“Then you are a starosta—pardon me, I forgot.”
“I am not a starosta,” answered Yan.
“How is that?” asked the prince, frowning with his two mighty brows; “they have not made you a starosta for what you did at Zbaraj?”
“I have never asked for the office.”
“But they should have made you starosta without the asking. How is this? What do you tell me? You rewarded with nothing, forgotten entirely? This is a wonder to me. But I am talking at random. It should astonish no man; for in these days only he is rewarded who has the back of a willow, light-bending. You are not a starosta, upon my word! Thanks be to God that you have come hither, for here we have not such short memories, and no service remains unrewarded. How is it with you, worthy Colonel Volodyovski?”
“I have earned nothing yet.”
“Leave that to me, and now take this document, drawn up in Rossyeni, by which I give you Dydkyemie for life. It is not a bad piece of land, and a hundred ploughs go out to work there every spring. Take even that, for I cannot give more, and tell Pan Skshetuski that Radzivill does not forget his friends, nor those who give their service to the country under his leadership.”
“Your princely highness!” stammered Pan Michael, in confusion.
“Say nothing, and pardon that it is so small; but tell these gentlemen that he who joins his fortune for good and ill with that of Radzivill will not perish. I am not king; but if I were, God is my witness that I would never forget such a Yan Skshetuski or such a Zagloba.”
“That is I!” said Zagloba, pushing himself forward sharply, for he had begun to be impatient that there was no mention of him.