stop, in God’s name! What do you say? Whence have they come?”
“They were waiting for our king. There is a power of them, a power! May the Mother of God have the king in Her keeping!”
Tyzenhauz lost his head for a moment. “See what it is to go with a small party!” cried he to Kmita; “Would that you were killed for such counsel!”
Yan Kazimir began to inquire himself of the fugitives. “But where is the king?”
“The king has gone to the mountains with a great army. Two days ago he passed through Jivyets; they pursued him, and were fighting somewhere near Suha. We have not heard whether they took him or not; but today they returned to Jivyets, and are burning and murdering.”
“Go with God!” said Yan Kazimir.
The fugitives shot past quickly.
“See what would have met us had we gone with the dragoons!” exclaimed Kmita.
“Gracious King!” said Father Gembitski, “the enemy is before us. What are we to do?”
All surrounded the monarch, as if wishing to protect him with their persons from sudden danger. The king gazed on that fire which was reflected in his eyes, and he was silent; no one advanced an opinion, so difficult was it to give good advice.
“When I was going out of the country a fire lighted me,” said Yan Kazimir, at last; “and when I enter, another gives light.”
Again silence, only still longer than before.
“Who has any advice?” inquired Father Gembitski, at last.
Then the voice of Tyzenhauz was heard, full of bitterness, and insult: “He who did not hesitate to expose the king’s person to danger, who said that the king should go without a guard, let him now give advice.”
At this moment a horseman pushed out of the circle. It was Kmita.
“Very well!” said he. And rising in the stirrups he shouted, turning to his attendants standing at some distance, “Kyemliches, after me!”
Then he urged his horse to a gallop, and after him shot the three horsemen with all the breath that was in the breasts of their horses.
A cry of despair came from Tyzenhauz: “That is a conspiracy!” said he. “These traitors will give us up surely. Gracious King, save yourself while there is time, for the enemy will soon close the pass! Gracious King, save yourself! Back! back!”
“Let us return, let us return!” cried the bishops and dignitaries, in one voice.
Yan Kazimir became impatient, lightnings flashed from his eyes; suddenly he drew his sword from its sheath and cried—
“May God not grant me to leave my country a second time. Come what may, I have had enough of that!” And he put spurs to his horse to move forward; but the nuncio himself seized the reins.
“Your Royal Grace,” said he, seriously, “you bear on your shoulders the fate of the Catholic Church and the country, therefore you are not free to expose your person.”
“Not free,” repeated the bishops.
“I will not return to Silesia, so help me the Holy Cross!” answered Yan Kazimir.
“Gracious Lord! listen to the prayers of your subjects,” said the castellan of Sandomir. “If you do not wish to return to the emperor’s territory, let us go at least from this place and turn toward the Hungarian boundary, or let us go back through this pass, so that our return be not intercepted.
