“Know whom you have met! Pan Zamoyski wished to make a fool of me, a blind instrument. To you he intrusted the functions of a pander, which you undertook, Sir Officer, for the favor of a master. Bow down to Zamoyski from Babinich, and tell him that the maiden will go safely to Pan Sapyeha.” The officer looked around with frightened glance, and saw the wild faces gazing with terrible eagerness on him and his men. It was evident that they were waiting only for a word to hurl themselves on the twelve horsemen and tear them in pieces. “Your grace, you will do what you wish, for we cannot manage superior power,” said he, with trembling voice; “but Pan Zamoyski is able to avenge himself.” Kmita laughed. “Let him avenge himself on you; for had it not come out that you knew the contents of the order and had you not opposed the advance, I should not have been sure of the trick, and should have given you the maiden straightway. Tell the starosta to appoint a keener pander than you.” The calm tone with which Kmita said this assured the officer somewhat, at least on this point,—that death did not threaten either him or his troopers; therefore he breathed easily, and said,— “And must we return with nothing to Zamost?” “You will return with my letter, which will be written on the skin of each one of you.” “Your grace—” “Take them!” cried Kmita; and he seized the officer himself by the shoulder. An uproar and struggle began around the carriage. The shouts of the Tartars deadened the cries for assistance and the screams of terror coming from the breasts of the women. But the struggle did not last long, for a few minutes later the horsemen were lying on the road tied, one at the side of the other. Kmita gave command to flog them with bullock-skin whips, but not beyond measure, so that they might retain strength to walk back to Zamost. The common soldiers received one hundred, and the officer a hundred and fifty lashes, in spite of the prayers and entreaties of Anusia, who not knowing what was passing around her, and thinking that she had fallen into terrible hands, began to implore with joined palms and tearful eyes for her life. “Spare my life, knight! In what am I guilty before you? Spare me, spare me!” “Be quiet, young lady!” roared Kmita. “In what have I offended?” “Maybe you are in the plot yourself?” “In what plot? O God, be merciful to me, a sinner!” “Then you did not know that Pan Zamoyski only permitted your departure apparently, so as to separate you from the princess and carry you off on the road, to make an attempt on your honor in some empty castle?” “O Jesus of Nazareth!” screamed Anusia. And there was so much truth and sincerity in that cry that Kmita said more mildly,— “How is that? Then you were not in the plot? That may be!” Anusia covered her face with her hands, but she could say nothing; she merely repeated, time after time,— “Jesus, Mary! Jesus, Mary!”