But he too had hesitated evidently. He did not cast his baton, it is true, at the feet of the hetman, but he did not stand at his side in the first moment.
“It is impossible to reckon on any one, impossible to be sure of any man,” thought the prince, gloomily. “They will all go to the voevoda of Vityebsk, and no man will wish to share with me.”
“Infamy!” whispered his conscience.
“Lithuania!” answered, on the other hand, pride.
It had grown dim in the room, for the wicks had burned long on the candles, but through the windows flowed in the silver light of the moon. Radzivill gazed at those rays and fell into deep thought. Gradually something began to grow dark in those rays; certain figures rose up each moment, increasing in number, till at last the prince saw as it were an army coming toward him from the upper trails of the sky on the broad road of the moonbeams. Regiments are marching, armored hussars and light horse; a forest of banners are waving; in front rides some man without a helmet, apparently a victor returning from war. Around is quiet, and the prince hears clearly the voice of the army and people, “Vivat defensor patriae! vivat defensor patriae! (Live the defender of the country!)” The army approaches, each moment increasing in number; now he can see the face of the leader. He holds the baton in his hand; and by the number of bunchuks (horse-tails on his standard). Radzivill can see that he is the grand hetman.
“In the name of the Father and the Son!” cries the prince, “that is Sapyeha, that is the voevoda of Vityebsk! And where am I, and what is predestined to me?”
“Infamy!” whispers his conscience.
“Lithuania!” answers his pride.
The prince clapped his hands; Harasimovich, watching in the adjoining room, appeared at once in the door and bent double.
“Lights!” said the prince.