“And may everlasting light shine on him,” answered one chorus of voices.
But Pan Charnyetski was unable for a long time to calm himself, and his thoughts were continually turning to Kmita.
“I tell you, gentlemen, that there was something of such kind in that man that though he served as a simple soldier, the command of itself crawled at once to his hand, so that it was a wonder to me how people obeyed such a young man unwittingly. In fact, he was commander on the bastion, and I obeyed him myself. Oh, had I known him then to be Kmita!”
“Still it is a wonder to me,” said Zamoyski, “that the Swedes have not boasted of his death.”
Kordetski sighed. “The powder must have killed him on the spot.”
“I would let a hand be cut from me could he be alive again,” cried Charnyetski. “But that such a Kmita let himself be blown up by powder!”
“He gave his life for ours,” said Kordetski.
“It is true,” added Zamoyski, “that if that cannon were lying in the intrenchment, I should not think so pleasantly of to-morrow.”
“To-morrow God will give us a new victory,” said the prior, “for the ark of Noah cannot be lost in the deluge.”
Thus they conversed with one another on Christmas Eve, and then separated; the monks going to the church, the soldiers, some to quiet rest, and others to keep watch on the walls and at the gates. But great care was superfluous, for in the Swedish camp there reigned unbroken calm. They had given themselves to rest and meditation, for to them too was approaching a most serious day.