CHAPTER XI.

AT the house of the inspector of weights and measures,
in the outskirts of Hassan Pasha, at the Saitch, sat two
Zaporojians at a table, fortifying themselves with spirits
distilled from millet, which they dipped unceasingly from
a wooden tub that stood in the middle of the table. One of
them, already old and quite decrepit, was Philip Zakhar.
He was the inspector. The other, Anton Tatarchuk, ata-
man of the Chigirin kuren, was a man about forty years
old, tall, with a wild expression of face and oblique Tartar
eyes. Both spoke in a low voice, as if fearing that some
one might overhear them.

"But it is to-day?" asked the inspector.

"Yes, almost immediately," answered Tatarchlik. "They
are waiting for the koshevoi and Tugai Bey, who went with
Hmelnitski himself to Bazaluk, where the horde is quartered.
The Brotherhood is already assembled on the square, and
the kuren atamans will meet in council before evening.
Before night all will be known."

"It may have an evil end," muttered old Philip Zakhar.

"Listen, inspector! But did you see that there was a
letter to me also?"

"Of course I did, for I carried the letters myself to the
koshevoi, and I know how to read. Three letters were
found on the Pole, - one to the koshevoi himself, one to
you, the third to young Barabash. Every one in the Saitch
knows of this already."

"And who wrote? Don't you know?"

"The prince wrote to the koshevoi, for his seal was on
the letter; who wrote to you is unknown."

"God guard us!"

"If they don't call you a friend of the Poles openly, noth-
ing will come of it."

"God guard us!" repeated Tatarchuk.

"It is evident that you have something on your mind."

"Pshaw! I have nothing on my mind."

"The koshevoi, too, may destroy all the letters, for his
own head is concerned. There was a letter to him as ell
as to you."