“Drink some gorailka.”
Kmita seized with eagerness the flask the old man gave him, and emptying half of it said,—
“I was stiff from the cold. I shall be better at once.”
“Your grace will grow warm on the saddle. The horses are waiting.”
“In a moment I shall be better,” repeated Kmita. “My side is smarting a little—that’s nothing!—I am quite well.” And he sat on the edge of a grain-bin.
After a while he recovered his strength really, and looked with perfect presence of mind on the ill-omened faces of the three Kyemliches, lighted by the yellowish flame of the burning pitch. The old man stood before him.
“Your grace, there is need of haste. The horses are waiting.”
But in Pan Andrei the Kmita of old times was roused altogether.
“Oh, impossible!” cried he, suddenly; “now I am waiting for that traitor.”
The Kyemliches looked amazed, but uttered not a word,—so accustomed were they from former times to listen blindly to this leader.