“He was shot by Prince Boguslav’s ruffians while defending me; I know not whether he will be alive in twenty-four hours. It is for you, Michael, that we have both fallen into these straits, for we came to Warsaw only to think out some consolation for you. Come for even two days, and console a dying man. You will return later; you will become a monk. I have brought the recommendation of the primate to the prior to raise no impediment against you. Only hasten, for every moment is precious.”
“For God’s sake!” cried Pan Michael; “what do I hear? Impediments cannot keep me, for so far I am here only on meditation. As God lives, the prayer of a dying man is sacred! I cannot refuse that.”
“It would be a mortal sin!” cried Zagloba.
“That is true! It is always that traitor, Boguslav—But if I do not avenge Ketling, may I never come back! I will find those ruffians, and I will split their skulls! O Great God! sinful thoughts are already attacking me! Memento mori! Only wait here till I put on my old clothes, for it is not permitted to go out in the habit.”
“Here are clothes!” cried Zagloba, springing to the bundle, which was lying there on the bench near them. “I foresaw everything, prepared everything! Here are boots, a rapier, a good overcoat.”
“Come to the cell,” said the little knight, with haste.
They went to the cell; and when they came out again, near Zagloba walked, not a white monk, but an officer with yellow boots to the knees, with a rapier at his side, and a white pendant across his shoulder. Zagloba blinked and smiled under his mustaches at sight of the brother at the door, who, evidently scandalized, opened the gate to the two.
Not far from the cloister and lower down, Zagloba’s wagon was waiting, and with it two attendants. One was sitting on the seat, holding the reins of four well-attached horses; at these Pan Michael cast quickly the eye of an expert. The other stood near the wagon, with a mouldy, big-bellied bottle in one hand, and two goblets in the other.
“It is a good stretch of road to Mokotov,” said Zagloba; “and harsh sorrow is waiting for us at the bedside of Ketling. Drink something, Michael, to gain strength to endure all this, for you are greatly reduced.”
Saying this, Zagloba took the bottle from the hands of the man and filled both glasses with Hungarian so old that it was thick from age.