“To whom do you wish victory?”
“To ours, of course.”
“See that! And why not to the Swedes?”
“I would rather pound them. Who are ours, are ours!”
“Conscience is waking up in you. But how could you take your own blood to the Swedes?”
“For I had an order.”
“But now you have no order?”
“True.”
“Your superior is now Pan Volodyovski, no one else.”
“Well, that seems to be true.”