Zamoyski put his hands on his hips at once, began to step from one foot to the other, to puff, to pout, and said at last, with great animation,—
“Tell Pan Sapyeha that Zamoyski does not speak with traitors. If the King of Sweden wishes to speak with me, let him send me a Swede by race, not a Pole,—for Poles who serve the Swedes may go as embassadors to my dogs; I have the same regard for both.”
“As God is dear to me, that is an answer!” cried Zagloba, with unfeigned enthusiasm.
“But devil take them!” said the starosta, roused by his own words and by praise. “Well, shall I stand on ceremony with them?”
“Permit me, your worthiness, to take him that answer,” said Zagloba. And without waiting, he hastened away with the officer, went to Yan Sapyeha, and, apparently, not only repeated the starosta’s words, but added something very bad from himself; for Sapyeha turned from the town as if a thunderbolt had burst in front of his horse, and rode away with his cap thrust over his ears.
From the walls and from the squadrons of the cavalry which were standing before the gate they began to hoot at the men riding off,—
“To the kennel with traitors, the betrayers! Jew servants! Huz, huz!”
Sapyeha stood before the king, pale, with compressed lips. The king too was confused, for Zamost had deceived his hopes. In spite of what had been said, he expected to find a town of such power of resistance as Cracow, Poznan, and other places, so many of which he had captured; meanwhile he found a fortress powerful, calling to mind those of Denmark and the Netherlands, which he could not even think of taking without guns of heavy calibre.
“What is the result?” asked the king, when he saw Sapyeha.
“Nothing! Zamoyski will not speak with Poles who serve your Royal Grace. He sent out his jester, who reviled me and your Royal Grace so shamefully that it is not proper to repeat what he said.”