By the quivering flames Pan Andrei saw Soroka himself; the old soldier was sitting there at the side of the log on a stool, without a cap and with bound hands, guarded by four soldiers. A man dressed in a short shuba without sleeves was at that moment giving him in a shallow cup gorailka, which Soroka drank eagerly enough. When he had drunk, he spat; and since at that very moment Kmita was placed between two horsemen in the first rank, Soroka saw him, sprang from the stool and straightened himself as if on military parade.
For a while they looked the one at the other. Soroka’s face was calm and resigned; he only moved his jaws as if chewing.
“Soroka!” groaned Kmita, at last.
“At command!” answered the soldier.
And again silence followed. What had they to say at such a moment? Then the executioner, who had given Soroka the vodka, approached him.
“Well, old man,” said he, “it is time for you!”
“And you will draw me on straight?”
“Never fear.”
Soroka feared not; but when he felt on his shoulder the hand of the executioner, he began to pant quickly and loudly. At last he said,—
“More gorailka!”