“When I commanded brave soldiers, they never pillaged—I should have punished them severely! And still more severely would I have punished officers who allowed such disorders as you are all now engaged in!”
“And who are you, my pretty old man,” cried the officers with sneers and laughter, “who are you that you dare to speak to us in such a tone, and with such boldness!”
“I am Kosciuszko,” was the quick reply.
Each man stood fixed to the spot. Each was paralyzed with astonishment.
There, before them with flashing eyes, stood Poland’s hero—the Polish soldiers’ “Father Thaddeus.”
Then the men threw down their arms to the ground. They cast themselves at his feet. They sprinkled dust upon their heads as was their wild custom at home. They crept close to him, hugging his knees and begging for his forgiveness—for the forgiveness of their “Father Thaddeus.”
. . . . . . . . . .
When Kosciuszko died in Switzerland, in 1817, there was found in his bosom next his heart, the blood-stained handkerchief which his lost love Ludwika had dropped beside him, so long before.
To-day, in a little chapel at the foot of the lime-planted Hill, the Lindenhof, there is a bronze urn, in which lies the once brave heart of Thaddeus Kosciuszko.