"The Lord God knew why he created bees," said he, with a nasal mutter. And he fell to drinking slowly, drawing deep breaths at the same time, while gazing at the pond and beyond the pond, away to the dark and blue pine-woods stretching as far as the eye could reach on the other side. The time was past one in the afternoon, and the heavens were cloudless. The blossoms of the linden were falling noiselessly to the earth, and on the tree among the leaves were buzzing a whole choir of bees, which soon began to settle on the edge of the glass and gather the sweet fluid on their shaggy legs. Above the great pond, from the far-off reeds obscured by the haze of distance, rose from time to time flocks of ducks, teal, or wild geese, and moved away swiftly in the blue ether like black crosses; sometimes a row of cranes looked dark high in the air, and gave out a shrill cry. With these exceptions all around was quiet, calm, sunny, and gladsome, as is usual in the first days of August, when the grain has ripened, and the sun is scattering as it were gold upon the earth. The eyes of the old man were raised now to the sky, following the flocks of birds, and now they were lost in the distance, growing more and more drowsy, as the mead in the decanter decreased; his lids became heavier and heavier,--the bees buzzed their song in various tones as if on purpose for his after-dinner slumber. "True, true, the Lord God has given beautiful weather for the harvest," muttered Zagloba. "The hay is well gathered in, the harvest will be finished in a breath. Yes, yes--" Here he closed his eyes, then opened them again for a moment, muttered once more, "The boys have tormented me," and fell asleep in earnest. He slept rather long, but after a certain time he was roused by a light breath of cooler air, together with the conversation and steps of two men drawing near the tree rapidly. One of them was Yan Skshetuski, the hero of Zbaraj, who about a month before had returned from the hetmans in the Ukraine to cure a stubborn fever; Pan Zagloba did not know the other, though in stature and form and even in features he resembled Yan greatly. "I present to you, dear father," said Yan, "my cousin Pan Stanislav Skshetuski, the captain of Kalish." "You are so much like Yan," answered Zagloba, blinking and shaking the remnants of sleep from his eyelids, "that had I met you anywhere I should have said at once, 'Skshetuski!' Hei, what a guest in the house!" "It is dear to me to make your acquaintance, my benefactor," answered Stanislav, "the more since the name is well known to me, for the knighthood of the whole Commonwealth repeat it with respect and mention it as an example." "Without praising myself, I did what I could, while I felt strength in my bones. And even now one would like to taste of war, for _consuetudo altera natura_ (habit is a second nature). But why, gentlemen, are you so anxious, so that Yan's face is pale?"