“True,” answered Kmita, reaching involuntarily to his head.
“Now it is another affair. Then you were given to fighting,—a thing usual with nobles, and not bringing the last infamy. To-day you do not deserve that an honest man should challenge you.”
“Why is that?” asked Kmita; and raising his proud head, he looked Volodyovski straight in the eyes.
“You are a traitor and a renegade,” answered Volodyovski, “for you have cut down, like an executioner, honest soldiers who stood by their country,—for it is through your work that this unhappy land is groaning under a new yoke. Speaking briefly, prepare for death, for as God is in heaven your last hour has come.”
“By what right do you judge and execute me?” inquired Kmita.
“Gracious sir,” answered Zagloba, seriously, “say your prayers instead of asking us about a right. But if you have anything to say in your defence, say it quickly, for you will not find a living soul to take your part. Once, as I have heard, this lady here present begged you from the hands of Pan Volodyovski; but after what you have done now, she will surely not take your part.”
Here the eyes of all turned involuntarily to Panna Aleksandra, whose face at that moment was as if cut from stone; and she stood motionless, with downcast lids, icy-cold, but she did not advance a step or speak a word.
The voice of Kmita broke the silence—“I do not ask that lady for intercession.”
Panna Aleksandra was silent.
“This way!” called Volodyovski, turning toward the door.