With disordered hair, foaming mouth, and wild eyes, the young man raved:--
"I am ready. March! A ball in my leg! No matter! Down with the Muscovites! Let us attack them!"
Then silence.
"Ivas! Ivas!" cried Jacob. "Don't you know me?" The sick man turned, his eyes toward him.
"You? Who are you?" said he. "Pole or Russian? A spy, perhaps. Yet that voice! Aqua Sola! Lucie Coloni! Paris--the boulevards! Who are you?"
"Jacob, your friend Jacob."
"Ah! Jacob the patriarch. Are you also a rebel? Oh, my leg, my leg! It is terrible!"
"Ivas, try to collect your thoughts," said Jacob. "Perhaps I can be useful to you."
"Certainly! More arms, more ammunition. Give them to me!"
"My brother, you are wounded; a prisoner condemned."