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作者: Adam Mickiewicz

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"There is merit in refusing to betray your country, though your
own people proclaim you a traitor! Especially for a man who had
such pride as mine!
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"The name of traitor clove to me like a pestilence. The
neighbours turned their faces from me, my former friends fled
from me, the timid greeted me from afar and turned aside; even a
mere peasant boor or a Jew, though he bowed, would, as he passed
by, smite me with a sneering laugh. The word 'traitor' rang in my
ears and echoed through my house and over my fields; that word
from morn till dark hovered before me like a spot before a sick
man's eye. And yet I was not a traitor to my country.

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