“I have an order,” answered Glovbich, “to bind your hands and conduct you beyond Yanov. The binding is for a time, then you will go free; therefore I beg you not to resist.” “Bind!” answered Kmita. And he permitted them to tie him. But they did not tie his feet. The officer led him out of the room and on foot through Yanov. Then they advanced for about an hour. On the road some horsemen joined them. Kmita heard them speaking in Polish; the Poles, who served with Boguslav, all knew the name of Kmita, and therefore were most curious to know what would happen to him. The party passed the birch grove and came to an open field, on which Pan Andrei saw a detachment of the light Polish squadron of Boguslav. The soldiers stood in rank, forming a square; in the middle was a space in which were two foot-soldiers holding horses harnessed to draw, and some men with torches. By the light of the torches Pan Andrei saw a freshly sharpened stake lying on the ground with the large end fastened in a great log. A shiver passed through Kmita involuntarily. “That is for me,” thought he; “Boguslav has ordered them to draw me on the stake with horses. He sacrifices Sakovich to his vengeance.” But he was mistaken; the stake was intended first for Soroka. By the quivering flames Pan Andrei saw Soroka himself; the old soldier was sitting there at the side of the log on a stool, without a cap and with bound hands, guarded by four soldiers. A man dressed in a short shuba without sleeves was at that moment giving him in a shallow cup gorailka, which Soroka drank eagerly enough. When he had drunk, he spat; and since at that very moment Kmita was placed between two horsemen in the first rank, Soroka saw him, sprang from the stool and straightened himself as if on military parade. For a while they looked the one at the other. Soroka’s face was calm and resigned; he only moved his jaws as if chewing. “Soroka!” groaned Kmita, at last. “At command!” answered the soldier. And again silence followed. What had they to say at such a moment? Then the executioner, who had given Soroka the vodka, approached him. “Well, old man,” said he, “it is time for you!” “And you will draw me on straight?” “Never fear.” Soroka feared not; but when he felt on his shoulder the hand of the executioner, he began to pant quickly and loudly. At last he said,— “More gorailka!” “There is none!” Suddenly one of the soldiers pushed out of the rank and gave a canteen,— “Here is some; give it to him.” “To the rank!” commanded Glovbich. Still the man in the short shuba held the canteen to Soroka’s mouth; he drank abundantly, and after he had drunk breathed deeply. “See!” said he, “the lot of a soldier after thirty years’ service. Well, if it is time, it is time!” Another executioner approached and they began to undress him. A moment of silence. The torches trembled in the hands of those holding them; it became terrible for all.