"And if we are dry we must wet our whistles with holy water, I suppose," added Radtke with a sigh.
Engelbert shouldered his musket and gave the orders to move on. The procession filed off in the direction of the Castle, a handful of natives, out of respect for the muskets, bringing up the rear.
Boleslav stood on the bridge to receive his friends.
He rushed towards them in delight, and could hardly articulate, for emotion, the words of gratitude that rose to his lips.
Engelbert held out his hand in silence. Boleslav was going to embrace him, but he drew back. In his excitement Boleslav did not notice the rebuff.
"I knew you'd come," he stammered forth at last--"knew that I had friends who would not leave me undefended to the tender mercies of this pack of wolves."
No one made any response. They stood drawn up in an unbroken line, their eyes looking beyond rather than at him, in embarrassment. Engelbert was the first to break the silence.
"You have summoned us, and we have come--but our time is short; tell us what you want us to do."
For a moment Boleslav wondered at being addressed in this curt, somewhat surly fashion, by the comrade who, of all others, had been his favourite. But it was only for a moment. Why should he doubt them? Had they not come? And then, incoherently enough, he related how his father's disgrace had descended on him, and what he had resolved to do, with their help.
All the time a pair of shining eyes watched him from the other side of a rubbish heap, and a woman's figure that sat cowering there trembled like an aspen.