"Why should you go? You wouldn't finish a wounded man. After the sabre, whoever does not yield his breath at once is likely to pull through. A sabre is not a bullet."
"He cannot recover. He was already in the death-agony when we left. No chance of recovery! I examined his wounds myself. Let him rest, for you cut him open like a hare. We must go to Skshetuski at once and comfort him, or he may die of gnawing grief."
"Or he will become a monk; he told me so himself."
"What wonder? I should do the same in his place. I do not know a more honorable knight, and a more unhappy one I do not know. The Lord visits him grievously."
"Leave off," said Volodyovski, a little drunk, "for I am not able to stop my tears."
"Neither am I," added Zagloba; "such an honorable knight, and such a soldier! But the princess--you do not know her; such a darling!"
Here Zagloba began to howl in a low bass, for he really loved the princess; and Pan Michael accompanied him in a higher key, and they drank wine mixed with tears. Then, dropping their heads on their breasts, they sat for a time gloomily, till Zagloba struck his fist on the table.
"Pan Michael, why do we weep? Bogun is killed!"
"True," said Volodyovski.
"We ought rather to rejoice. We are fools now if we don't find her."