He had his head so filled with the change in Radzivill’s fortunes, so occupied with that which had happened during his stay in Chenstohova, and with the question where was she whom his heart loved, and what had become of her, that a third time he asked Kyemlich: “You say that the prince is broken?”
“Broken completely,” answered the old man. “But are you not sick?”
“My side is burned. That is nothing!” answered Kmita.
Again they rode on in silence. The tired horses lessened their speed by degrees, till at last they were going at a walk. That monotonous movement lulled to sleep Pan Andrei, who was mortally wearied, and he slept long, nodding in the saddle. He was roused only by the white light of day. He looked around with amazement, for in the first moment it seemed to him that everything through which he had passed in that night was merely a dream; at last he inquired,—
“Is that you, Kyemlich? Are we riding from Chenstohova?”
“Of course, your grace.”
“But where are we?”
“Oho, in Silesia already. Here the Swedes will not get us.”
“That is well!” said Kmita, coming to his senses completely. “But where is our gracious king living?”
“At Glogov.”