“What sort of wolf am I?” asked the famous bowman, “There was Azya; he was a wolf.”
“Didn’t I say that?” asked Zagloba. “Who was the first to say, that’s a wolf?”
“Pan Adam told me,” said Basia, “that day and night he hears Eva and Zosia calling to him ‘save;’ and how can he save? It had to end in sickness, for no man can endure such pain. He could survive their death; he cannot survive their shame.”
“He is lying now like a block of wood; he knows nothing of God’s world,” said Pan Mushalski; “and it is a pity, for in battle he was splendid.”
Further conversation was interrupted by a servant, who announced that there was a great noise in the town, for the people were assembling to look at the starosta of Podolia, who was just making his entrance with a considerable escort and some tens of infantry.
“The command belongs to him,” said Zagloba. “It is valiant on the part of Pan Pototski to prefer this to another place, but as of old I would that he were not here. He is opposed to the hetman; he did not believe in the war; and now who knows whether it will not come to him to lay down his head.”
“Perhaps other Pototskis will march in after him,” said Pan Mushalski.
“It is evident that the Turks are not distant,” answered Zagloba. “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, God grant the starosta of Podolia to be a second Yeremi, and Kamenyets a second Zbaraj!”
“It must be; if not, we shall die first,” said a voice at the threshold.
Basia sprang up at the sound of that voice, and crying “Michael!” threw herself into the little knight’s arms.