The prince looked carefully at Kmita, and at that moment first noted his pallor and excitement.
“What is the matter, Pan Kmita?” asked he. “You look like a ghost.”
“Weariness has knocked me off my feet, and my head is dizzy. Farewell, your highness; I will come before starting, to bow to you again.”
“Make haste, then, for I start after midday myself.”
“I shall return in an hour at furthest.”
When he had said this, Kmita bent his head and went out. In the other room the servants rose at sight of him, but he passed like a drunken man, seeing no one. At the threshold of the room he caught his head with both hands, and began to repeat, almost with a groan,—
“Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews! Jesus, Mary, Joseph!”
With tottering steps he passed through the guard, composed of six men with halberds. Outside the gate were his own men, the sergeant Soroka at the head of them.
“After me!” called Kmita. And he moved through the town toward the inn.
Soroka, an old soldier of Kmita’s, knowing him perfectly, noticed at once that something uncommon had happened to the colonel.