He went, and after he had spoken to some one outside the door, he returned.
“Some soldier wants to see your grace greatly. He says that his name is Soroka.”
“By the dear God! let him in,” called Kmita. And without waiting for the attendant to carry out the order, he sprang to the door. “Come in, dear Soroka! come hither!”
The soldier entered the room, and with his first movement wished to fall at the feet of his colonel, for he was a friend and a servant as faithful as he was attached; but soldierly subordination carried the day, therefore he stood erect and said,—
“At the orders of your grace!”
“Be greeted, dear comrade, be greeted!” said Kmita, with emotion. “I thought they had cut you to pieces in Chenstohova.” And he pressed Soroka’s head, then began to shake him, which he could do without lowering himself too much, for Soroka was descended from village nobility.
Then the old sergeant fell to embracing Kmita’s knees.
“Whence do you come?” asked Kmita.
“From Chenstohova.”
“And you were looking for me?”