The two scarcely knew Pan Andrei, so good a Swede had he made himself. He had twirled his mustaches to his eyes and brushed them out at the ends; he had put his hat on one side of his head, and looked precisely like some cavalry officer of noted family. “As God lives, one would draw a sabre at sight of him,” said Charnyetski. “Put the light at a distance,” said Kmita; “I will show you something.” When Father Kordetski had put the light aside quickly, Pan Andrei placed on a table a roll, a foot and a half long and as thick as the arm of a sturdy man, sewn up in pitched linen and filled firmly with powder. From one end of it was hanging a long string made of tow steeped in sulphur. “Well,” said he, “when I put this flea-bane in the mouth of the cannon and ignite the string, then its belly will burst.” “Lucifer would burst!” cried Pan Charnyetski. But he remembered that it was better not to mention the name of the foul one, and he slapped his own mouth. “But how will you set fire to the string?” asked Kordetski. “In that lies the whole danger, for I must strike fire. I have good flint, dry tinder, and steel of the best; but there will be a noise, and they may notice something. The string I hope will not quench, for it will hang at the beard of the gun, and it will be hard to see it, especially as it will hide itself quickly in burning; but they may pursue me, and I cannot flee straight toward the cloister.” “Why not?” asked the priest. “For the explosion would kill me. The moment I see the spark on the string I must jump aside with all the strength in my legs, and when I have run about fifty yards, must fall to the ground under the intrenchment. After the explosion I shall rush toward the cloister.” “My God, my God, how many dangers!” said the prior, raising his eyes to heaven. “Beloved father, so sure am I of returning that even emotion does not touch me, which on an occasion like this ought to seize me. This is nothing! Farewell, and pray the Lord God to give me luck. Only conduct me to the gate.” “How is that? Do you want to go now?” asked Charnyetski. “Am I to wait till daylight, or till the fog rises? Is not my head dear to me?” But Pan Andrei did not go that night, for just as they came to the gate, darkness, as if out of spite, began to grow light. Some movement too was heard around the great siege gun. Next morning the besieged were convinced that the gun was transferred to another place.