Kmita, from the time that he had conceived the plan of bursting the siege gun, secreted himself in the fortress. He looked every day at the roll, with heart-sickness. On reflection he made it still larger, so that it was almost an ell long and as thick as a boot-leg. In the evening he cast greedy looks toward the gun, then examined the sky like an astrologer. But the bright moon, shining on the snow continually, baffled his plan.
All at once a thaw came; clouds covered the horizon, and the night was dark,—so dark that even strain your eyes you could see nothing. Pan Andrei fell into such humor as if some one had given him the steed of the Sultan; and midnight had barely sounded when he stood before Charnyetski in his cavalry dress, the roll under his arm.
“I am going!” said he.
“Wait, I will speak to the prior.”
“That is well. Kiss me, Pan Pyotr, and go for the prior.”
Charnyetski kissed him with feeling, and turned away. He had hardly gone thirty steps when Kordetski stood before him in white. He had guessed that Kmita was going, and had come there to bless him.
“Babinich is ready; he is only waiting for your reverence.”
“I hurry, I hurry!” answered the priest. “O Mother of God, save him and aid him!”
After a while both were standing at the opening where Charnyetski left Kmita, but there was no trace of him.
“He has gone!” said the prior, in amazement.