“Let that cloister pay us any kind of ransom,” continued the count; “then no one will say that we could not take it, but that we did not wish to take it.” “Will they agree?” asked the Prince of Hesse. “I will lay down my head,” answered Count Veyhard, “and more than that, my honor as a soldier.” “Can that be!” asked Sadovski. “We have enough of this siege, but have they enough? What does your worthiness think of this?” Miller turned to Veyhard “Many grievous moments, the most grievous of my life, have I passed because of your counsels, Sir Count; but for this last advice I thank you, and will be grateful.” All breasts breathed more freely. There could be no real question but that of retreating with honor. On the morrow, the day of Saint Stephen, the officers assembled to the last man to hear Kordetski’s answer to Miller’s letter, which proposed a ransom, and was sent in the morning. They had to wait long. Miller feigned joyousness, but constraint was evident on his face. No one of the officers could keep his place. All hearts beat unquietly. The Prince of Hesse and Sadovski stood under the window conversing in a low voice. “What do you think?” asked the first; “will they agree?” “Everything indicates that they will agree. Who would not wish to be rid of such terrible danger come what may, at the price of a few tens of thousands of thalers, especially since monks have not worldly ambition and military honor, or at least should not have? I only fear that the general has asked too much.” “How much has he asked?” “Forty thousand from the monks, and twenty thousand from the nobles, but in the worst event they will try to reduce the sum.” “Let us yield, in God’s name, let us yield. If they have not the money, I would prefer to lend them my own, if they will let us go away with even the semblance of honor. But I tell your princely highness that though I recognize the count’s advice this time as good, and I believe that they will ransom themselves, such a fever is gnawing me that I would prefer ten storms to this waiting.” “Uf! you are right. But still this Count Veyhard may go high.” “Even as high as the gibbet,” said the other. But the speakers did not foresee that a worse fate than even the gibbet was awaiting Count Veyhard. That moment the thunder of cannon interrupted further conversation. “What is that? firing from the fortress!” cried Miller. And springing up like a man possessed, he ran out of the room. All ran after him and listened. The sound of regular salvos came indeed from the fortress. “Are they fighting inside, or what?” cried Miller; “I don’t understand.” “I will explain to your worthiness,” said Zbrojek, “this is Saint Stephen’s Day, and the name’s day of the Zamoyskis, father and son; the firing is in their honor.” With that shouts of applause were heard from the fortress, and after them new salvos. “They have powder enough,” said Miller, gloomily. “That is for us a new indication.”