Pan Andrei suffered terribly; his breath failed him, and his throat was so straitened that he feared lest he might not be able to bring forth the words when he came to speak. In this stifling oppression he began the Litany. After a time relief came; he was quieted considerably, and that grasp as it were of an iron hand squeezing his throat was relaxed. They had now arrived at the prince’s quarters. The soldiers put down the litter; two attendants took the prince by the armpits; he turned to Kmita, and with his teeth chattering continually, said,— “I beg you to follow. The chill will soon pass; then we can speak.” After a while they found themselves in a separate apartment in which heaps of coals were glowing in a fireplace, and in which was unendurable heat. His servants placed Prince Boguslav on a long campaign arm-chair covered with furs, and brought a light. Then the attendants withdrew. The prince threw his head back, closed his eyes, and remained in that position motionless for a time; at last he said,— “Directly,—let me rest.” Kmita looked at him. The prince had not changed much, but the fever had pinched his face. He was painted as usual, and his cheeks touched with color; but just for that reason, when he lay there with closed eyes and head thrown back, he was somewhat like a corpse or a wax figure. Pan Andrei stood before him in the bright light. The prince began to open his lids lazily; suddenly he opened them completely, and a flame, as it were, flew over his face. But it remained only an instant; then again he closed his eyes. “If thou art a spirit, I fear thee not,” said he; “but vanish.” “I have come with a letter from the hetman,” answered Kmita. Boguslav shuddered a little, as if he wished to shake off visions; then he looked at Kmita and asked,— “Have I been deceived in you?” “Not at all,” answered Pan Andrei, pointing with his finger to the scar. “That is the second!” muttered the prince to himself; and he added aloud, “Where is the letter?” “Here it is,” said Kmita, giving the letter. Boguslav began to read, and when he had finished a marvellous light flashed in his eyes. “It is well,” said he; “there is loitering enough! Tomorrow the battle—and I am glad, for I shall not have a fever.” “And we, too, are glad,” answered Kmita. A moment of silence followed, during which these two inexorable enemies measured each other with a certain terrible curiosity. The prince first resumed the conversation. “I divine that it was you who attacked me with the Tartars?” “It was I.” “And did you not fear to come here?” Kmita did not answer. “Did you count on our relationship through the Kishkis? For you and I have our reckonings. I can tear you out of your skin, Sir Cavalier.” “You can, your highness.”