Meanwhile from the ranks surrounding the square was wrested a murmur of dissatisfaction, which became louder each instant: “A soldier is not an executioner; he gives death himself, but does not wish to see torture.” “Silence!” cried Glovbich. The murmur became a loud bustle, in which were heard single words: “Devils!” “Thunders!” “Pagan service!” Suddenly Kmita shouted as if they had been drawing him on to the stake,— “Stop!” The executioner halted involuntarily. All eyes were turned to Kmita. “Soldiers!” shouted Pan Andrei, “Prince Boguslav is a traitor to the king and the Commonwealth! You are surrounded, and to-morrow you will be cut to pieces. You are serving a traitor; you are serving against the country! But whoso leaves this service leaves the traitor; to him forgiveness of the king, forgiveness of the hetman! Choose! Death and disgrace, or a reward to-morrow! I will pay wages, and a ducat a man,—two ducats a man! Choose! It is not for you, worthy soldiers, to serve a traitor! Long life to the king! Long life to the grand hetman of Lithuania!” The disturbance was turned into thunder; the ranks were broken. A number of voices shouted,— “Long life to the king!” “We have had enough of this service!” “Destruction to traitors!” “Stop! stop!” shouted other voices. “To-morrow you will die in disgrace!” bellowed Kmita. “The Tartars are in Suhovola!” “The prince is a traitor!” “We are fighting against the king!” “Strike!” “To the prince!” “Halt!” In the disturbance some sabre had cut the ropes tying Kmita’s hands. He sprang that moment on one of the horses which were to draw Soroka on the stake, and cried from the horse,— “Follow me to the hetman!” “I go!” shouted Glovbich. “Long life to the king!” “May he live!” answered fifty voices, and fifty sabres glittered at once. “To horse, Soroka!” commanded Kmita. There were some who wished to resist, but at sight of the naked sabres they grew silent. One, however, turned his horse and vanished from the eye in a moment. The torches went out. Darkness embraced all. “After me!” shouted Kmita. An orderless mass of men moved from the place, and then stretched out in a long line. When they had gone two or three furlongs they met the infantry pickets who occupied in large parties the birch grove on the left side. “Who goes?” “Glovbich with a party!” “The word?” “Trumpets!” “Pass!” They rode forward, not hurrying over-much; then they went on a trot. “Soroka!” said Kmita. “At command!” answered the voice of the sergeant at his side. Kmita said nothing more, but stretching out his hand, put his palm on Soroka’s head, as if wishing to convince himself that he was riding there. The soldier pressed Pan Andrei’s hand to his lips in silence. Then Glovbich called from the other side,— “Your grace! I wanted long to do what I have done to-day.” “You will not regret it!” “I shall be thankful all my life to you.”