All at once the starosta of Oshmiana struck his forehead.
“But wait, your highness! I have heard of such a case in Prussia.”
“Is the Devil whispering something into your ear? Tell me!”
But Sakovich was silent for a long time; at last his face brightened, and he said,—
“Thank the fortune that gave you Sakovich as friend.”
“What news, what news?”
“Nothing. I will be your highness’s best man” (here Sakovich bowed),—“no small honor for such a poor fellow!”
“Don’t play the jester; speak quickly!”
“There is in Tyltsa one Plaska, or something like that, who in his time was a priest in Nyevorani, but who falling away from the faith became a Lutheran, got married, took refuge under the elector, and now is dealing in dried fish with people of this region. Bishop Parchevski tried to lure him back to Jmud, where in good certainty there was a fire waiting for him; but the elector would not yield up a fellow-believer.”
“How does that concern me? Do not loiter.”