“Stop!” cried Kmita, suddenly.
The soldiers halted, and he turned to them. “Are you ready for death?” asked he, abruptly.
“Ready!” answered in chorus these dare-devils of Orsha.
“We crawled up to Hovanski’s throat, and he did not devour us,—do you remember?”
“We remember!”
“There is need to dare great things to-day. If success comes, our gracious king will make lords of you,—I guarantee that! If failure, you will go to the stake!”
“Why not success?” asked Soroka, whose eyes began to gleam like those of an old wolf.
“There will be success!” said three others,—Biloüs, Zavratynski, and Lubyenyets.
“We must carry off the prince marshal!” said Kmita. Then he was silent, wishing to see the impression which the mad thought would make on the soldiers. But they were silent too, and looked on him as on a rainbow; only, their mustaches quivered, and their faces became terrible and murderous.
“The stake is near, the reward far away,” added Kmita.