The soldiers noticed, too, that from under his kaftan gleamed the edge of chain mail, as if he were going to battle. He had his sabre also girt high, so as to seize the hilt more easily. His face was calm enough, but stern and threatening. Casting a glance at the soldiers to see if they were ready and armed properly, he mounted his horse, and throwing a ducat at the innkeeper, rode out of the place.
Soroka rode at his side; three others behind, leading a horse. Soon they found themselves on the square filled by Boguslav’s troops. There was movement among them already; evidently the command had come to prepare for the road. The horsemen were tightening the girths of the saddle and bridling the horses; the infantry were taking their muskets, stacked before the houses; others were attaching horses to wagons.
Kmita started as it were from meditation.
“Hear me, old man,” said he to Soroka; “from the starosta’s house does the road go on,—it will not be necessary to come back through the square?”
“But where are we going, Colonel?”
“To Dembova.”
“Then we must go from the square past the house. The square will be behind us.”
“It is well,” said Kmita.
“Oh, if only those men were alive now! Few are fitted for work like this,—few!”
Meanwhile they passed the square, and began to turn toward the starosta’s house, which lay about one furlong and a half farther on, near the roadside.