At the same moment the cry of “Pound” was heard through the barn, and two of the newly arrived rushed like leopards on the two remaining soldiers. A terrible, short struggle surged up, lighted by the gleams of the burning tar-bucket. After a moment two bodies fell in the straw, for a moment longer were heard the gasps of the dying, then that voice rose which at first seemed familiar to Kmita. “Your grace, it is I, Kyemlich, and my sons. We have been waiting since morning for a chance, we have been watching since morning.” Then he turned to his sons: “Now out, rogues, free the colonel in a breath,—quickly!” And before Kmita was able to understand what was taking place there appeared near him the two bushy forelocks of Kosma and Damian, like two gigantic distaffs. The ropes were soon cut, and Kmita stood on his feet. He tottered at first; his stiffened lips were barely able to say,— “That is you?—I am thankful.” “It is I!” answered the terrible old man. “Mother of God! Oh—let his grace dress quickly. You rogues—” And he began to give Kmita his clothes. “The horses are standing at the door,” said he. “From here the way is open. There are guards; maybe they would let no one in, but as to letting out, they will let out. We know the password. How does your grace feel?” “He burned my side, but only a little. My feet are weak—” “Drink some gorailka.” Kmita seized with eagerness the flask the old man gave him, and emptying half of it said,— “I was stiff from the cold. I shall be better at once.” “Your grace will grow warm on the saddle. The horses are waiting.” “In a moment I shall be better,” repeated Kmita. “My side is smarting a little—that’s nothing!—I am quite well.” And he sat on the edge of a grain-bin. After a while he recovered his strength really, and looked with perfect presence of mind on the ill-omened faces of the three Kyemliches, lighted by the yellowish flame of the burning pitch. The old man stood before him. “Your grace, there is need of haste. The horses are waiting.” But in Pan Andrei the Kmita of old times was roused altogether. “Oh, impossible!” cried he, suddenly; “now I am waiting for that traitor.” The Kyemliches looked amazed, but uttered not a word,—so accustomed were they from former times to listen blindly to this leader. The veins came out on his forehead; his eyes were burning in the dark, like two stars, such was the hate and the desire of vengeance that gleamed in them. That which he did then was madness, he might pay for it with his life; but his life was made up of a series of such madnesses. His side pained him fiercely, so that every moment he seized it unwittingly with his hand; but he was thinking only of Kuklinovski, and he was ready to wait for him even till morning. “Listen!” said he; “did Miller really call him?” “No,” answered the old man. “I invented that to manage the others here more easily. It would have been hard for us three against five, for some one might have raised a cry.”