Just at that moment an enormous clock in the upper part of the hall began to strike midnight, and at the same time, the walls trembled, the window-panes rattled plaintively, and the thunder of cannon was heard saluting in the courtyard.
Conversation was stopped, silence followed. Suddenly at the head of the table they began to cry: “Bishop Parchevski has fainted! Water!”
There was confusion. Some sprang from their seats to see more clearly what had happened. The bishop had not fainted, but had grown very weak, so that the marshal supported him in his chair by the shoulders, while the wife of the voevoda of Venden sprinkled his face with water.
At that moment the second discharge of cannon shook the window-panes; after it came a third, and a fourth.
“Live the Commonwealth! May its enemies perish!” shouted Zagloba.
But the following discharges drowned his speech. The nobles began to count: “Ten, eleven, twelve!”
Each time the window-panes answered with a mournful groan. The candles quivered from the shaking.
“Thirteen, fourteen! The bishop is not used to the thunder. With his timidity he has spoiled the entertainment; the prince too is uneasy. See, gentlemen, how swollen he is! Fifteen, sixteen!—Hei, they are firing as if in battle! Nineteen, twenty!”
“Quiet there! the prince wants to speak!” called the guests at once, from various parts of the table. “The prince wishes to speak!”
There was perfect silence; and all eyes were turned to Radzivill, who stood, like a giant, with a cup in his hand. But what a sight struck the eyes of those feasting! The face of the prince was simply terrible at that moment, for it was not pale, but blue and twisted, as if in a convulsion, by a smile which he strove to call to his lips. His breathing, usually short, became still shorter; his broad breast welled up under the gold brocade, his eyes were half covered with their lids, and there was a species of terror and an iciness on that powerful face such as are usual on features stiffening in the moments before death.