He followed Olenka, and found her in the adjoining bed room standing in the middle of it as if turned to stone. Four nobles were bearing in at that moment Pan Kmita; the first two advancing sidewise appeared in the door, and between them hung toward the floor the pale head of Pan Andrei, with closed eyes, and clots of black blood in his hair. "Slowly," said Krysh Domashevich, walking behind, "slowly across the threshold. Let some one hold his head. Slowly!" "With what can we hold it when our hands are full?" answered those in front. At that moment Panna Aleksandra approached them, pale as was Kmita himself, and placed both hands under his lifeless head. "This is the lady," said Krysh Domashevich. "It is I. Be careful!" answered she, in a low voice. Volodyovski looked on, and his mustaches quivered fearfully. Meanwhile they placed Kmita on the bed. Krysh Domashevich began to wash his head with water; then he fixed a plaster previously prepared to the wound, and said,-- "Now let him lie quietly. Oh, that's an iron head not to burst from such a blow! He may recover, for he is young. But he got it hard." Then he turned to Olenka: "Let me wash your hands,--here is water. A kind heart is in you that you were not afraid to put blood on yourself for that man." Speaking thus, he wiped her palms with a cloth; but she grew pale and changed in the eyes. Volodyovski sprang to her again: "There is nothing here for you, my lady. You have shown Christian charity to an enemy; return home." And he offered her his arm. She however, did not look at him, but turning to Krysh Domashevich, said, "Pan Kryshtof, conduct me." Both went out, and Volodyovski followed them. In the yard the nobles began to shout at sight of her, and cry, "Vivat!" But she went forward, pale, staggering, with compressed lips, and with fire in her eyes. "Long life to our lady! Long life to our colonel!" cried powerful voices. An hour later Volodyovski returned at the head of the Lauda men toward the villages. The sun had risen already; the early morning in the world was gladsome, a real spring morning. The Lauda men clattered forward in a formless crowd along the highway, discussing the events of the night and praising Volodyovski to the skies; but he rode on thoughtful and silent. Those eyes looking from behind the dishevelled hair did not leave his mind, nor that slender form, imposing though bent by grief and pain. "It is a marvel what a wonder she is," said he to himself,--"a real princess! I have saved her honor and surely her life, for though the powder would not have blown up the treasure-room she would have died of pure fright. She ought to be grateful. But who can understand a fair head? She looked on me as on some serving-lad, I know not whether from haughtiness or perplexity." CHAPTER IX.