"There is a custom in this land that when a man is dying his relatives at the last moment pull the pillow from under his head, so that he may not suffer longer. I and the prince voevoda of Vilna have determined to render this special service to the Commonwealth. But because many plunderers are watching for the inheritance and we cannot get it all, we wish that a part, and that no small one, should come to us. As relatives, we have that right. If with this comparison I have not spoken on a level with your understanding, and have not been able to hit the point, I will tell you in other words: Suppose the Commonwealth a red cloth at which are pulling the Swedes, Hmelnitski, the Hyperboreans,[23] the Tartars, the elector, and whosoever lives around. But I and the prince voevoda of Vilna have agreed that enough of that cloth must remain in our hands to make a robe for us; therefore we do not prevent the dragging, but we drag ourselves. Let Hmelnitski stay in the Ukraine; let the Swedes and the elector settle about Prussia and Great Poland; let Rakotsy, or whoever is nearer, take Little Poland,--Lithuania must be for Prince Yanush, and, together with his daughter, for me." Kmita rose quickly. "I give thanks, your highness; that is all I wanted to know." "You are going out, Sir Cavalier?" "I am." The prince looked carefully at Kmita, and at that moment first noted his pallor and excitement. "What is the matter, Pan Kmita?" asked he. "You look like a ghost." "Weariness has knocked me off my feet, and my head is dizzy. Farewell, your highness; I will come before starting, to bow to you again." "Make haste, then, for I start after midday myself." "I shall return in an hour at furthest." When he had said this, Kmita bent his head and went out. In the other room the servants rose at sight of him, but he passed like a drunken man, seeing no one. At the threshold of the room he caught his head with both hands, and began to repeat, almost with a groan,-- "Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews! Jesus, Mary, Joseph!" With tottering steps he passed through the guard, composed of six men with halberds. Outside the gate were his own men, the sergeant Soroka at the head of them. "After me!" called Kmita. And he moved through the town toward the inn. Soroka, an old soldier of Kmita's, knowing him perfectly, noticed at once that something uncommon had happened to the colonel. "Let your soul be on guard," said he quietly to the men; "woe to him on whom his anger falls now!" The soldiers hastened their steps in silence, but Kmita did not go at a walk; he almost ran, waving his hand and repeating words well-nigh incoherent. To the ears of Soroka came only broken phrases,-- "Poisoners, faith-breakers, traitors! Crime and treason,--the two are the same--"