At two cannon-shots’ distance gleamed a number of fires; but at the trenches themselves was thick darkness.
“That will not enter their heads, nor the suspicion of it, and they cannot suppose it,” whispered Kmita to himself.
He went straight to Charnyetski, who, sitting at the gun-carriage, was reading his rosary, and striking one foot against the other, for both feet were cold.
“Cold,” said he, seeing Kmita; “and my head is heavy from the thunder of two days and one night. In my ears there is continual ringing.”
“In whose head would it not ring from such uproars? But to-day we shall rest. They have gone to sleep for good. It would be possible to surprise them like a bear in a den; I know not whether guns would rouse them.”
“Oh,” said Charnyetski, raising his head, “of what are you thinking?”
“I am thinking of Zbaraj, how the besieged inflicted with sorties more than one great defeat on the ruffians.”
“You are thinking of blood, like a wolf in the night.”
“By the living God and his wounds, let us make a sortie! We will cut down men, spike guns! They expect no attack.”
Charnyetski sprang to his feet.