“He said nothing,” answered Zagloba, “and why he did not will appear at the end of my story; but now incipiam (I will begin).”
Here he told all as it had happened,—how he had brought the marshal to such a favorable decision. Charnyetski looked at him with growing astonishment, Polyanovski seized his own head, Pan Michael’s mustaches were quivering.
“I have not known you hitherto, as God is dear to me!” cried Charnyetski, at last. “I cannot believe my own ears.”
“They have long since called me Ulysses,” said Zagloba, modestly.
“Where is my letter?”
“Here it is.”
“I must forgive you for not delivering it. He is a finished rogue! A vice-chancellor might learn from him how to make treaties. As God lives, if I were king, I would send you to Tsargrad.”
“If he were there, a hundred thousand Turks would be here now!” cried Pan Michael.
To which Zagloba said: “Not one, but two hundred thousand, as true as I live.”
“And did the marshal hesitate at nothing?” asked Charnyetski.