But will he go without a last word? Is it possible to be so near and later to be so far, to say not one word and go forth? See to what it has come! But what can he say to her? Shall he go and say, "Everything is ruined; my lady, go thy way, I will go mine"? Why, why say even that, when without saying it is so? He is not her betrothed, as she is not and will not be his wife. What has been is lost, is rent, and will not return, will not be bound up afresh. Loss of time, loss of words, and new torture.
"I will not go!" thought Pan Kmita.
But, on the other hand, the will of a dead man binds them yet. It is needful to speak clearly and without anger of final separation, and to say to her, "My lady, you wish me not; I return you your word. Therefore we shall both act as though there had been no will, and let each seek happiness where each can find it?"
But she may answer: "I have said that long since; why tell it to me now?"
"I will not go, happen what may!" repeated Kmita to himself.
And pressing the cap on his head, he went out of the room into the corridor. He wished to mount straightway and be outside the gate quickly.
All at once, in the corridor, something caught him as it were by the hair. Such a desire to see her, to speak to her, possessed him, that he ceased to think whether to go or not to go, he ceased to reason, and rather pushed on with closed eyes, as if wishing to spring into water.
Before the very door whence the guard had just been removed, he came upon a youth, a servant of the sword-bearer.
"Is Pan Billevich in the room?" asked he.
"The sword-bearer is among the officers in the barracks."
"And the lady?"
"The lady is at home."
"Tell her that Pan Kmita is going on a long journey and wishes to see the lady."
The youth obeyed the command; but before he returned with an answer Kmita raised the latch and went in without question.
"I have come to take farewell," said he, "for I do not know whether we shall meet again in life."
Suddenly he turned to the youth: Why stand here yet?"
