but a young woman, shapely, slender, tall, a little like Olenka, with dignity and calm spread over her face. She was pale, perhaps ill, and maybe frightened at the recent attack; she walked with downcast eyes as lightly and quietly as if some breath were moving her forward.
"This is my daughter," said the starosta. "I have no sons at home; they are with Pan Pototski, and with him near our unfortunate king."
Then he turned to his daughter: "Thank first this manful cavalier for rescuing us, and then read to him the prophecy of Saint Bridget."
The maiden bowed down before Pan Andrei, then went out, and after a while returned with a printed roll in her hand, and standing in that many-colored light, began to read in a resonant and sweet voice, —
"The prophecy of Saint Bridget, I will declare to you first of the five kings and their rule: Gustav the son of Eriek, the lazy ass, because neglecting the right worship he went over to the false. Rejecting the faith of the Apostles, he brought to the kingdom the Augsburg Confession, putting a stain on his reputation. Look at Ecclesiastes, where it is stated of Solomon that he defiled his glory with idolatry —"
"Are you listening?" asked the starosta, pointing toward Kmita with the index finger of his left hand and holding the others, ready for counting.
"Yes," answered Kmita.
"Erick, the son of Gustavus, a wolf of unsatiable greed," read the lady, "with which he drew on himself the hatred of all men and of his brother Yan. First, suspecting Yan of intrigues with Denmark and Poland, he tormented him with war, and taking him with his wife he held them four years in a dungeon. Yan, at last brought out of imprisonment and aided by change of fortune, concpiered Erick, expelled him from the kingdom, and put him into prison forevermore. There is an unforeseen event!"
"Consider," said the old man. "Here is another."
The lady read further: —
"Yan, the brother of Erick, a lofty eagle, thrice conqueror over Erick, the Danes, and the Northerners. His son Sigismund, in whom dwells nobility of blood, chosen to the Polish throne. Praise to his offshoots!—"
"Do you understand?" asked the starosta.
"May God prosper the years of Yan Kazimir!" answered Kmita.
