“It would be more proper for me to ask what you want. You do not know me, nor I you; why attack me?”
“Traitor!” cried Volodyovski. “With me are the men of Lauda who have returned from the war, and they have accounts with you for robbery, for blood shed without cause and for the lady whom you have carried away. But do you know what raptus puellæ means? You must yield your life.”
A moment of silence followed.
“You would not call me traitor a second time,” said Kmita, “were it not for the door between us.”
“Open it, then! I do not hinder.”
“More than one dog from Lauda will cover himself with his legs before it is open. You will not take me alive.”
“Then we will drag you out dead, by the hair. All one to us!”
“Listen with care, note what I tell you! If you do not let us go, I have a barrel of powder here, and the match is burning already. I’ll blow up the house and all who are in it with myself, so help me God! Come now and take me!”
This time a still longer silence followed. Volodyovski sought an answer in vain. The nobles began to look at one another in fear. There was so much wild energy in the words of Kmita that all believed his threat. The whole victory might be turned into dust by one spark, and Panna Billevich lost forever.
“For God’s sake!” muttered one of the Butryms, “he is a madman. He is ready to do what he says.”