“The maiden will die, if you kill me. The orders are given.”
“What have you done with her?” asked Kmita.
“Spare me, and I will give her to you. I swear on the Gospel.”
Pan Andrei struck his forehead with his fist. It was to be seen for a time that he was struggling with himself and with his thoughts; then he said,—
“Hear me, traitor! I would give a hundred such degenerate ruffians for one hair of hers. But I do not believe you, you oath-breaker!”
“On the Gospel!” repeated the prince. “I will give you a safe-conduct and an order in writing.”
“Let it be so. I will give you your life, but I will not let you out of my hands. You will give me the letter; but meanwhile I will give you to the Tartars, with whom you will be in captivity.”
“Agreed,” answered Boguslav.
“Remember,” said Pan Andrei, “your princely rank did not preserve you from my hand, nor your army, nor your fencing. And be assured that as many times as you cross my path, or do not keep word, nothing will save you,—even though you were made Emperor of Germany. Recognize me! Once I had you in my hands, now you are lying under my feet!”
“Consciousness is leaving me,” said the prince. “Pan Kmita, there must be water near by. Give me to drink, and wash my wound.”