On the road to their quarters Zagloba was meditating over something. He stopped, coughed, then pulled Volodyovski by the skirt. “Pan Michael,” said he.
“Well, what?”
“My anger against Radzivill is passed; a dead man is a dead man! I forgive him from my heart for having made an attempt on my life.”
“He is before the tribunal of heaven,” said Volodyovski.
“That’s it, that’s it! H’m, if it would help him I would even give for a Mass, since it seems to me that he has an awfully small chance up there.”
“God is merciful!”
“As to being merciful, he is merciful; still the Lord cannot look without abhorrence on heretics. And Radzivill was not only a heretic, but a traitor. There is where the trouble is!”
Here Zagloba shook his head and began to look upward.
“I am afraid,” said he, after a w
