“Look, here is a remedy!” said Volodyovski, taking out the commission.
“A commission!” cried Kmita; “for whom?”
“For you! You need not appear at any court, for you are in the hetman’s jurisdiction. Hear what the prince voevoda writes me.”
Volodyovski read to Kmita the private letter of Radzivill, drew breath, moved his mustaches, and said, “Here, as you see, it depends on me either to give you the commission or to retain it.”
Uncertainty, alarm, and hope were reflected on Kmita’s face. “What will you do?” asked he, in a low voice.
“I will give the commission,” said Volodyovski.
Kmita said nothing at first; he dropped his head on the pillow, and looked some time at the ceiling. Suddenly his eyes began to grow moist; and tears, unknown guests in those eyes, were hanging on the lashes.
“May I be torn with horses,” said he at last, “may I be pulled out of my skin, if I have seen a more honorable man! If through me you have received a refusal,—if Olenka, as you say, loves me,—another would have taken vengeance all the more, would have pushed me down deeper; but you give your hand and draw me forth as it were from the grave.”
“Because I will not sacrifice to personal interests the country, to which you may render notable service. But I say that if you had obtained those Cossacks from Trubetskoi or Hovanski, I should have kept the commission. It is your whole fortune that you did not do that.”
“It is for others to take an example from you,” said Kmita. “Give me your hand. God permit me to repay you with some good, for you have bound me in life and in death.”