“How a pity? The glory of God will increase thereby,” said Pani Kmita.
Kharlamp’s mustache began to quiver, and he rubbed his forehead.
“Well, gracious benefactress, either it will increase or it will not increase. Consider how many Pagans and heretics he has destroyed in his life, by which he has surely delighted our Saviour and His Mother more than any one priest could with sermons. H’m! it is a thing worthy of thought! Let every one serve the glory of God as he knows best. Among the Jesuits legions of men may be found wiser than Pan Michael, but another such sabre as his there is not in the Commonwealth.”
“True, as God is dear to me!” cried Kmita. “Do you know whether he stayed in Chenstohova?”
“He was there when I left; what he did later, I know not. I know only this: God preserve him from losing his mind, God preserve him from sickness, which frequently comes with despair,—he will be alone, without aid, without a relative, without a friend, without consolation.”
“May the Most Holy Lady in that place of miracles save thee, faithful friend, who hast done so much for me that a brother could not have done more!”
Pani Kmita fell into deep thought, and silence continued long; at last she raised her bright head, and said, “Yendrek, do you remember how much we owe him?”
“If I forget, I will borrow eyes from a dog, for I shall not dare to look an honest man in the face with my own eyes.”
“Yendrek, you cannot leave him in that state.”
“How can I help him?”