“They have not, Colonel,” answered Soroka.
Kmita shook his hands. “Oh, misery, misery! You may go, Soroka. For those letters which you have lost you deserve to hang. You may go. Worthy Kyemlich, have you anything on which to write?”
“I hope to find something,” answered the old man.
“Even two leaves of paper and a pen.”
The old man vanished through the door of a closet which was evidently a storeroom for all kinds of things, but he searched long. Kmita was walking the while through the room, and talking to himself,—
“Whether I have the letters or not,” said he, “the hetman does not know that they are lost, and he will fear lest I publish them. I have him in hand. Cunning against cunning! I will threaten to send them to the voevoda of Vityebsk. That is what I will do. In God is my hope, that the hetman will fear this.”
Further thought was interrupted by old Kyemlich, who, coming out of the closet, said,—
“Here are three leaves of paper, but no pens or ink.”
“No pens? But are there no birds in the woods here? They may be shot with a gun.”
“There is a falcon nailed over the shed.”