Barely had he uttered the last word when he shuddered, “To the highway? But that prince will be there, and pursuit. To lose fifteen horses!” said the old fox to himself, with as much sorrow as if he had cared for the beasts from their colthood. “It must be that our fortune is ended. We must stay in the cabin till Pan Kmita recovers,—stay with consent of the owners or without their consent; and what will come later, that is work for the colonel’s head.”
Thus meditating, he returned to the cabin. The watchful soldiers were standing at the door, and though they saw a lantern shining in the dark from a distance,—the same lantern with which Soroka and the pitch-maker had gone out,—still they forced them to tell who they were before they let them enter the cabin. Soroka ordered his soldiers to change the watch about midnight, and threw himself down on the plank bed beside Kmita.
It had become quiet in the cabin; only the crickets raised their usual music in the adjoining closet, and the mice gnawed from moment to moment among the rubbish piled up there. The sick man woke at intervals and seemed to have dreams in his fever, for to Soroka’s ears came the disconnected words,—
“Gracious king, pardon—Those men are traitors—I will tell all their secrets—The Commonwealth is a red cloth—Well, I have you, worthy prince—Hold him!—Gracious king, this way, for there is treason!”
Soroka rose on the bed and listened; but the sick man, when he had screamed once and a second time, fell asleep, and then woke and cried,—
“Olenka, Olenka, be not angry!”
About midnight he grew perfectly calm and slept soundly. Soroka also began to slumber; but soon a gentle knocking at the door of the cabin roused him.
The watchful soldier opened his eyes at once, and springing to his feet went out.
“But what is the matter?” asked he.
“Sergeant, the pitch-maker has escaped.”