Old Ignatius, meanwhile, in his turn unsheathed his sword, sprang on to his horse, which stood ready saddled beside the gate, and galloped away unharmed. He was a free gentleman and a first-rate warrior, and any magnate would be glad to take him into his service.
Utterly beside himself with fury, Pan Podliásski went into the castle, and shut himself up in his bedchamber. He paced up and down with long strides, brooding over all that had passed. The thought that a good-for-nothing little fowl could embitter his life made him frantic. He was ready to instantly call up all his retainers, and give them strict commands to secure the cock, alive or dead. But then he remembered the whispering of his guests at dinner, the furtive glances of his servants, and the open rebellion of Doubinétzki. What was the use of commanding? Would he not be exposing himself to new failures, to new humiliations? And all this was the work of that cock!
Pan Podliásski felt as if he were stifled in the room, and went out into the garden. The barrels of pitch which had illuminated it during the banquet were almost burnt out; the pathways and arbours were deserted. Pan Joseph walked along several avenues, and then lay down upon a bench.
'Pan, give back the grindstone!' suddenly resounded over his head the hated voice of Scarlet-Comb.
Pan Podliásski started up as if he had been stung, drew the pistol from his belt, and fired upwards at random in the direction of the voice. Directly afterwards he heard a piteous shriek from the cock, and a warm drop of blood fell on to his hand.
'Ah! ah!' cried the magnate in angry delight; 'now you will leave off embittering my life, you loathsome little brute!'
Satisfied and triumphant, he peered about in the dark to find the cock; but seeing nothing, lay down again upon the bench, and soon fell asleep. Before half an hour had passed, however, the magnate sprang to his feet with a fearful cry, clasping his hands over his left eye. He was conscious of an intolerable pain, and something wet and warm and sticky was trickling down his face and hands. Dazed and blind, the Voevoda rushed headlong to the castle. Suddenly behind him there rang out the well-known cry:
'Pan, give back the grindstone! give back the peasant's grindstone!'
'Holy Virgin! The creature has pecked out my eye,' thought the landowner in horror, and it was only then he vaguely understood that he had not killed, but merely wounded, his persecutor.
Pan Podliásski did not confide to any one the manner in which he had lost his eye. He said that he had struck against a branch in the dark. He further declared that during his illness every noise disturbed him, and on this pretext he commanded all the windows in the castle to be tightly fastened, and placed sentinels at all the outer doors, with orders not only to admit no one, but even to let no one and nothing approach, neither dog, cat, nor bird. In reality the magnate was terribly afraid that Scarlet-Comb would peck out his right eye too.