“Well,” said the prior, “come to my cell.”
Soon after they were sitting at a pine table in Kordetski’s modest cell. Charnyetski and the priest were looking carefully into the youthful face of Babinich, who said,—
“A sortie is of no use in this case. They will see it and repulse it. Here one man must do the work.”
“How is that?” asked Charnyetski.
“One man must go and burst that cannon with powder; and he can do it during such fogs. It is best that he go in disguise. There are jackets here like those worn by the enemy. As it will not be possible to do otherwise, he will slip in among the Swedes; but if at this side of the trench from which the gun is projecting there are no soldiers, that will be better still.”
“For God’s sake! what will the man do?”
“It is only necessary to put a box of powder into the mouth of the gun, with a hanging fuse and a thread to be ignited. When the powder explodes, the gun—devil I wanted to say—will burst.”
“Oh, my son! what do you say? Is it little powder that they thrust into it every day, and it does not burst?”
Kmita laughed, and kissed the priest on the sleeve of his habit. “Beloved father, there is a great heart in you, heroic and holy—”
“Give peace now!” answered the prior.