"Oh, go to the devil!" cried Zagloba, in sudden anger. "What are you raving about?"
Jendzian went out. They began to discuss the journey of the morrow, and the great happiness which was awaiting Pan Yan. Mead soon improved Zagloba's humor; he began to talk to Skshetuski, and hint of christenings, and again of the passion of Pan Andrei Pototski for the princess. Pan Longin sighed. They drank, and were glad with their whole souls. Finally the conversation touched upon military events and the prince. Skshetuski, who had not been in the camp for many days, asked,--
"Tell me, gentlemen, what has happened to our prince? He is somehow another man; I cannot understand it. God has given him victory after victory. They passed him by in the command. What of that? The whole army is rushing to him now, so that he will be hetman without any one's favor, and will destroy Hmelnitski; but it is evident that he suffers, and suffers from something--"
"Perhaps the gout is taking hold of him," said Zagloba, "Sometimes when it gets a pull at me in the great toe, I am despondent for three days at a time."
"I tell you, brothers," said Podbipienta, nodding his head, "I haven't heard this myself from the priest Mukhovetski, but I heard that he told some one why the prince is so tormented--I do not say this myself; he is a kindly man, good, and a great warrior,--why should I judge him? But since the priest says so--but do I know that it is so?"
"Just look, gentlemen, at this Lithuanian!" cried Zagloba. "Am I not right in making fun of him, since he doesn't know human speech? What did you wish to say? You circle round and round, like a rabbit about her nest, but cannot come to a point."
"What did you really hear?" asked Skshetuski.
"Well, since for that--they say that the prince has shed too much blood. He is a great leader, but knows no measure in punishment, and now sees, it seems, everything red,--red in the daytime, red at night, as if a red cloud were surrounding him--"
"Don't talk nonsense!" shouted Zatsvilikhovski, with rage. "Those are old wives' tales. There was no better master for the rabble in time of peace; and as to his knowing no mercy for rebels,--well, what of that? That is a merit, not an offence. What torments, what punishments, would be too great for those who have deluged the country in blood, who have given their own people captive to Tartars, who know neither God, king, country, nor authorities? Where will you show me such monsters as they, where such cruelties as they have perpetrated on women and little children? Where can you find such criminal wretches? For them the empaling stake and the gallows are too much. Tfu, tfu! You have an iron hand, but a woman's heart. I saw how you whined, when they were burning Pulyan, that you would rather have killed him on the spot. But the prince is no old woman; he knows how to reward and how to punish. What is the use of telling me such nonsense?"
"But I have said, father, that I don't know," explained Pan Longin.