"Our most worthy Pilate," began Mateush.
"Why 'Pilate'?" interrupted the priest. "Perhaps it is Pylades?"
"Benefactor thou hast hit the nail on the head," cried Yan. "As I live, it is Pylades."
"Our worthy Pylades!" began Mateush, now reassured, "though not the iron Boristhenes, but the gold-bearing Tagus itself were to flow in our native region, we, being exiled through attacks of barbarians, should have nothing but our hearts glowing with friendship to offer thee, neither could we honor this day as it merits by any thank-offering--"
"Thou speakest as if cracking nuts," cried out Lukash excitedly.
But Mateush kept on repeating: "As it merits,--as it merits--" He stopped, looked at his brothers, calling with his eyes for rescue, but they had forgotten entirely that which was to come later.
The Bukoyemskis began now to frown, and the audience to titter. Seeing this Pan Serafin resolved to assist them.
"Who composed this speech for you?" asked he.
"Pan Gromyka, of Pan Shumlanski's regiment," said Mateush.
"There it is. A strange horse is more likely to balk and rear than your own beast; so now embrace Yatsek and tell him what ye have to say."