Two sledges were racing each other, a driver and a mask in each. The mad race had made the road sufficiently safe for the other empty sledges to pass with greater caution.
'Now give your arm to the ladies! A polonaise! Musicians!'
The outriders with torches posted themselves along the road, the musicians tuned up, and couple after couple detached itself from the darkness like an iridescent apparition. They hovered past to the melancholy strains of the Oginski polonaise.
Maciek took off his cap, drew the child from under the sheepskin and stood beside his sledge.
'Now look, you'll never see anything so beautiful again. Don't be afraid!'
An armoured and visored man passed.
'Do you see that knight? Formerly people like that conquered half the world, now there are none of them left.'
A grey-bearded senator passed.
'Look at him! People used to fear his judgment, but there are none like him left! That one, as gaudy as a woodpecker, was a great nobleman once; he did nothing but drink and dance; he could drain a barrel at a bout, and he spent so much money that he had to sell his family estate, poor wretch! There's a Uhlan; they used to fight for Napoleon and conquer all the nations, but there are no fighters left in the world. There's a chimney sweep and a peasant…but in reality they are all gentlemen amusing themselves.'
The procession passed; fainter and fainter grew the strains of the Oginski polonaise; with shouts and laughter the masks got back into the sleighs, hoofs clattered and whips cracked.