“I made his acquaintance first in the fortress, where I have been twice as an envoy to the monks.”
“Have you reasons for vengeance?”
“Your worthiness, I wished privately to bring him to our camp. He, taking advantage of the fact that I laid aside my office of envoy, insulted me, Kuklinovski, as no man in life has insulted me.”
“What did he do to you?”
Kuklinovski trembled and gnashed his teeth. “Better not speak of it. Only give him to me. He is doomed to death anyhow, and I would like before his end to have a little amusement with him,—all the more because he is the Kmita whom formerly I venerated, and who repaid me in such fashion. Give him to me; it will be better for you. If I rub him out, Zbrojek and Kalinski and with them all the Polish knighthood will fall not upon you, but upon me, and I’ll help myself. There will not be anger, wry faces, and mutiny. It will be my private matter about Kmita’s skin, of which I shall have a drum made.”
Miller fell to thinking; a sudden suspicion flashed over his face.
“Kuklinovski,” said he, “maybe you wish to save him?”
Kuklinovski smiled quietly, but that smile was so terrible and sincere that Miller ceased to doubt.
“Perhaps you give sound advice,” said he.
“For all my services I beg this reward only.”