"Oh, yes; Prince Yeremi commanded that there should be a road, and there it is."
Zagloba spoke loud on purpose, so that in the shouting and noise a large number of Cossacks might hear him.
"Give them vudka too," said he to the Cossacks, pointing to the peasants; "but first give me some mead, for the night is cold."
One of the Cossacks drew mead from the barrel into a gallon pail, which he passed on his cap to Zagloba.
Zagloba took the pail carefully in both hands, so that it should not overflow, raised it to his lips, and pushing his head back, began to drink slowly, but without drawing breath. He drank and drank, till the Cossacks began to wonder.
"Look at him," said one to another, "plague take him!"
Meanwhile Zagloba's head went back slowly, till at last he took the gallon measure from his reddened face, pursed out his lips, raised his brows, and said, as if to himself,--
"Oh, it is not bad! Old mead!--evident at once that it is not bad. A pity to give such mead to your scoundrelly throats,--dregs would be good enough for you! Strong mead! I know that it has comforted me, and that I feel a little better."
Indeed, Pan Zagloba felt better; his head became clear, he grew daring; and it was evident that his blood mixed with mead formed the excellent liquor of which he had spoken himself, and from which bravery and daring went through the whole man. He beckoned to the Cossacks to drink more, and turning, passed with a leisurely step along the whole yard; he examined every corner carefully, crossed the bridge over the fosse, and went around the picket-fence to see if the guards were watching the house carefully. The first sentry was asleep; the second, the third, and the fourth also. They were weary from the journey, and besides had come to their posts drunk, and had fallen asleep straightway.
"I might steal any one of them, and make him my man," said Zagloba.