“The Khan himself and Sultan Galga, who made treaties with us at Podhaytse,” continued Pan Adam, “wish to observe the treaties; but Budjyak is as noisy as a bee-hive at time of swarming. The Belgrod horde also are in an uproar; they do not wish to obey either the Khan or Galga.”
“Pan Sobieski has informed me already of that, and asked for advice,” said Zagloba. “What do they say now about the coming spring?”
“They say that with the first grass there will be surely a movement of those worms; that it will be necessary to stamp them out a second time,” replied Pan Adam, assuming the face of a terrible Mars, and twisting his mustache till his upper lip reddened.
Basia, who was quick-eyed, saw this at once; therefore she pushed back a little, so that Pan Adam might not see her, and then twisted, as it were, her mustache, imitating the youthful cavalier. Pan Michael’s sister threatened with her eyes, but at the same time she began to quiver, restraining her laughter with difficulty. Volodyovski bit his lips; and Krysia dropped her eyes till the long lashes threw a shadow on her cheeks.
“You are a young man,” said Zagloba, “but a soldier of experience.”
“I am twenty-two years old, and I have served the country seven years without ceasing; for I escaped to the field from the lowest bench in my fifteenth year,” answered the young man.
“He knows the steppe, knows how to make his way through the grass, and to fall on the horde as a kite falls on grouse,” said Pan Michael. “He is no common partisan! The Tartar will not hide from him in the steppe.”
Pan Adam blushed with delight that praise from such famous lips met him in presence of ladies. He was withal not merely a falcon of the steppes, but a handsome fellow, dark, embrowned by the winds. On his face he bore a scar from his ear to his nose, which from this cut was thinner on one side than the other. He had quick eyes, accustomed to look into the distance, above them very dark brows, joined at the nose and forming, as it were, a Tartar bow. His head, shaven at the sides, was surmounted by a black, bushy forelock. He pleased Basia both in speech and in bearing; but still she did not cease to mimic him.
“As I live!” said Zagloba, “it is pleasant for old men like me to see that a new generation is rising up worthy of us.”
“Not worthy yet,” answered Pan Adam.