“There is no consent. We will die here!” cried a number of voices.
“I am glad to hear that,” said the starosta; “for in me faith is dearer than life, and cowardice has never come near me, and will not. Remain, gracious gentlemen, to supper; we will come to agreement more easily.”
But they would not remain.
“Our place is at the gates, not at the table,” said the little knight.
At this time the bishop arrived, and learning what the question was, turned at once to Pan Makovetski and Volodyovski.
“Worthy men!” said he, “each has the same thing at heart as you, and no one has mentioned surrender. I sent to ask for an armistice of four weeks; I wrote as follows; ‘During that time we will send to our king for succor, and await his instructions, and further that will be which God gives.’”
When the little knight heard this he was excited anew, but this time because rage carried him away, and scorn at such a conception of military matters. He, a soldier since childhood, could not believe his ears, could not believe that any man would propose a truce to an enemy, so as to have time himself to send for succor.
The little knight looked at Makovetski and then at other officers; they looked at him. “Is this a jest?” asked a number of voices. Then all were silent.
“I fought through the Tartar, Cossack, Moscow, and Swedish wars,” said Pan Michael, at last, “and I have never heard of such reasons. The Sultan has not come hither to please us, but himself. How will he consent to an armistice, when we write to him that at the end of that time we expect aid?”
“If he does not agree, there will be nothing different from what there is now,” said the bishop.