A moment of silence followed. Every suspicion of Zbrojek’s participation in the affair was extinguished in Miller’s soul. But the event itself astonished and filled him with a certain undefined fear. He saw dangers rising around, or rather their terrible shadows, against which he knew not how to struggle; he felt that some kind of chain of failures surrounded him. The first links were before his eyes, but farther the gloom of the future was lying. Just such a feeling mastered him as if he were in a cracked house which might fall on his head any moment. Uncertainty crushed him with an insupportable weight, and he asked himself what he had to lay hands on.
Meanwhile Count Veyhard struck himself on the forehead. “As God lives,” said he, “when I saw this Kmita yesterday it seemed as if I had known him somewhere. Now again I see before me that face. I remember the sound of his voice. I must have met him for a short time and in the dark, in the evening; but he is going through my head,—going—” Here he began to rub his forehead with his hand.
“What is that to us?” asked Miller; “you will not mend the gun, even should you remember; you will not bring Kuklinovski to life.”
Here he turned to the officers. “Gentlemen, come with me, whoso wishes, to the scene of this deed.”
All wished to go, for curiosity was exciting them. Horses were brought, and they moved on at a trot, the general at the head. When they came to the little barn they saw a number of tens of Polish horsemen scattered around that building, on the road, and along the field.
“What men are they?” asked Miller of Zbrojek.
“They must be Kuklinovski’s; I tell your worthiness that those ragamuffins have simply gone wild.”
Zbrojek then beckoned to one of the horsemen,—
“Come this way, come this way. Quickly!”
The soldier rode up.