Thus conversing, they betook themselves to the quarters of Zagloba, whom they found sitting under the open window with his head resting on his hand. It was late; every movement in the castle had ceased; only the sentinels answered in prolonged tones, and in the thickets separating the castle from the town the nightingales brought out their passionate trills, whistling, smacking, and clapping as quickly as fall the drops in a spring shower. Through the open window came in the warm breeze of May and the clear rays of the moon, which lighted the downcast face of Zagloba and the bald crown bent toward his breast.
"Good-evening!" said the two knights.
"Good-evening!" answered Zagloba.
"Why have you forgotten yourself before the window instead of going to bed?" asked Volodyovski.
Zagloba sighed. "It is not a question of sleep with me," said he, with a drawling voice. "A year ago I was fleeing with her on the Kagamlik from Bogun, and in this same way those birds were twittering; and where is she now?"
"God has so ordained," said Volodyovski.
"Ordained to tears and sorrow, Pan Michael. There is no more consolation for me."
They were silent; but through the open window came, with power increasing each moment, the trill of the nightingales, with which all that clear night seemed filled.
"Oh, God, God!" sighed Zagloba, "exactly as it was on the Kagamlik."
Pan Longin shook a tear from his great mustaches, and the little knight said after a while,--