They wished one another success, long years, or a heavenly crown; and so relief dropped into every heart, as if suffering were over already.
But there stood one empty chair near the prior; before it a plate on which was a package of white wafers bound with a blue ribbon. When all had sat down, no one occupied that place. Zamoyski said,—
“I see, revered father, that according to ancient custom there are places for men outside the cloister.”
“Not for men outside,” said Father Agustine, “but as a remembrance of that young man whom we loved as a son, and whose soul is looking with pleasure upon us because we keep him in eternal memory.”
“As God lives,” replied Zamoyski, “he is happier now than we. We owe him due thanks.”
Kordetski had tears in his eyes, and Charnyetski said,—
“They write of smaller men in the chronicles. If God gives me life, and any one asks me hereafter, who was there among us the equal of ancient heroes, I shall say Babinich.”
“Babinich was not his name,” said Kordetski.
“How not Babinich?”
“I long knew his real name under the seal of confession; but when going out against that cannon, he said to me: ‘If I perish, let men know who I am, so that honorable repute may rest with my name, and destroy my former misdeeds.’ He went, he perished; now I can tell you that he was Kmita!”