“Maybe in Taurogi, and maybe not. Kharlamp will know better.”
“Let us go.”
“It is not far. The squadron is outside the town, but we are here; and Kharlamp is with us.”
Then Kmita began to breathe heavily like a man going up a steep mountain. “I am fearfully weak yet,” said he.
“You need moderation all the more, since you will have to deal with such a knight.”
“I had him once, and here is what remained.” Kmita pointed to the scar on his face.
“Tell me how it was, for the king barely mentioned it.”
Kmita began to tell; and though he gritted his teeth, and even threw his cap on the ground, still his mind escaped from misfortune, and he calmed himself somewhat.
“I knew that you were daring,” said Volodyovski; “but to carry off Radzivill from the middle of his own squadron, I did not expect that, even of you.”
Meanwhile they arrived at the quarters. Pan Yan and Pan Stanislav, Zagloba, Jendzian, and Kharlamp were looking at Crimean coats made of sheepskin, which a trading Tartar had brought. Kharlamp, who knew Kmita better, recognized him at one glance of the eye, and dropping the coat exclaimed,—