The guests left earlier than they had intended. Pan Podliásski, standing on the great terrace to take leave of them, tried to conceal his annoyance under an affable manner. As soon, however, as the last rider disappeared from sight, his face grew dark, and he turned to the crowd of servants.
'Where is Doubinétzki?' he asked.
'Here I am, most illustrious Pan,' replied a warrior with gray moustaches, stepping forward.
'Look here, my faithful Ignatius; you have served me long and well; do me one more good service. Shoot that tiresome cock that gives me no peace.'
The honest face of the old nobleman, seamed with the scars of war, lighted up with an ironical smile, and his daring eyes flashed.
'Probably the Pan Voevoda has had too much to drink at dinner that he gives me such commands,' said he. 'How am I, Ignatius Doubinétzki, who have fought in fifty battles against Tartars, Turks, and Swedes; who last year, without assistance, drove away a whole marauding band of Tartars, and who in honourable combat have cut off the head of Akhmet Khan himself,—how I am now to go to war against barn-door fowls? No; I am a poor nobleman, and the Pan is a great magnate; but our honour is the same. Indeed, since it has come to speaking truth, perhaps I have more in the way of honour than the Pan; with all my poverty I would have been ashamed to covet a peasant's grindstone. And if you want a word of honest advice from old Doubinétzki, here it is: Leave that sort of thing alone, Pan Voevoda; it's not an honourable business.'
For some minutes Pan Podliásski could not believe his ears. But at the close of the old man's speech he turned white with rage, drew his sword from its sheath, and made a dash forward at Doubinétzki.
'Seize him! bind him! cut the rebel down!' he shrieked in frenzy. But it had all happened so suddenly that for a moment no one obeyed the magnate, or could decide what to do; all the more so as every one loved old Doubinétzki, and knew what a glorious fire-eater he was.