The Deluge. Vol. 2

"Your highness," said Kmita, "for small mercies God often forgives great sins. Neither of us knows when it will come to him to stand before the judgment of Christ."

"Enough!" said the prince. "I compose psalms for myself in spite of the fever, so as to have some merit before the Lord; should I need a preacher I should summon my own. You do not know how to beg with sufficient humility, and you go in round-about ways. I will show you the method myself: strike to-morrow in the battle on Sapyeha, and after to-morrow I will let out the soldier and forgive you your sins. You betrayed Radzivill; betray now Sapyeha."

"Is this the last word of your highness? By all the saints, I implore you!"

"No! Devil take you! And you change in the face – But don't come too near, for, though I am ashamed to call attendants – look here! You are too bold!"

Boguslav pointed at a pistol-barrel peeping from under the fur with which it was covered, and looked with sparkling eyes into Kmita's eyes.

"Your highness!" cried Kmita, almost joining his hands in prayer, but with a face changed by wrath.

"You beg, but you threaten," said Boguslav; "you bend your neck, but the devil is gnashing his teeth at me from behind your collar. Pride is gleaming in your eyes, and in your mouth it sounds as in a cloud. With your forehead to the Radzivill feet when you beg, my little man! Beat with your forehead on the floor, then I will answer."

Pan Andrei's face was as pale as a piece of linen; he drew his hand over his moist forehead, his eyes, his face; and he spoke with such a broken voice, as if the fever from which the prince suffered had suddenly sprung upon him.

"If your highness will free for me that old soldier, I am ready to fall at your feet."

Satisfaction gleamed in Boguslav's eyes. He had brought down his enemy, bent his proud neck. Better food he could not give to his revenge and hatred.

Kmita stood before him with hair erect in his forelock, trembling in his whole body. His face, resembling even in rest the head of a hawk, recalled all the more an enraged bird of prey. You could not tell whether at the next moment he would throw himself at the feet, or hurl himself at the breast of the prince. But Boguslav not taking his eyes from him, said, —

"Before witnesses! before people!" And he turned to the door. "Hither!"

A number of attendants, Poles and foreigners, came in; after them officers entered.

"Gracious gentlemen!" said the prince, "behold Pan Kmita, the banneret of Orsha and envoy of Pan Sapyeha, who has come to beg a favor of me, and he wishes to have all you gentlemen as witnesses."

Kmita tottered like a drunken man, groaned, and fell at Boguslav's feet. The prince stretched his feet purposely so that the end of his riding-boot touched the forehead of the knight.

All looked in silence, astonished at the famous name, as well as at this, – that he who bore it was now an envoy from Pan Sapyeha. All understood, too, that something uncommon was taking place.

The prince rose, and without saying a word passed into the adjoining chamber, beckoning to two attendants to follow him.

Kmita rose. His face showed no longer either anger or rapacity, merely indifference and insensibility. He appeared unconscious of what was happening to him, and his energy seemed broken completely.

Half an hour passed; an hour. Outside the windows was heard the tramp of horses' feet and the measured tread of soldiers; he sat continually as if of stone.

Suddenly the door opened. An officer entered, an old acquaintance of Kmita's from Birji, and eight soldiers, – four with muskets, four without firearms, – with sabres.

"Gracious Colonel, rise!" said the officer, politely.

Kmita looked on him wanderingly. "Glovbich!" said he, recognizing the officer.

"I have an order," answered Glovbich, "to bind your hands and conduct you beyond Yanov. The binding is for a time, then you will go free; therefore I beg you not to resist."

"Bind!" answered Kmita.

And he permitted them to tie him. But they did not tie his feet. The officer led him out of the room and on foot through Yanov. Then they advanced for about an hour. On the road some horsemen joined them. Kmita heard them speaking in Polish; the Poles, who served with Boguslav, all knew the name of Kmita, and therefore were most curious to know what would happen to him. The party passed the birch grove and came to an open field, on which Pan Andrei saw a detachment of the light Polish squadron of Boguslav.

The soldiers stood in rank, forming a square; in the middle was a space in which were two foot-soldiers holding horses harnessed to draw, and some men with torches.

By the light of the torches Pan Andrei saw a freshly sharpened stake lying on the ground with the large end fastened in a great log.

A shiver passed through Kmita involuntarily. "That is for me," thought he; "Boguslav has ordered them to draw me on the stake with horses. He sacrifices Sakovich to his vengeance."

But he was mistaken; the stake was intended first for Soroka.

By the quivering flames Pan Andrei saw Soroka himself; the old soldier was sitting there at the side of the log on a stool, without a cap and with bound hands, guarded by four soldiers. A man dressed in a short shuba without sleeves was at that moment giving him in a shallow cup gorailka, which Soroka drank eagerly enough. When he had drunk, he spat; and since at that very moment Kmita was placed between two horsemen in the first rank, Soroka saw him, sprang from the stool and straightened himself as if on military parade.

For a while they looked the one at the other. Soroka's face was calm and resigned; he only moved his jaws as if chewing.

"Soroka!" groaned Kmita, at last.

"At command!" answered the soldier.

And again silence followed. What had they to say at such a moment? Then the executioner, who had given Soroka the vodka, approached him.

"Well, old man,"' said he, "it is time for you!"

"And you will draw me on straight?"

"Never fear."

Soroka feared not; but when he felt on his shoulder the hand of the executioner, he began to pant quickly and loudly. At last he said, —

"More gorailka!"

"There is none!"

Suddenly one of the soldiers pushed out of the rank and gave a canteen, —

"Here is some; give it to him."

"To the rank!" commanded Glovbich.

Still the man in the short shuba held the canteen to Soroka's mouth; he drank abundantly, and after he had drunk breathed deeply.

"See!" said he, "the lot of a soldier after thirty years' service. Well, if it is time, it is time!"

Another executioner approached and they began to undress him.

A moment of silence. The torches trembled in the hands of those holding them; it became terrible for all.

Meanwhile from the ranks surrounding the square was wrested a murmur of dissatisfaction, which became louder each instant: "A soldier is not an executioner; he gives death himself, but does not wish to see torture."

"Silence!" cried Glovbich.

The murmur became a loud bustle, in which were heard single words: "Devils!" "Thunders!" "Pagan service!"