“The day begins not too favorably for us,” said Yan.
“God grant it to end more favorably,” answered Zagloba. “Do you know what I have thought in the night? They will surely treat us with the gift of life if we will take service with Radzivill and help him in his treason; we ought to agree to that, so as to make use of our freedom and stand up for the country.”
“May God preserve me from putting my name to treason,” answered Yan; “for though I should leave the traitor afterward, my name would remain among those of traitors as an infamy to my children. I will not do that, I prefer to die.”
“Neither will I!” said Stanislav.
“But I tell you beforehand that I will. No one will think that I did it voluntarily or sincerely. May the devils take that dragon Radzivill! We shall see yet who gets the upper hand.”
Further conversation was stopped by sounds in the yard. Among them were the ominous accents of anger and indignation. At the same time single voices of command, the echo of footsteps of whole crowds, and heavy thunder as of cannon in motion.
“What is going on?” asked Zagloba. “Maybe there is some help for us.”
“There is surely an uncommon uproar,” said Volodyovski. “But raise me to the window, for I shall see right away what it is.”
Yan took Volodyovski and raised him as he would a boy. Pan Michael caught the grating, and looked carefully through the yard.
“There is something going on—there is!” said he, with sudden alertness. “I see the Hungarian castle regiment of infantry which Oskyerko led—they loved him greatly, and he too is arrested; they are demanding him surely. As God lives! they are in order of battle. Lieutenant Stahovich is with them; he is a friend of Oskyerko.”
At that moment the cries grew still louder.
“Ganhoff has ridden up. He is saying something to Stahovich, and what a shout! I see that Stahovich with two officers is walking away from the troops. They are going of course as a deputation to the hetman. As God is dear to me, mutiny is spreading in the army! The cannon are pointed against the Hungarians, and the Scottish regiment is also in order of battle. Men from the Polish squadrons are gathering to the Hungarians. Without them they would not be so daring, for in the infantry there is stern discipline.”
“In God’s name!” cried Zagloba. “In that is salvation for us. Pan Michael, are there many Polish squadrons? If they rise, it will be a rising!”
“Stankyevich’s hussars and Mirski’s mailed squadrons are two days’ march from Kyedani,” answered Volodyovski. “If they had been here, the hetman would not have dared to arrest their commanders. Wait! There are Kharlamp’s dragoons, one regiment, Myeleshko’s another; they are for the prince. Nyevyarovski declared also for the prince, but his regiment is far away—two Scottish regiments.”
“Then there are four with the prince?”
“And the artillery under Korf, two regiments.”
“Oh, that’s a strong force!”
“And Kmita’s squadron, well equipped—six hundred men.”
“And on whose side is Kmita?”
“I do not know.”
“Did you not see him? Did he throw down his baton?”
“We know not.”
“Who are against the prince—what squadrons?”
“First, these Hungarians evidently, two hundred men; then a number of detached men from the commands of Mirski and Stankyevich; some nobles and Kmita—but he is uncertain.”
“God grant him!—By God’s mercy!—Too few, too few.”
“These Hungarians are as good as two regiments, old soldiers and tried. But wait! They are lighting the matches at the cannon; it looks like a battle!”
Yan and Stanislav were silent; Zagloba was writhing as in a fever—
“Slay the traitors! Slay the dog-brothers! Ai, Kmita! Kmita! All depends on him. Is he daring?”
“As the devil—ready for anything.”
“It must be that he will take our side.”
“Mutiny in the army! See to what the hetman has brought things!” cried Volodyovski.
“Who is the mutineer—the army, or the hetman who rose against his own king?” asked Zagloba.
“God will judge that. Wait! Again there is a movement! Some of Kharlamp’s dragoons take the part of the Hungarians. The very best nobles serve in that regiment. Hear how they shout!”
“The colonels! the colonels!” cried threatening voices in the yard.
“Pan Michael! by the wounds of God, cry to them to send for your squadron and for the armored regiment and the hussars.”
“Be silent!”
Zagloba began to shout himself: “But send for the rest of the Polish squadrons, and cut down the traitors!”
“Be silent there!”
Suddenly, not in the yard, but in the rear of the castle, rang forth a sharp salvo of muskets.
“Jesus Mary!” cried Volodyovski.
“Pan Michael, what is that?”
“Beyond doubt they have shot Stahovich and the two officers who went as a deputation,” said Volodyovski, feverishly. “It cannot be otherwise!”
“By the passion of our Lord! Then there is no mercy. It is impossible to hope.”
The thunder of shots drowned further discourse. Pan Michael grasped the grating convulsively and pressed his forehead to it, but for a while he could see nothing except the legs of the Scottish infantry stationed at the window. Salvos of musketry grew more and more frequent; at last the cannon were heard. The dry knocking of bullets against the wall over the cellar was heard distinctly, like hail. The castle trembled to its foundation.
“Jump down, Michael, or you will be killed!” cried Yan.
“By no means. The balls go higher; and from the cannon they are firing in the other direction. I will not jump down for anything.”
And Volodyovski, seizing the grating more firmly, drew himself entirely to the windowsill, where he did not need the shoulder of Pan Yan to hold him. In the cellar it became really dark, for the window was small and Pan Michael though slender filled it completely; but as a recompense the men below had
