"One would like a drink!" said Mateush.
"It would not hurt! Give command, Yatsek, to bring water."
Mateush rose up on the straw. "How water?" asked he in a voice of emotion.
Marek, who was lying face downward on Yatsek's bed groaning, called out quickly,--
"The revered father must wash his hands, of course."
Hereupon Yatsek looked with real despair at the priest, who laughed and then added,--
"They are soldiers! Wine is permitted, but in small quantity."
Yatsek drew him by the sleeve to the alcove.
"Benefactor," whispered he, "what can I do? The pantry is empty, and so is the cellar. Time after time I must tighten my girdle. What can I give them?"
"There is something here, there is something!" said the old man. "When leaving home I made arrangements, and brought a little with me. Should that not suffice I will get more at the brewery in Yedlina--for myself, of course, for myself. Command to give them one glass at the moment to calm them after the encounter."