Before the gate stood a peasant, all covered with snow; behind him was a low, small wooden sleigh, drawn by a thin, shaggy horse. The peasant fell to striking his body with his arms, to jumping from one foot to the other, and to crying,— “People, but open here!” “Who is alive?” they asked from the walls. “Your own, from Dzbov. I have brought game for the benefactors.” “And how did the Swedes let you come?” “What Swedes?” “Those who are besieging the church.” “Oho, there are no Swedes now!” “Praise God, every soul! Have they gone?” “The tracks behind them are covered.” With that, crowds of villagers and peasants blackened the road, some riding, others on foot, there were women too, and all began to cry from afar,— “There are no Swedes! there are none! They have gone to Vyelunie. Open the gates! There is not a man in the camp!” “The Swedes have gone, the Swedes have gone!” cried men on the walls; and the news ran around like lightning. Soldiers rushed to the bells, and rang them all as if for an alarm. Every living soul rushed out of the cells, the dwellings, and the church. The news thundered all the time. The court was swarming with monks, nobles, soldiers, women, and children. Joyful shouts were heard around. Some ran out on the walls to examine the empty camp; others burst into laughter or into sobs. Some would not believe yet, but new crowds came continually, peasants and villagers. They came from Chenstohova, from the surrounding villages, and from the forests near by, noisily, joyously, and with singing. New tidings crossed one another each moment. All had seen the retreating Swedes, and told in what direction they were going. A few hours later the slope and the plain below the mountain were filled with people. The gates of the cloister were open wide, as they had been before the siege; and all the bells were ringing, ringing, ringing,—and those voices of triumph flew to the distance, and then the whole Commonwealth heard them. The snow was covering and covering the tracks of the Swedes. About noon of that day the church was so filled with people that head was as near head as on a paved street in a city one stone is near another. Father Kordetski himself celebrated a thanksgiving Mass, and to the throng of people it seemed that a white angel was celebrating it. And it seemed to them also that he was singing out his soul in that Mass, or that it was borne heavenward in the smoke of the incense, and was expanding in praise to the Lord. The thunder of cannon shook not the walls, nor the glass in the windows, nor covered the people with dust, nor interrupted prayer, nor that thanksgiving hymn which amid universal ecstasy and weeping, the holy prior was intoning— “Te Deum laudamus.” CHAPTER VI.