“Now, gracious gentlemen, who is the volunteer against the Swedes? Who wants to smell powder? Well, gracious gentlemen, volunteer!”
And so they continued for a good while without result, for no man pushed forward from the ranks. One looked at another. There were those who desired to go and had no fear of the Swedes, but indecision restrained them. More than one nudged his neighbor and said, “Go you, and then I’ll go.” The captains were growing impatient, till all at once, when they had ridden up to the district of Gnyezno, a certain man dressed in many colors sprang forth on a hoop, not from the line but from behind the line, and cried—
“Gracious gentlemen of the militia, I’ll be the volunteer and ye will be jesters!”
“Ostrojka! Ostrojka!” cried the nobles.
“I am just as good a noble as any of you!” answered the jester.
“Tfu! to a hundred devils!” cried Pan Rosinski; under-judge, “a truce to jesting! I will go.”
“And I! and I!” cried numerous voices.
“Once my mother bore me, once for me is death!”
“As good as thou will be found!”
“Freedom to each. Let no man here exalt himself above others.”
And as no one had come forth before, so now nobles began to rush out from every district, spurring forward their horses, disputing with one another and fighting to advance. In the twinkle of an eye there were five hundred horsemen, and still they were riding forth from the ranks. Pan Skorashevski began to laugh with his honest, open laugh.
“Enough, worthy gentlemen, enough! We cannot all go.”
Then the two captains put the men in order and marched.
The voevoda of Podlyasye joined the horsemen as they were riding out of camp. They were seen as on the palm of the hand crossing the Notets; after that they glittered some time on the windings of the road, then vanished from sight.
At the expiration of half an hour the voevoda of Poznan ordered the troops to their tents, for he saw that it was impossible to keep them in the ranks when the enemy were still a day’s march distant. Numerous pickets were thrown out, however; it was not permitted to drive horses to pasture, and the order was given that at the first low sound of the trumpet through the mouthpiece all were to mount and be ready.
Expectation and uncertainty had come to an end, quarrels and disputes were finished at once, for the nearness of the enemy had raised their courage as Pan Skshetuski had predicted. The first successful battle might raise it indeed very high; and in the evening an event took place which seemed of happy omen.
The sun was just setting—lighting with enormous glitter, dazzling the eyes, the Notets, and the pinewoods beyond—when on the other side of the river was seen first a cloud of dust, and then men moving in the cloud. All that was living went out on the ramparts to see what manner of guests these were. At that moment a dragoon of the guards rushed in from the squadron of Pan Grudzinski with intelligence that the horsemen were returning.
“The horsemen are returning with success! The Swedes have not eaten them!” was repeated from mouth to mouth.
Meanwhile they in bright rolls of dust approached nearer and nearer, coming slowly; then they crossed the Notets.
The nobles with their hands over their eyes gazed at them; for the glitter became each moment greater, and the whole air was filled with gold and purple light.
“Hei! the party is somewhat larger than when it went out,” said Shlihtyng.
“They must be bringing prisoners, as God is dear to me!” cried a noble, apparently without confidence and not believing his eyes.
“They are bringing prisoners! They are bringing prisoners!”
They had now come so near that their faces could be recognized. In front rode Skorashevski, nodding his head as usual and talking joyously with Skshetuski; after them the strong detachment of horse surrounded a few tens of infantry wearing round hats. They were really Swedish prisoners.
At this sight the nobles could not contain themselves; and ran forward with shouts: “Vivat Skorashevski! Vivat Skshetuski!”
A dense crowd surrounded the party at once. Some looked at the prisoners; some asked, “How was the affair?” others threatened the Swedes.
“Ah-hu! Well now, good for you, ye dogs! Ye wanted to war with the Poles? Ye have the Poles now!”
“Give them here! Sabre them, make mincemeat of them!”
“Ha, broad-breeches! ye have tried the Polish sabres?”
“Gracious gentlemen, don’t shout like little boys, for the prisoners will think that this is your first war,” said Skorashevski; “it is a common thing to take prisoners in time of war.”
The volunteers who belonged to the party looked with pride on the nobles who overwhelmed them with questions: “How was it? Did they surrender easily? Had you to sweat over them? Do they fight well?”
“They are good fellows,” said Rosinski, “they defended themselves well; but they are not iron—a sabre cuts them.”
“So they couldn’t resist you, could they?”
“They could not resist the impetus.”
“Gracious gentlemen, do you hear what is said—they could not resist the impetus. Well, what does that mean? Impetus is the main thing.”
“Remember if only there is impetus!—that is the best method against the Swedes.”
If at that moment those nobles had been commanded to rush at the enemy, surely impetus would not have been lacking; but it was well into the night when the sound of a trumpet was heard before the forepost. A trumpeter arrived with a letter from Wittemberg summoning the nobles to surrender. The crowds hearing of this wanted to cut the messenger to
