“God knows I understand nothing!” cried Kmita, being unable in general to restrain his thoughts.
“You will understand all today,” said Radzivill, calmly. “Now let us go to the hall.”
And taking the young colonel by the arm, he turned with him toward the door. They passed through a number of rooms. From a distance out of the immense hall came the sound of the orchestra, which was directed by a Frenchman brought on purpose by Prince Boguslav. They were playing a minuet which at that time was danced at the French court. The mild tones were blended with the sound of many voices. Prince Radzivill halted and listened.
“God grant,” said he, after a moment, “that all these guests whom I have received under my roof will not pass to my enemies tomorrow.”
“Your highness,” said Kmita, “I hope that there are no Swedish adherents among them.”
Radzivill quivered and halted suddenly.
“What do you wish to say?”
“Nothing, worthy prince, but that honorable soldiers are rejoicing there.”
“Let us go on. Time will show, and God will decide who is honorable. Let us go!”
At the door itself stood twenty pages—splendid lads, dressed in feathers and satin. Seeing the hetman, they formed in two lines. When the prince came near, he asked, “Has her princely highness entered the hall?”
“She has, your highness.”
“And the envoys?”
“They are here also.”
“Open!”
Both halves of the door opened in the twinkle of an eye; a flood of light poured in and illuminated the gigantic form of the hetman, who having behind him Kmita and the pages, went toward the elevation on which were placed chairs for the most distinguished guests.
A movement began in the hall; at once all eyes were turned to the prince, and one shout was wrested from hundreds of breasts: “Long live Radzivill! long live! Long live the hetman! long live!”
The prince bowed with head and hand, then began to greet the guests assembled on the elevation, who rose the moment he entered. Among the best known, besides the princess herself, were the two Swedish envoys, the envoy of Moscow, the voevoda of Venden, Bishop Parchevski, the priest Byalozor, Pan Komorovski, Pan Myerzeyevski, Pan Hlebovich, starosta of Jmud, brother-in-law of the hetman, a young Pats, Colonel Ganhoff, Colonel Mirski, Weisenhoff, the envoy of the Prince of Courland, and ladies in the suite of the princess.
The hetman, as was proper for a welcoming host, began by greeting the envoys, with whom he exchanged a few friendly words; then he greeted others, and when he had finished he sat on the chair with a canopy of ermine, and gazed at the hall in which shouts were still sounding: “May he live! May he be our hetman! May he live!”
Kmita, hidden behind the canopy, looked also at the throng. His glance darted from face to face, seeking among them the beloved features of her who at that moment held all the soul and heart of the knight. His heart beat like a hammer.
“She is here! After a while I shall see her, I shall speak to her,” said he in thought. And he sought and sought with more and more eagerness, with increasing disquiet. “There! beyond the feathers of a fan some dark brows are visible, a white forehead and blond hair. That is she!” Kmita held his breath, as if fearing to frighten away the picture; then the feathers moved and the face was disclosed. “No! that is not Olenka, that is not that dear one, the dearest.” His glance flies farther, embraces charming forms, slips over feathers and satin, faces blooming like flowers, and is mistaken each moment. That is she, not she! Till at last, see! in the depth, near the drapery of the window, something white is moving, and it grew dark in the eyes of the knight; that was Olenka, the dear one, the dearest.
The orchestra begins to play; again throngs pass. Ladies are moving around, shapely cavaliers are glittering; but he, like one blind and deaf, sees nothing, only looks at her as eagerly as if beholding her for the first time. She seems the same Olenka from Vodokty, but also another. In that great hall and in that throng she seems, as it were, smaller, and her face more delicate, one would say childlike. You might take her all in your arms and caress her! And then again she is the same, though different—the very same features, the same sweet lips, the same lashes casting shade on her cheeks, the same forehead, clear, calm, beloved. Here memory, like lightning-flashes, began to bring before the eyes of Pan Andrei that servants’ hall in Vodokty where he saw her the first time, and those quiet rooms in which they had sat together. What delight only just to remember! And the sleigh-ride to Mitruny, the time that he kissed her! After that, people began to estrange them, and to rouse her against him.
“Thunderbolts crush it!” cried Kmita, in his mind. “What have I had and what have I lost? How near she has been and how far is she now!”
She sits there far off, like a stranger; she does not even know that he is here. Wrath, but at the same time immeasurable sorrow seized Pan Andrei—sorrow for which he had no expression save a scream from his soul, but a scream that passed not his lips: “O thou Olenka!”
More than once Kmita was so enraged at himself for his previous deeds that he wished to tell his own men to stretch him out and give him a hundred blows, but never had he fallen into such a rage as that time when after long absence he saw her again, still more wonderful than ever, more
