'What's Maciej to me? It isn't to such as he that I have talked, you see! Why, you fellows, I talked, didn't I, to Steinmetz--_was_? But let Maciej fancy what he likes. We shall be better off now.' Maciej looked at the conqueror for a moment. 'You Blockhead!' he said. Bartek struck his fist on the table, making all the glasses and pint-pots start up. 'Still, der Kerl da! Heu! Stroh!' 'Silence, no row! Ask the Priest or the Count, Blockhead.' 'Was the Priest in the war? Or was the Count there? But I was there. It's not true, boys. They'll know now how to respect us. Who won the battle? We won it, I won it. Now they'll give us anything we ask for. If I had wanted to become a land-owner in France, I should have stayed there. The Government knows very well who gave the French the best beating. And our regiment was the best. They said so in the military despatches. So now the Poles will get the upper hand;--do you see?' Kierz waved his hand, stood up, and went out. Bartek had carried off the victory in the field of politics also. The young men remaining with him, regarded him as a perfect marvel. He continued: 'As if they wouldn't give me anything I want! If I don't get it, I should like to know who would! Old Kierz is a scoundrel, do you see? The Government commands you to fight, so you must fight. Who will illtreat me? The Germans? Is it likely?' Here he again displayed his crosses and medals. 'And for whom did I beat the French? Not for the Germans, surely? I am a better man now than a German, for there's not one German as strong. Bring us some beer! I have talked to Steinmetz, and I have talked to Podbielski. Bring us some beer!' They slowly prepared for their carouse. Bartek began to sing: Drink, drink, drink, As long as in my pocket Still the pennies chink! Suddenly he took a handful of pence from his pocket. 'Beer! I am a gentleman now.--Won't you? I tell you in France we were not so flush of money;--there was little we didn't burn, and few people we didn't put a shot into!--God doesn't know which--of the French--.' A tippler's moods are subject to rapid changes. Bartek unexpectedly raked together the money from the table, and began to exclaim sadly: 'Lord, have mercy on the sins of my soul!' Then, propping both elbows on the table, and hiding his head in his hands, he was silent. 'What's the matter?' inquired one of the drinkers. 'Why was I to blame for them?' Bartek murmured sadly. 'It was their own look-out. I was sorry for them, for they were both in my hands. Lord! have mercy! One was as the ruddy dawn! next day he was as white as cheese. And even after that I still--Vodka!' A moment of gloomy silence followed. The men looked at one another in astonishment. 'What is he saying?' one asked. 'He is settling something with his conscience.' 'A man must drink in spite of that war.' He filled up his glass of vodka once or twice, then he spat, and his good humour unexpectedly returned.