“For the wood in the houses has not become black.”
Their further conversation was interrupted by the squeaking of a wagon, which they could not see at first, for the road was undulating; soon, however, they saw a pair of horses, and following behind them a pair at a pole, and at the end of the pole a wagon surrounded by a number of horsemen.
“What kind of people can these be?” asked the sword-bearer; and he held in his horse. Olenka stopped at his side.
“Halt!” cried Billevich. “Whom are you carrying there?”
One of the horsemen turned to them and said,—
“We are bringing Pan Kmita, who was shot by the Hungarians at Magyerovo.”
“The word has become flesh!” said Billevich.
The whole world went around suddenly in Olenka’s eyes; the heart died within her, breath failed her breast. Certain voices were calling in her soul: “Jesus! Mary! that is he!” Then consciousness of where she was or what was happening left her entirely.
But she did not drop from the horse to the ground, for she seized convulsively with her hand the wagon-rack; and when she came to herself her eyes fell on the motionless form of a man lying in the wagon. True, that was he,—Pan Andrei Kmita, the banneret of Orsha; and he was lying on his back in the wagon. His head was bound in a cloth, but by the ruddy light of the moon his pale and calm face was perfectly visible. His eyes were deeply sunk and closed; life did not discover itself by the least movement.
“With God!” said Billevich, removing his cap.