“I beg you to follow. The chill will soon pass; then we can speak.”
After a while they found themselves in a separate apartment in which heaps of coals were glowing in a fireplace, and in which was unendurable heat. His servants placed Prince Boguslav on a long campaign arm-chair covered with furs, and brought a light. Then the attendants withdrew. The prince threw his head back, closed his eyes, and remained in that position motionless for a time; at last he said,—
“Directly,—let me rest.”
Kmita looked at him. The prince had not changed much, but the fever had pinched his face. He was painted as usual, and his cheeks touched with color; but just for that reason, when he lay there with closed eyes and head thrown back, he was somewhat like a corpse or a wax figure. Pan Andrei stood before him in the bright light. The prince began to open his lids lazily; suddenly he opened them completely, and a flame, as it were, flew over his face. But it remained only an instant; then again he closed his eyes.
“If thou art a spirit, I fear thee not,” said he; “but vanish.”
“I have come with a letter from the hetman,” answered Kmita.
Boguslav shuddered a little, as if he wished to shake off visions; then he looked at Kmita and asked,—
“Have I been deceived in you?”
“Not at all,” answered Pan Andrei, pointing with his finger to the scar.
“That is the second!” muttered the prince to himself; and he added aloud, “Where is the letter?”