“Baron Lisola, the Imperial Envoy, now on his way from the court of Brandenburg to our lord,” answered the officer. Then he went out, and after a while returned.
“Your excellency’s orders are carried out,” said he to the baron.
“I thank you,” said Lisola; and with great though very lofty affability he indicated to Count Veyhard a place opposite himself. “Some kind of storm is beginning to whistle outside,” said he, “and rain is falling. It may continue long; meanwhile let us talk before supper. What is to be heard here? I have been told that the voevodas of Little Poland have submitted to his Grace of Sweden.”
“True, your excellency; his Grace is only waiting for the submission of the rest of the troops, then he will go at once to Warsaw and to Prussia.”
“Is it certain that they will surrender?”
“Deputies from the army are already in Cracow. They have no choice, for if they do not come to us Hmelnitski will destroy them utterly.”
Lisola inclined his reasoning head upon his breast. “Terrible, unheard of things!” said he.
The conversation was carried on in the German language. Kmita did not lose a single word of it.
“Your excellency.” said Count Veyhard, “that has happened which had to happen.”
“Perhaps so; but it is difficult not to feel compassion for a power which has fallen before our eyes, and for which a man who is not a Swede must feel sorrow.”