“What is the matter?” asked Kmita.
“The horses are terribly tired, for we have not rested yet.”
“We shall rest right away!”
“There is a cabin at the turn, maybe ’tis a public house.”
“Let the sergeant push on to prepare oats. Public house or not, we must halt.”
“According to order, Commander.”
Soroka gave reins to the horses, and they followed him slowly. Kmita rode at one side of the prince, Lubyenyets at the other. Boguslav had become completely calm and quiet; he did not draw Pan Andrei into further conversation. He seemed to be exhausted by the journey, or by the position in which he found himself, and dropping his head somewhat on his breast, closed his eyes. Still from time to time he cast a side look now at Kmita, now at Lubyenyets, who held the reins of the horse, as if studying to discover who would be the easier to overturn so as to wrest himself free.
They approached the building situated on the roadside at a bulge of the forest. It was not a public house, but a forge and a wheelwright-shop, in which those going by the road stopped to shoe their horses and mend their wagons. Between the forge and the road there was a small open area, sparsely covered with trampled grass; fragments of wagons and broken wheels lay thrown here and there on that place, but there were no travellers. Soroka’s horses stood tied to a post. Soroka himself was talking before the forge to the blacksmith, a Tartar, and two of his assistants.
“We shall not have an over-abundant repast,” said the prince; “there is nothing to be had here.”
“We have food and spirits with us,” answered Kmita.