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And so, Pan Soplica, I am moving to your abode; I shall live with

my lady, on her bounty, and shall rock to sleep a third

generation of Horeszkos; I will train my lady's child to use the

penknife, if it is a son-and she will have a son, for wars are

coming on, and in time of war sons are always born."

Hardly had Gerwazy spoken these last words, when Protazy

approached with dignified steps; he bowed, and took from the

bosom of his kontusz a huge panegyric, two and a half sheets

long.226 It had been composed in rime by a young subaltern, who

once had been a famous writer of odes in the capital; he had

later donned a uniform, but, retaining even in the army his

devotion to letters, he still continued to make verses. The

Apparitor read aloud full three hundred of them; at last, when he

came to the place:-