“The officer is waiting here in the barn for your grace. He came right away after you rode off; he says that he missed your grace.”
“What does all this mean? But the prisoner?”
“Is hanging.”
The door squeaked, and Kuklinovski pushed into the barn; but before he had gone a step two iron hands caught him by the throat, and smothered his cry of terror. Kosma and Damian, with the adroitness of genuine murderers, hurled him to the ground, put their knees on his breast, pressed him so that his ribs began to crack, and gagged him in the twinkle of an eye.
Kmita came forward, and holding the pitch light to his eyes, said,—
“Ah! this is Pan Kuklinovski! Now I have something to say to you!”
Kuklinovski’s face was blue, the veins were so swollen that it seemed they might burst any moment; but in his eyes, which were coming out of his head and bloodshot, there was quite as much wonder as terror.
“Strip him and put him on the beam!” cried Kmita.
Kosma and Damian fell to stripping him as zealously as if they wished to take the skin from him together with his clothing.
In a quarter of an hour Kuklinovski was hanging by his hands and feet, like a half goose, on the beam. Then Kmita put his hands on his hips and began to brag terribly.