At last, when Kmita came to the recent storms,—when he began to relate how Miller had brought heavy guns from Cracow, and among them one against which not only the walls of Chenstohova, but no walls in the world could stand,—such silence began as though some one were sowing poppy seeds, and all eyes rested on Pan Andrei’s lips. But he stopped suddenly, and began to breathe quickly; a clear flush came out on his face; he frowned, raised his head, and spoke boldly: “Now I must speak of myself, though I should prefer to be silent. And if I say aught which seems praise, God is my witness that I do so not for rewards, for I do not need them, since the greatest reward for me is to shed my blood for majesty.” “Speak boldly, I believe you,” said the king. “But that great gun?” “That great gun—I, stealing out in the night from the fortress, blew into fragments with powder.” “O loving God!” cried the king. But after this cry was silence, such astonishment had seized each person. All looked as at a rainbow at the young hero, who stood with flashing eyes, with a flush on his face, and with head proudly erect. And so much was there in him at that moment of a certain terribleness and wild courage that the thought came to each one unwittingly, such a man might dare such a deed. After silence of a moment the primate said,— “This man looks like that!” “How did you do it?” asked the king. Kmita explained how he did it. “I cannot believe my ears,” said Pan Korytsinski, the chancellor. “Worthy gentlemen,” answered the king, with dignity, “you do not know whom we have before us. There is yet hope that the Commonwealth has not perished while it gives such cavaliers and citizens.” “This man might say of himself, ‘_Si fractus illabatur orbis, impavidum ferient ruinæ_ (If the broken firmament should fall the ruins would strike him unterrified)!’” said Father Vydjga, who loved to quote authors at every opportunity. “These are almost impossible things,” said the chancellor again. “Tell, Cavalier, how you brought away your life, and how you passed through the Swedes.” “The explosion stunned me,” said Kmita, “and next day the Swedes found me in the ditch lying as if lifeless. They judged me at once, and Miller condemned me to death.” “Then did you escape?” “A certain Kuklinovski begged me of Miller, so that he might put me to death, for he had a fierce animosity against me.” “He is a well-known disturber and murderer; we have heard of him,” said the castellan of Kjyvinsk. “His regiment is with Miller at Chenstohova. That is true!” “Previously Kuklinovski was an envoy from Miller to the cloister, and once tried to persuade me in secret to treason when I was conducting him to the gate. I struck him in the face and kicked him. For that insult he was enraged against me.” “Ah, this I see is a noble of fire and sulphur!” cried the king, amused. “Do not go into such a man’s road. Did Miller then give you to Kuklinovski?”