“Pan Michael! by the wounds of God, cry to them to send for your squadron and for the armored regiment and the hussars.”
“Be silent!”
Zagloba began to shout himself: “But send for the rest of the Polish squadrons, and cut down the traitors!”
“Be silent there!”
Suddenly, not in the yard, but in the rear of the castle, rang forth a sharp salvo of muskets.
“Jesus Mary!” cried Volodyovski.
“Pan Michael, what is that?”
“Beyond doubt they have shot Stahovich and the two officers who went as a deputation,” said Volodyovski, feverishly. “It cannot be otherwise!”
“By the passion of our Lord! Then there is no mercy. It is impossible to hope.”
The thunder of shots drowned further discourse. Pan Michael grasped the grating convulsively and pressed his forehead to it, but for a while he could see nothing except the legs of the Scottish infantry stationed at the window. Salvos of musketry grew more and more frequent; at last the cannon were heard. The dry knocking of bullets against the wall over the cellar was heard distinctly, like hail. The castle trembled to its foundation.