Meanwhile they entered the ante-room and passed thence to a large chamber, in the middle of which stood a table with a feast on it; in one corner was a plank bed covered with white horse-skin, on which Ketling was lying.
“Oh, my friend!” said Pan Michael, hastening toward him.
“Michael!” cried Ketling, and springing to his feet as if in the fulness of strength, he seized the little knight in his embrace.
They pressed each other then so eagerly that Ketling raised Volodyovski, and Volodyovski Ketling.
“They commanded me to simulate sickness,” said the Scot, “to feign death: but when I saw you, I could not hold out. I am as well as a fish, and no misfortune has met me. But it was a question of getting you out of the cloister. Forgive, Michael. We invented this ambush out of love for you.”
“To the wild fields with us!” cried the knights, again; and they struck with their firm palms on their sabres till a terrible clatter was raised in the room.
But Pan Michael was astounded. For a time he was silent, then he began to look at all, especially at Zagloba. “Oh, traitors!” exclaimed he, at last, “I thought that Ketling was wounded unto death.”
“How is that, Michael?” cried Zagloba. “You are angry because Ketling is well? You grudge him his health, and wish death to him? Has your heart become stone in such fashion that you would gladly see all of us ghosts, and Ketling, and Pan Orlik, and Pan Rushchyts, and these youths,—nay, even Pan Yan, even me, who love you as a son?” Here Zagloba closed his eyes and cried still more piteously, “We have nothing to live for, gracious gentlemen; there is no thankfulness left in this world; there is nothing but callousness.”
“For God’s sake!” answered Pan Michael, “I do not wish you ill, but you have not respected my grief.”
“Have pity on our lives!” repeated Zagloba.