“Yes. We came to save you.”
She regained her senses completely. “I thank you,” said she hurriedly, with a low voice, through which a mortal disquiet was breaking. “But what happened to him?”
“To Kmita? Fear not, my lady! He is lying lifeless in the yard; and without praising myself I did it.”
Volodyovski uttered this with a certain boastfulness; but if he expected admiration he deceived himself terribly. She said not a word, but tottered and began to seek support behind with her hands. At last she sat heavily on the same chest from which she had risen a moment before.
The knight sprang to her quickly: “What is the matter, my lady?”
“Nothing, nothing—wait, permit me. Then is Pan Kmita killed?”
“What is Pan Kmita to me?” interrupted Volodyovski; “it is a question here of you.”
That moment her strength came back; for she rose again, and looking him straight in the eyes, screamed with anger, impatience, and despair: “By the living God, answer! Is he killed?”
“Pan Kmita is wounded,” answered the astonished Volodyovski.
“Is he alive?”