“Then perhaps Pan Stankyevich?”
“I have my own squadron, and I will not take his from a stranger. Remain in command; ceremony is chopped straw, satisfaction is oats! You know the men, they know you, and they will fight better under you.”
“Do so, Michael, do so, for otherwise it would not be well,” said Pan Yan.
“I will do so.”
So saying, Pan Michael took the baton from Zagloba’s hands, drew up the squadron for marching, and moved with his comrades to the head of it.
“And where shall we go?” asked Zagloba.
“To tell the truth, I don’t know myself, for I have not thought of that,” answered Pan Michael.
“It is worth while to deliberate on what we should do,” said Mirski, “and we must begin at once. But may I be permitted first to give thanks to Pan Zagloba in the name of all, that he did not forget us in straits and rescued us so effectually?”
“Well,” said Zagloba, with pride, raising his head and twisting his mustache. “Without me you would be in Birji! Justice commands to acknowledge that what no man can think out, Zagloba thinks out. Pan Michael, we were in straits not like these. Remember how I saved you when we were fleeing before the Tartars with Helena?”
Pan Michael might have answered that in that juncture not Zagloba saved him, but he Zagloba; still he was silent, and his mustache began to quiver. The old noble spoke on,—