=Transcriber’s Note:=


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                             WORKS OF
                        Henryk Sienkiewicz


                 +------------------------------+
                 |   IN DESERT AND WILDERNESS   |
                 |     WITH FIRE AND SWORD      |
                 |    THE DELUGE. _2 vols._     |
                 |         PAN MICHAEL          |
                 |     CHILDREN OF THE SOIL     |
                 |         “QUO VADIS”          |
                 |  SIELANKA, A FOREST PICTURE  |
                 |   THE KNIGHTS OF THE CROSS   |
                 |        WITHOUT DOGMA         |
                 |          WHIRLPOOLS          |
                 |    ON THE FIELD OF GLORY     |
                 |      LET US FOLLOW HIM       |
                 +------------------------------+




                           PAN MICHAEL.




Since Saint Michael leads the whole host of heaven, and has gained
so many victories over the banners of hell, I prefer him as a
patron.--THE DELUGE, Vol. I, p. 120.




                           PAN MICHAEL.


                        An Historical Novel

                                OF

                 POLAND, THE UKRAINE, AND TURKEY.

                            A SEQUEL TO

              “WITH FIRE AND SWORD” AND “THE DELUGE.”


                                BY
                        HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ.


            _AUTHORIZED AND UNABRIDGED TRANSLATION FROM
                          THE POLISH BY_

                         JEREMIAH CURTIN.


                              BOSTON:
                    LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
                               1917.




                     _Copyright, 1893, 1898_,

                        BY JEREMIAH CURTIN.


                      _All rights reserved._


                             Printers
            S. J. PARKHILL & CO., BOSTON, MASS., U.S.A.




  TO
  JOHN MURRAY BROWN, Esq.


MY DEAR BROWN,--You read “With Fire and Sword” in manuscript: you
appreciated its character, and your House published it. What you
did for the first, you did later on for the other two parts of the
trilogy. Remembering your deep interest in all the translations, I
beg to inscribe to you the concluding volume, “Pan Michael.”

  JEREMIAH CURTIN.

  VALENTIA ISLAND, WEST COAST OF IRELAND,
  August 15. 1893.




INTRODUCTION.


The great struggle begun by the Cossacks, and, after the victory
at Korsun, continued by them and the Russian population of the
Commonwealth, is described in “With Fire and Sword,” from the
ambush on the Omelnik[1] to the battle of Berestechko. In “The
Deluge” the Swedish invasion is the argument, and a mere reference
is made to the war in which Moscow and the Ukraine are on one side
and the Commonwealth on the other. In “Pan Michael,” the present
volume and closing work of the trilogy, the invader is the Turk,
whose forces, though victorious at Kamenyets, are defeated at Hotin.

“With Fire and Sword” covers the war of 1648-49, which was ended
at Zborovo, where a treaty most hateful to the Poles was concluded
between the Cossacks and the Commonwealth. In the second war there
was only one great action, that of Berestechko (1651), an action
followed by the treaty of Belaya Tserkoff, oppressive to the
Cossacks and impossible of execution.

The main event in the interval between Berestechko and the war with
Moscow was the siege and peace of Jvanyets, of which mention is
made in the introduction to “With Fire and Sword.”

After Jvanyets the Cossacks turned to Moscow and swore allegiance
to the Tsar in 1654; in that year the war was begun to which
reference is made in “The Deluge.” In addition to the Cossack cause
Moscow had questions of her own, and invaded the Commonwealth
with two separate armies; of these one moved on White Russia and
Lithuania, the other joined the forces of Hmelnitski.

Moscow had rapid and brilliant success in the north. Smolensk,
Orsha, and Vityebsk were taken in the opening campaign, as were
Vilno, Kovno, and Grodno in the following summer. In 1655 White
Russia and nearly all Lithuania came under the hand of the Tsar.

In view of Moscow’s great victories, Karl Gustav made a sudden
descent on the Commonwealth. The Swedish monarch became master of
Great and Little Poland almost without a blow. Yan Kazimir fled to
Silesia, and a majority of the nobles took the oath to Karl Gustav.

Moving from the Ukraine, Hmelnitski and Buturlin, the Tsar’s
voevoda, carried all before them till they encamped outside Lvoff;
there the Cossack hetman gave audience to an envoy from Yan
Kazimir, and was persuaded to withdraw with his army, thus leaving
the king one city in the Commonwealth, a great boon, as was evident
soon after.

When Swedish success was almost perfect, and the Commonwealth
seemed lost, the Swedes laid siege to Chenstohova. The amazing
defence of that sanctuary roused religious spirit in the Poles, who
had tired of Swedish rigor; they resumed allegiance to Yan Kazimir,
who returned and rallied his adherents at Lvoff, the city spared
by Hmelnitski. In the attempt to strike his rival in that capital
of Red Russia, Karl Gustav made the swift though calamitous march
across Poland which Sienkiewicz has described in “The Deluge” so
vividly.

Soon after his return from Silesia, the Polish king sent an embassy
to the Tsar. Austria sent another to strengthen it and arrange a
treaty or a truce on some basis.

Yan Kazimir was eager for peace with Moscow at any price,
especially a price paid in promises. The Tsar desired peace on
terms that would give the Russian part of the Commonwealth to
Moscow, Poland proper to become a hereditary kingdom in which the
Tsar himself or his heir would succeed Yan Kazimir, and thus give
to both States the same sovereign, though different administrations.

An agreement was effected: the sovereign or heir of Moscow was to
succeed Yan Kazimir, details of boundaries and succession to be
settled by the Diet, both sides to refrain from hostilities till
the Swedes were expelled, and neither to make peace with Sweden
separately.

Austria forced the Swedish garrison out of Cracow, and then
induced the Elector of Brandenburg to desert Sweden. She did this
by bringing Poland to grant independence to Princely, that is,
Eastern Prussia, where the elector was duke and a vassal of the
Commonwealth. The elector, who at that time held the casting vote
in the choice of Emperor, agreed in return for the weighty service
which Austria had shown him to give his voice for Leopold, who had
just come to the throne in Vienna.

Austria, having secured the imperial election at Poland’s expense,
took no further step on behalf of the Commonwealth, but disposed
troops in Southern Poland and secured her own interests. The
Elector, to make his place certain in the final treaty, took active
part against Sweden. Peace was concluded in 1657 and ratified in
1660 at Oliva, With the expulsion of the Swedes the historical part
of “The Deluge” is ended, no further reference being made to the
main war between the Commonwealth and Moscow.

Since the Turkish invasion described in “Pan Michael” was caused by
events in this main war, a short account of its subsequent course
and its connection with Turkey is in order in this place.

Bogdan Hmelnitski dreaded the truce between Moscow and Poland. He
feared lest the Poles, outwitting the Tsar, might recover control
of the Cossacks; hence he joined the alliance which Karl Gustav had
made with Rakotsy in 1657 to dismember the Commonwealth. Rakotsy
was defeated, and the alliance failed; both Moscow and Austria were
opposed to it.

In 1657 Hmelnitski died, and was succeeded as hetman by Vygovski,
chancellor of the Cossack army, though Yuri, the old hetman’s son,
had been chosen during his father’s last illness. Vygovski was a
noble, with leanings toward Poland, though his career was firm
proof that he loved himself better than any cause.

In the following year the new hetman made a treaty at Gadyach with
the Commonwealth, and in conjunction with a Polish army defeated
Prince Trubetskoi in a battle at Konotop. The Polish Diet annulled
now the terms of the treaty concluded with Moscow two years before.
Various reasons were alleged for this action; the true reason was
that in 1655 the succession to the Polish crown had been offered to
Austria, and, though refused in public audience, had been accepted
in private by the Emperor for his son Leopold. In the following
year Austria advised the Poles unofficially to offer this crown
(already disposed of) to the Tsar, and thus induce him to give the
Commonwealth a respite, and turn his arms against Sweden.

The Poles followed this advice; the Tsar accepted their offer. When
the service required had been rendered the treaty was broken. In
the same year, however, Vygovski was deposed by the Cossacks, the
treaty of Gadyach rejected, and Yuri Hmelnitski made hetman. The
Cossacks were again in agreement with Moscow; but the Poles spared
no effort to bring Yuri to their side, and they succeeded through
the deposed hetman, Vygovski, who adhered to the Commonwealth so
far.

Both sides were preparing their heaviest blows at this juncture,
and 1660 brought victory to the Poles. In the beginning of that
year Moscow had some success in Lithuania, but was forced back
at last toward Smolensk. The best Polish armies, trained in the
Swedish struggle, and leaders like Charnyetski, Sapyeha, and Kmita,
turned the scale in White Russia. In the Ukraine the Poles, under
Lyubomirski and Pototski, were strengthened by Tartars and met
the forces of Moscow under Sheremetyeff, with the Cossacks under
Yuri Hmelnitski. At the critical moment, and during action, Yuri
deserted to the Poles, and secured the defeat of Sheremetyeff, who
surrendered at Chudnovo and was sent a Tartar captive to the Crimea.

In all the shifting scenes of the conflict begun by the resolute
Bogdan, there was nothing more striking than the conduct and person
of Yuri Hmelnitski, who renounced all the work of his father.
Great, it is said, was the wonder of the Poles when they saw
him enter their camp. Bogdan Hmelnitski, a man of iron will and
striking presence, had filled the whole Commonwealth with terror;
his son gave way at the very first test put upon him, and in person
was, as the Poles said, a dark, puny stripling, more like a timid
novice in a monastery than a Cossack. In the words of the captive
voevoda, Sheremetyeff, he was better fitted to be a gooseherd than
a hetman.

The Polish generals thought now that the conflict was over, and
that the garrisons of Moscow would evacuate the Ukraine; but they
did not. At this juncture the Polish troops, unpaid for a long
time, refused service, revolted, formed what they called a “sacred
league,” and lived on the country. The Polish army vanished from
the field, and after it the Tartars. Young Hmelnitski turned
again to Moscow, and writing to the Tsar, declared that, forced
by Cossack colonels, he had joined the Polish king, but wished to
return to his former allegiance. Whatever his wishes may have been,
he did not escape the Commonwealth; stronger men than he, and among
them Vygovski, kept him well in hand. The Ukraine was split into
two camps: that west of the river, or at least the Cossacks under
Yuri Hmelnitski, obeyed the Commonwealth; the Eastern bank adhered
to Moscow.

Two years later, Yuri, the helpless hetman, left his office and
took refuge in a cloister. He was succeeded by Teterya, a partisan
of Poland, which now made every promise to the leading Cossacks,
not as in the old time when the single argument was sabres.

East of the Dnieper another hetman ruled; but there the Poles could
take no part in struggles for the office. The rivalry was limited
to partisans of Moscow. Besides the two groups of Cossacks on the
Dnieper, there remained the Zaporojians. Teterya strove to win
these to the Commonwealth, and Yan Kazimir, the king, assembled all
the forces he could rally and crossed the Dnieper toward the end of
1663. At first he had success in some degree, but in the following
year led back a shattered, hungry army.

Teterya had received a promise from the Zaporojians that they would
follow the example of the Eastern Ukraine. The king having failed
in his expedition, Teterya declared that peace must be concluded
between the Commonwealth and Moscow to save the Ukraine; that the
country was reduced to ruin by all parties, neither one of which
could subjugate the other; and that to save themselves the Cossacks
would be forced to seek protection of the Sultan.

Doroshenko succeeded Teterya in the hetman’s office, and began to
carry out this Cossack project. In 1666 he sent a message to the
Porte declaring that the Ukraine was at the will of the Sultan.

The Sultan commanded the Khan to march to the Ukraine. Toward the
end of that year the Tartars brought aid to the Cossacks, and the
joint army swept the field of Polish forces.

Meanwhile negotiations had been pending a long time between the
Commonwealth and Moscow. An insurrection under Lyubomirski brought
the Poles to terms touching boundaries in the north. In the south
Moscow demanded, besides the line of the Dnieper, Kieff and a
certain district around it on the west. This the Poles refused
stubbornly till Doroshenko’s union with Turkey induced them to
yield Kieff to Moscow for two years. On this basis a peace of
twenty years was concluded in 1667, at Andrussoff near Smolensk.
This peace became permanent afterward, and Kieff remained with
Moscow.

In 1668 Yan Kazimir abdicated, hoping to secure the succession to
a king in alliance with France, and avoid a conflict with Turkey
through French intervention. No foreign candidate, however, found
sufficient support, and Olshovski,[2] the crafty and ambitious
vice-chancellor, proposed at an opportune moment Prince Michael
Vishnyevetski, son of the renowned Yeremi, and he was elected in
1669. The new king, of whom a short sketch is given in “The Deluge”
(Vol. II. page 253), was, like Yuri Hmelnitski, the imbecile
son of a terrible father. Elected by the lesser nobility in a
moment of spite against magnates, he found no support among the
latter. Without merit or influence at home, he sought support in
Austria, and married a sister of the Emperor Leopold. Powerless
in dealing with the Cossacks, to whom his name was detestable,
without friends, except among the petty nobles, whose support in
that juncture was more damaging than useful, he made a Turkish war
certain. It came three years later, when the Sultan marched to
support Doroshenko, and began the siege of Kamenyets, described in
“Pan Michael.”

After the fall of Kamenyets, the Turks pushed on to Lvoff, and
dictated the peace of Buchach, which gave Podolia and the western
bank of the Dnieper, except Kieff and its district, to the Sultan.

The battle of Hotin, described in the epilogue, made Sobieski king
in 1674. This election was considered a triumph for France, an
enemy of Austria at that time; and during the earlier years of his
reign Sobieski was on the French side, and had sound reasons for
this policy. In 1674 the Elector of Brandenburg attacked Swedish
Pomerania; France supported Sweden, and roused Poland to oppose
the Elector, who had fought against Yan Kazimir, his own suzerain.
Sobieski, supported by subsidies from France, made levies of
troops, went to Dantzig in 1677, concluded with Sweden a secret
agreement to make common cause with her and attack the Elector.
But in spite of subsidies, preparations, and treaties, the Polish
king took no action. Sweden, without an ally, was defeated; Poland
lost the last chance of recovering Prussia, and holding thereby an
independent position in Europe.

The influence of Austria, the power of the church, and the intrigues
of his own wife, bore away Sobieski. He deserted the alliance with
France. To the end of his life he served Austria far better than
Poland, though not wishing to do so, and died in 1696 complaining of
this world, in which, as he said, “sin, malice, and treason are
rampant.”

  JEREMIAH CURTIN.

  CAHIRCIVEEN, COUNTY KERRY, IRELAND,
  August 17, 1893.


    NOTE.--The reign of Sobieski brought to an end that part of
    Polish history during which the Commonwealth was able to
    take the initiative in foreign politics. After Sobieski the
    Poles ceased to be a positive power in Europe.

    I have not been able to verify the saying said to have been
    uttered by Sobieski at Vienna. In the text (page 401) he is
    made to say that Pani Wojnina (War’s wife) may give birth
    to people, but Wojna (War) only destroys them. Who the Pani
    Wojnina was that Sobieski had in view I am unable to say at
    this moment, unless she was _Peace_.




PAN MICHAEL.




CHAPTER I.


After the close of the Hungarian war, when the marriage of Pan
Andrei Kmita and Panna Aleksandra Billevich was celebrated, a
cavalier, equally meritorious and famous in the Commonwealth, Pan
Michael Volodyovski, colonel of the Lauda squadron, was to enter
the bonds of marriage with Panna Anna Borzobogati Krasienski.

But notable hindrances rose, which delayed and put back the affair.
The lady was a foster-daughter of Princess Griselda Vishnyevetski,
without whose permission Panna Anna would in no wise consent to the
wedding. Pan Michael was forced therefore to leave his affianced in
Vodokty, by reason of the troubled times, and go alone to Zamost
for the consent and the blessing of the princess.

But a favoring star did not guide him: he did not find the princess
in Zamost; she had gone to the imperial court in Vienna for the
education of her son. The persistent knight followed her even to
Vienna, though that took much time. When he had arranged the affair
there successfully, he turned homeward in confident hope.

He found troubled times at home: the army was forming a confederacy;
in the Ukraine uprisings continued; at the eastern boundary the
conflagration had not ceased. New forces were assembled to defend
the frontiers even in some fashion. Before Pan Michael had reached
Warsaw, he received a commission issued by the voevoda of Rus.
Thinking that the country should be preferred at all times to private
affairs, he relinquished his plan of immediate marriage and moved to
the Ukraine. He campaigned in those regions some years, living in
battles, in unspeakable hardships and labor, having barely a chance
on occasions to send letters to the expectant lady.

Next he was envoy to the Crimea; then came the unfortunate civil
war with Pan Lyubomirski, in which Volodyovski fought on the side
of the king against that traitor and infamous man; then he went to
the Ukraine a second time under Sobieski.

From these achievements the glory of his name increased in such
manner that he was considered on all sides as the first soldier of
the Commonwealth, but the years were passing for him in anxiety,
sighs, and yearning. At last 1668 came, when he was sent at command
of the castellan to rest; at the beginning of the year he went for
the cherished lady, and taking her from Vodokty, they set out for
Cracow.

They were journeying to Cracow, because Princess Griselda, who had
returned from the dominions of the emperor, invited Pan Michael to
have the marriage at that place, and offered herself to be mother
to the bride.

The Kmitas remained at home, not thinking to receive early news
from Pan Michael, and altogether intent on a new guest that was
coming to Vodokty. Providence had till that time withheld from them
children; now a change was impending, happy and in accordance with
their wishes.

That year was surpassingly fruitful. Grain had given such a
bountiful yield that the barns could not hold it, and the whole
land, in the length and the breadth of it, was covered with
stacks. In neighborhoods ravaged by war the young pine groves had
grown in one spring more than in two years at other times. There
was abundance of game and of mushrooms in the forests, as if the
unusual fruitfulness of the earth had been extended to all things
that lived on it. Hence the friends of Pan Michael drew happy omens
for his marriage also, but the fates ordained otherwise.




CHAPTER II.


On a certain beautiful day of autumn Pan Andrei Kmita was
sitting under the shady roof of a summer-house and drinking his
after-dinner mead; he gazed at his wife from time to time through
the lattice, which was grown over with wild hops. Pani Kmita was
walking on a neatly swept path in front of the summer-house. The
lady was unusually stately; bright-haired, with a face serene,
almost angelic. She walked slowly and carefully, for there was in
her a fulness of dignity and blessing.

Pan Andrei gazed at her with intense love. When she moved, his look
turned after her with such attachment as a dog shows his master
with his eyes. At moments he smiled, for he was greatly rejoiced
at sight of her, and he twirled his mustache upward. At such
moments there appeared on his face a certain expression of glad
frolicsomeness. It was clear that the soldier was fun-loving by
nature, and in years of single life had played many a prank.

Silence in the garden was broken only by the sound of over-ripe
fruit dropping to the earth and the buzzing of insects. The weather
had settled marvellously. It was the beginning of September. The
sun burned no longer with excessive violence, but cast yet abundant
golden rays. In these rays ruddy apples were shining among the gray
leaves and hung in such numbers that they hid the branches. The
limbs of plum-trees were bending under plums with bluish wax on
them.

The first movement of air was shown by the spider-threads fastened
to the trees; these swayed with a breeze so slight that it did not
stir even the leaves.

Perhaps it was that calm in the world which had so filled Pan Kmita
with joyfulness, for his face grew more radiant each moment. At
last he took a draught of mead and said to his wife,--

“Olenka, but come here! I will tell you something.”

“It may be something that I should not like to hear.”

“As God is dear to me, it is not. Give me your ear.”

Saying this, he seized her by the waist, pressed his mustaches to
her bright hair, and whispered, “If a boy, let him be Michael.”

She turned away with face somewhat flushed, and whispered, “But you
promised not to object to Heraclius.”

“Do you not see that it is to honor Volodyovski?”

“But should not the first remembrance be given to my grandfather?”

“And my benefactor-- H’m! true--but the next will be Michael. It
cannot be otherwise.”

Here Olenka, standing up, tried to free herself from the arms of
Pan Andrei; but he, gathering her in with still greater force,
began to kiss her on the lips and the eyes, repeating at the same
time,--

“O thou my hundreds, my thousands, my dearest love!”

Further conversation was interrupted by a lad who appeared at the
end of the walk and ran quickly toward the summer-house.

“What is wanted?” asked Kmita, freeing his wife.

“Pan Kharlamp has come, and is waiting in the parlor,” said the boy.

“And there he is himself!” exclaimed Kmita, at sight of a man
approaching the summer-house. “For God’s sake, how gray his
mustache is! Greetings to you, dear comrade! greetings, old friend!”

With these words he rushed from the summer-house, and hurried with
open arms toward Pan Kharlamp. But first Pan Kharlamp bowed low to
Olenka, whom he had seen in old times at the court of Kyedani; then
he pressed her hand to his enormous mustache, and casting himself
into the embraces of Kmita, sobbed on his shoulder.

“For God’s sake, what is the matter?” cried the astonished host.

“God has given happiness to one and taken it from another,” said
Kharlamp. “But the reasons of my sorrow I can tell only to you.”

Here he looked at Olenka; she, seeing that he was unwilling to
speak in her presence, said to her husband, “I will send mead to
you, gentlemen, and now I leave you.”

Kmita took Pan Kharlamp to the summer-house, and seating him on a
bench, asked, “What is the matter? Are you in need of assistance?
Count on me as on Zavisha!”[3]

“Nothing is the matter with me,” said the old soldier, “and I need
no assistance while I can move this hand and this sabre; but our
friend, the most worthy cavalier in the Commonwealth, is in cruel
suffering. I know not whether he is breathing yet.”

“By Christ’s wounds! Has anything happened to Volodyovski?”

“Yes,” said Kharlamp, giving way to a new outburst of tears. “Know
that Panna Anna Borzobogati has left this vale--”

“Is dead!” cried Kmita, seizing his head with both hands.

“As a bird pierced by a shaft.”

A moment of silence followed,--no sound but that of apples dropping
here and there to the ground heavily, and of Pan Kharlamp panting
more loudly while restraining his weeping. But Kmita was wringing
his hands, and repeated, nodding his head,--

“Dear God! dear God! dear God!”

“Your grace will not wonder at my tears,” said Kharlamp, at last;
“for if your heart is pressed by unendurable pain at the mere
tidings of what happened, what must it be to me, who was witness
of her death and her pain, of her suffering, which surpassed every
natural measure?”

Here the servant appeared, bringing a tray with a decanter and a
second glass on it; after him came Kmita’s wife, who could not
repress her curiosity. Looking at her husband’s face and seeing in
it deep suffering, she said straightway,--

“What tidings have you brought? Do not dismiss me. I will comfort
you as far as possible, or I will weep with you, or will help you
with counsel.”

“Help for this will not be found in your head,” said Pan Andrei;
“and I fear that your health will suffer from sorrow.”

“I can endure much. It is more grievous to live in uncertainty.”

“Anusia is dead,” said Kmita.

Olenka grew somewhat pale, and dropped on the bench heavily.
Kmita thought that she would faint; but grief acted more quickly
than the sudden announcement, and she began to weep. Both knights
accompanied her immediately.

“Olenka,” said Kmita, at last, wishing to turn his wife’s thoughts
in another direction, “do you not think that she is in heaven?”

“Not for her do I weep, but over the loss of her, and over the
loneliness of Pan Michael. As to her eternal happiness, I should
wish to have such hope for my own salvation as I have for hers.
There was not a worthier maiden, or one of better heart, or more
honest. O my Anulka![4] my Anulka, beloved!”

“I saw her death,” said Kharlamp; “may God grant us all to die with
such piety!”

Here silence followed, as if some of their sorrow had gone with
their tears; then Kmita said, “Tell us how it was, and take some
mead to support you.”

“Thank you,” said Kharlamp; “I will drink from time to time if you
will drink with me; for pain seizes not only the heart, but the
throat, like a wolf, and when it seizes a man it might choke him
unless he received some assistance. I was going from Chenstohova to
my native place to settle there quietly in my old age. I have had
war enough; as a stripling I began to practise, and now my mustache
is gray. If I cannot stay at home altogether, I will go out under
some banner; but these military confederations to the loss of the
country and the profit of the enemy, and these civil wars, have
disgusted me thoroughly with arms. Dear God! the pelican nourishes
its children with its blood, it is true; but this country has no
longer even blood in its breast. Sviderski[5] was a great soldier.
May God judge him!”

“My dearest Anulka!” interrupted Pani Kmita, with weeping, “without
thee what would have happened to me and to all of us? Thou wert a
refuge and a defence to me! O my beloved Anulka!”

Hearing this, Kharlamp sobbed anew, but briefly, for Kmita
interrupted him with a question, “But where did you meet Pan
Michael?”

“In Chenstohova, where he and she intended to rest, for they were
visiting the shrine there after the journey. He told me at once
how he was going from your place to Cracow, to Princess Griselda,
without whose permission and blessing Anusia was unwilling to
marry. The maiden was in good health at that time, and Pan Michael
was as joyful as a bird. ‘See,’ said he, ‘the Lord God has given me
a reward for my labor!’ He boasted also not a little,--God comfort
him!--and joked with me because I, as you know, quarrelled with him
on a time concerning the lady, and we were to fight a duel. Where
is she now, poor woman?”

Here Kharlamp broke out again, but briefly, for Kmita stopped him a
second time: “You say that she was well? How came the attack, then,
so suddenly?”

“That it was sudden, is true. She was lodging with Pani Martsin
Zamoyski, who, with her husband, was spending some time in
Chenstohova. Pan Michael used to sit all the day with her; he
complained of delay somewhat, and said they might be a whole year
on the journey to Cracow, for every one on the way would detain
him. And this is no wonder! Every man is glad to entertain such a
soldier as Pan Michael, and whoever could catch him would keep him.
He took me to the lady too, and threatened smilingly that he would
cut me to pieces if I made love to her; but he was the whole world
to her. At times, too, my heart sank, for my own sake, because a
man in old age is like a nail in a wall. Never mind! But one night
Pan Michael rushed in to me in dreadful distress: ‘In God’s name,
can you find a doctor?’ ‘What has happened?’ ‘The sick woman knows
no one!’ ‘When did she fall ill?’ asked I. ‘Pani Zamoyski has just
given me word,’ replied he. ‘It is night now. Where can I look for
a doctor, when there is nothing here but a cloister, and in the
town more ruins than people?’ I found a surgeon at last, and he was
even unwilling to go; I had to drive him with weapons. But a priest
was more needed then than a surgeon; we found at her bedside, in
fact, a worthy Paulist, who, through prayer, had restored her to
consciousness. She was able to receive the sacrament, and take an
affecting farewell of Pan Michael. At noon of the following day it
was all over with her. The surgeon said that some one must have
given her something, though that is impossible, for witchcraft has
no power in Chenstohova. But what happened to Pan Michael, what
he said,--my hope is that the Lord Jesus will not account this to
him, for a man does not reckon with words when pain is tearing him.
You see,” Pan Kharlamp lowered his voice, “he blasphemed in his
forgetfulness.”

“For God’s sake, did he blaspheme?” inquired Kmita, in a whisper.

“He rushed out from her corpse to the ante-chamber, from the
ante-chamber to the yard, and reeled about like a drunken man. He
raised his hands then, and began to cry with a dreadful voice:
‘Such is the reward for my wounds, for my toils, for my blood, for
my love of country! I had one lamb,’ said he, ‘and that one, O
Lord, Thou didst take from me. To hurl down an armed man,’ said he,
‘who walks the earth in pride, is a deed for God’s hand; but a cat,
a hawk, or a kite can kill a harmless dove, and--’”

“By the wounds of God!” exclaimed Pani Kmita, “say no more, or you
will draw misfortune on this house.”

Kharlamp made the sign of the cross and continued, “The poor
soldier thought that he had done service, and still this was his
reward. Ah, God knows better what He does, though that is not to
be understood by man’s reason, nor measured by human justice.
Straightway after this blasphemy he grew rigid and fell on the
ground; and the priest read an exorcism over him, so that foul
spirits should not enter him, as they might, enticed by his
blasphemy.”

“Did he come to himself quickly?”

“He lay as if dead about an hour; then he recovered and went to
his room; he would see no one. At the time of the burial I said
to him, ‘Pan Michael, have God in your heart.’ He made me no
answer. I stayed three days more in Chenstohova, for I was loath
to leave him; but I knocked in vain at his door. He did not want
me. I struggled with my thoughts: what was I to do,--try longer at
the door, or go away? How was I to leave a man without comfort?
But finding that I could do nothing, I resolved to go to Pan Yan
Skshetuski. He is his best friend, and Pan Zagloba is his friend
also; maybe they will touch his heart somehow, and especially Pan
Zagloba, who is quick-witted, and knows how to talk over any man.”

“Did you go to Pan Yan?”

“I did, but God gave no luck, for he and Zagloba had gone to Kalish
to Pan Stanislav. No one could tell when they would return. Then
I thought to myself, ‘As my road is toward Jmud, I will go to Pan
Kmita and tell what has happened.’”

“I knew from of old that you were a worthy cavalier,” said Kmita.

“It is not a question of me in this case, but of Pan Michael,” said
Kharlamp; “and I confess that I fear for him greatly lest his mind
be disturbed.”

“God preserve him from that!” said Pani Kmita.

“If God preserves him, he will certainly take the habit, for I tell
you that such sorrow I have never seen in my life. And it is a pity
to lose such a soldier as he,--it is a pity!”

“How a pity? The glory of God will increase thereby,” said Pani
Kmita.

Kharlamp’s mustache began to quiver, and he rubbed his forehead.

“Well, gracious benefactress, either it will increase or it
will not increase. Consider how many Pagans and heretics he has
destroyed in his life, by which he has surely delighted our Saviour
and His Mother more than any one priest could with sermons. H’m!
it is a thing worthy of thought! Let every one serve the glory of
God as he knows best. Among the Jesuits legions of men may be found
wiser than Pan Michael, but another such sabre as his there is not
in the Commonwealth.”

“True, as God is dear to me!” cried Kmita. “Do you know whether he
stayed in Chenstohova?”

“He was there when I left; what he did later, I know not. I know
only this: God preserve him from losing his mind, God preserve him
from sickness, which frequently comes with despair,--he will be
alone, without aid, without a relative, without a friend, without
consolation.”

“May the Most Holy Lady in that place of miracles save thee,
faithful friend, who hast done so much for me that a brother could
not have done more!”

Pani Kmita fell into deep thought, and silence continued long;
at last she raised her bright head, and said, “Yendrek, do you
remember how much we owe him?”

“If I forget, I will borrow eyes from a dog, for I shall not dare
to look an honest man in the face with my own eyes.”

“Yendrek, you cannot leave him in that state.”

“How can I help him?”

“Go to him.”

“There speaks a woman’s honest heart; there is a noble woman,”
cried Kharlamp, seizing her hands and covering them with kisses.

But the advice was not to Kmita’s taste; hence he began to twist
his head, and said, “I would go to the ends of the earth for him,
but--you yourself know--if you were well--I do not say--but you
know. God preserve you from any accident! I should wither away
from anxiety-- A wife is above the best friend. I am sorry for Pan
Michael but--you yourself know--”

“I will remain under the protection of the Lauda fathers. It is
peaceful here now, and I shall not be afraid of any small thing.
Without God’s will a hair will not fall from my head; and Pan
Michael needs rescue, perhaps.”

“Oi, he needs it!” put in Kharlamp.

“Yendrek, I am in good health. Harm will come to me from no one; I
know that you are unwilling to go--”

“I would rather go against cannon with an oven-stick!” interrupted
Kmita.

“If you stay, do you think it will not be bitter for you here when
you think, ‘I have abandoned my friend’? and besides, the Lord God
may easily take away His blessing in His just wrath.”

“You beat a knot into my head. You say that He may take away His
blessing? I fear that.”

“It is a sacred duty to save such a friend as Pan Michael.”

“I love Michael with my whole heart. The case is a hard one! If
there is need, there is urgent need, for every hour in this matter
is important. I will go at once to the stables. By the living God,
is there no other way out of it? The Evil One inspired Pan Yan and
Zagloba to go to Kalish. It is not a question with me of myself,
but of you, dearest. I would rather lose all I have than be without
you one day. Should any one say that I go from you not on public
service, I would plant my sword-hilt in his mouth to the cross.
Duty, you say? Let it be so. He is a fool who hesitates. If this
were for any one else but Michael, I never should do it.”

Here Pan Andrei turned to Kharlamp. “Gracious sir, I beg you to
come to the stable; we will choose horses. And you, Olenka, see
that my trunk is ready. Let some of the Lauda men look to the
threshing. Pan Kharlamp, you must stay with us even a fortnight;
you will take care of my wife for me. Some land may be found for
you here in the neighborhood. Take Lyubich! Come to the stable. I
will start in an hour. If ’tis needful, ’tis needful!”




CHAPTER III.


Some time before sunset Pan Kmita set out, blessed by his tearful
wife with a crucifix, in which splinters of the Holy Cross were set
in gold; and since during long years the knight had been inured to
sudden journeys, when he started, he rushed forth as if to seize
Tartars escaping with plunder.

When he reached Vilno, he held on through Grodno to Byalystok,
and thence to Syedlets. In passing through Lukov, he learned that
Pan Yan had returned the day previous from Kalish with his wife
and children, Pan Zagloba accompanying. He determined, therefore,
to go to them; for with whom could he take more efficient counsel
touching the rescue of Pan Michael?

They received him with surprise and delight, which were turned into
weeping, however, when he told them the cause of his coming.

Pan Zagloba was unable all day to calm himself, and shed so many
tears at the pond that, as he said himself afterward, the pond
rose, and they had to lift the flood-gate. But when he had wept
himself out, he thought deeply; and this is what he said at the
council,--

“Yan, you cannot go, for you are chosen to the Chapter; there will
be a multitude of cases, as after so many wars the country is full
of unquiet spirits. From what you relate, Pan Kmita, it is clear
that the storks[6] will remain in Vodokty all winter, since they
are on the work-list and must attend to their duties. It is no
wonder that with such housekeeping you are in no haste for the
journey, especially since ’tis unknown how long it may last. You
have shown a great heart by coming; but if I am to give earnest
advice, I will say: Go home; for in Michael’s case a near confidant
is called for,--one who will not be offended at a harsh answer, or
because there is no wish to admit him. Patience is needful, and
long experience; and your grace has only friendship for Michael,
which in such a contingency is not enough. But be not offended, for
you must confess that Yan and I are older friends, and have passed
through more adventures with him than you have. Dear God! how many
are the times in which I saved him, and he me, from disaster!”

“I will resign my functions as a deputy,” interrupted Pan Yan.

“Yan, that is public service!” retorted Zagloba, with sternness.

“God sees,” said the afflicted Pan Yan, “that I love my cousin
Stanislav with true brotherly affection; but Michael is nearer to
me than a brother.”

“He is nearer to me than any blood relative, especially since I
never had one. It is not the time now to discuss our affection.
Do you see, Yan, if this misfortune had struck Michael recently,
perhaps I would say to you, ‘Give the Chapter to the Devil, and
go!’ But let us calculate how much time has passed since Kharlamp
reached Jmud from Chenstohova, and while Pan Andrei was coming from
Jmud here to us. Now, it is needful not only to go to Michael, but
to remain with him; not only to weep with him, but to persuade
him; not only to show him the Crucified as an example, but to
cheer his heart and mind with pleasant jokes. So you know who
ought to go,--I! and I will go, so help me God! If I find him in
Chenstohova, I will bring him to this place; if I do not find him,
I will follow him even to Moldavia, and I will not cease to seek
for him while I am able to raise with my own strength a pinch of
snuff to my nostrils.”

When they had heard this, the two knights fell to embracing Pan
Zagloba; and he grew somewhat tender over the misfortune of Pan
Michael and his own coming fatigues. Therefore he began to shed
tears; and at last, when he had embraces enough, he said,--

“But do not thank me for Pan Michael; you are not nearer to him
than I.”

“Not for Pan Michael do we thank you,” said Kmita; “but that man
must have a heart of iron, or rather one not at all human, who
would be unmoved at sight of your readiness, which in the service
of a friend makes no account of fatigue and has no thought for age.
Other men in your years think only of a warm corner; but you speak
of a long journey as if you were of my years or those of Pan Yan.”

Zagloba did not conceal his years, it is true; but, in general,
he did not wish people to mention old age as an attendant of
incapability. Hence, though his eyes were still red, he glanced
quickly and with a certain dissatisfaction at Kmita, and answered,--

“My dear sir, when my seventy-seventh year was beginning, my heart
felt a slight sinking, because two axes[7] were over my neck; but
when the eighth ten of years passed me, such courage entered my
body that a wife tripped into my brain. And had I married, we might
see who would be first to have cause of boasting, you or I.”

“I am not given to boasting,” said Kmita; “but I do not spare
praises on your grace.”

“And I should have surely confused you as I did Revera Pototski,
the hetman, in presence of the king, when he jested at my age.
I challenged him to show who could make the greatest number of
goat-springs one after the other. And what came of it? The hetman
made three; the haiduks had to lift him, for he could not rise
alone; and I went all around with nearly thirty-five springs. Ask
Pan Yan, who saw it all with his own eyes.”

Pan Yan, knowing that Zagloba had had for some time the habit of
referring to him as an eye-witness of everything, did not wink, but
spoke again of Pan Michael. Zagloba sank into silence, and began to
think of some subject deeply; at last he dropped into better humor
and said after supper,--

“I will tell you a thing that not every mind could hit upon. I
trust in God that our Michael will come out of this trouble more
easily than we thought at first.”

“God grant! but whence did that come to your head?” inquired Kmita.

“H’m! Besides an acquaintance with Michael, it is necessary to have
quick wit from nature and long experience, and the latter is not
possible at your years. Each man has his own special qualities.
When misfortune strikes some men, it is, speaking figuratively, as
if you were to throw a stone into a river. On the surface the water
flows, as it were, quietly; but the stone lies at the bottom and
hinders the natural current, and stops it and tears it terribly,
and it will lie there and tear it till all the water of that river
flows into the Styx. Yan, you may be counted with such men; but
there is more suffering in the world for them, since the pain, and
the memory of what caused it, do not leave them. But others receive
misfortune as if some one had struck them with a fist on the
shoulder. They lose their senses for the moment, revive later on,
and when the black-and-blue spot is well, they forget it. Oi! such
a nature is better in this world, which is full of misfortune.”

The knights listened with attention to the wise words of Zagloba;
he was glad to see that they listened with such respect, and
continued,--

“I know Michael through and through; and God is my witness that I
have no wish to find fault with him now, but it seems to me that
he grieves more for the loss of the marriage than of the maiden.
It is nothing that terrible despair has come, though that too,
especially for him, is a misfortune above misfortunes. You cannot
even imagine what a wish that man had to marry. There is not in him
greed or ambition of any kind, or selfishness: he has left what
he had, he has as good as lost his own fortune, he has not asked
for his salary; but in return for all his labors and services he
expected, from the Lord God and the Commonwealth, only a wife. And
he reckoned in his soul that such bread as that belonged to him;
and he was about to put it to his mouth, when right there, as it
were, some one sneered at him, saying, ‘You have it now! Eat it!’
What wonder that despair seized him? I do not say that he did not
grieve for the maiden; but as God is dear to me, he grieved more
for the marriage, though he would himself swear to the opposite.”

“That may be true,” said Pan Yan.

“Wait! Only let those wounds of his soul close and heal; we shall
see if his old wish will not come again. The danger is only in
this, that now, under the weight of despair, he may do something or
make some decision which he would regret later on. But what was to
happen has happened, for in misfortune decision comes quickly. My
attendant is packing my clothes. I am not speaking to dissuade you
from going; I wished only to comfort you.”

“Again, father, you will be a plaster to Michael,” said Pan Yan.

“As I was to you, you remember? If I can only find him soon,
for I fear that he may be hiding in some hermitage, or that he
will disappear somewhere in the distant steppes to which he is
accustomed from childhood. Pan Kmita, your grace criticises my age;
but I tell you that if ever a courier rushed on with despatches as
I shall rush, then command me when I return to unravel old silk,
shell peas, or give me a distaff. Neither will hardships detain me,
nor wonders of hospitality tempt me; eating, even drinking, will
not stop me. You have not yet seen such a journey! I can now barely
sit in my place, just as if some one were pricking me from under
the bench with an awl. I have even ordered that my travelling-shirt
be rubbed with goats’ tallow, so as to resist the serpent.”




CHAPTER IV.


Pan Zagloba did not drive forward so swiftly, however, as he had
promised himself and his comrades. The nearer he was to Warsaw, the
more, slowly he travelled. It was the time in which Yan Kazimir,
king, statesman, and great leader, having extinguished foreign
conflagration and brought the Commonwealth, as it were, from
the depths of a deluge, had abdicated lordship. He had suffered
everything, had endured everything, had exposed his breast to every
blow which came from a foreign enemy; but when later on he aimed
at internal reforms and instead of aid from the nation found only
opposition and ingratitude, he removed from his anointed temples of
his own will that crown which had become an unendurable burden to
him.

The district and general diets had been held already; and
Prajmovski, the primate, summoned the Convocation for November 5.

Great were the early efforts of various candidates, great the
rivalry of various parties; and though it was the election alone
which would decide, still, each one felt the uncommon importance
of the Diet of Convocation. Therefore deputies were hastening to
Warsaw, on wheels and on horseback, with attendants and servants;
senators were moving to the capital, and with each one of them a
magnificent escort.

The roads were crowded; the inns were filled, and discovery of
lodgings for a night was connected with great delay. Places were
yielded, however, to Zagloba out of regard for his age; but at the
same time his immense reputation exposed him more than once to loss
of time.

This was the way of it: He would come to some public house, and
not another finger could be thrust into the place; the personage
who with his escort had occupied the building would come out then,
through curiosity to see who had arrived, and finding a man with
mustaches and beard as white as milk, would say, in view of such
dignity,--

“I beg your grace, my benefactor, to come with me for a chance
bite.”

Zagloba was no boor, and refused not, knowing that acquaintance
with him would be pleasing to every man. When the host conducted
him over the threshold and asked, “Whom have I the honor?” he
merely put his hands on his hips, and sure of the effect, answered
in two words, “Zagloba sum! (I am Zagloba).”

Indeed, it never happened that after those two words a great
opening of arms did not follow, and exclamations, “I shall inscribe
this among my most fortunate days!” And the cries of officers or
nobles, “Look at him! that is the model, the _gloria et decus_
(glory and honor) of all the cavaliers of the Commonwealth.” They
hurried together then to wonder at Zagloba; the younger men came to
kiss the skirts of his travelling-coat. After that they drew out of
the wagons kegs and vessels, and a _gaudium_ (rejoicing) followed,
continuing sometimes a number of days.

It was thought universally that he was going as a deputy to the
Diet; and when he declared that he was not, the astonishment was
general. But he explained that he had yielded his mandate to Pan
Domashevski, so that younger men might devote themselves to public
affairs. To some he related the real reason why he was on the road;
but when others inquired, he put them off with these words,--

“Accustomed to war from youthful years, I wanted in old age to have
a last drive at Doroshenko.”

After these words they wondered still more at him, and to no one
did he seem less important because he was not a deputy, for all
knew that among the audience were men who had more power than
the deputies themselves. Besides, every senator, even the most
eminent, had in mind that, a couple of months later, the election
would follow, and then every word of a man of such fame among the
knighthood would have value beyond estimation.

They carried, therefore, Zagloba in their arms, and stood before
him with bared heads, even the greatest lords. Pan Podlyaski drank
three days with him; the Patses, whom he met in Kalushyn, bore him
on their hands.

More than one man gave command to thrust into the old hero’s hamper
considerable gifts, from vodka and wine to richly ornamented
caskets, sabres, and pistols.

Zagloba’s servants too had good profit from this; and he, despite
resolutions and promises, travelled so slowly that only on the
third week did he reach Minsk.

But he did not halt for refreshments at Minsk. Driving to the
square, he saw a retinue so conspicuous and splendid that he had
not met such on the road hitherto: attendants in brilliant colors;
half a regiment of infantry alone, for to the Diet of Convocation
men did not go armed on horseback, but these troops were in such
order that the King of Sweden had not a better guard; the place
was filled with gilded carriages carrying tapestry and carpets to
use in public houses on the way; wagons with provision chests and
supplies of food; with them were servants, nearly all foreign, so
that in that throng few spoke an intelligible tongue.

Zagloba saw at last an attendant in Polish costume; hence he gave
order to halt, and sure of good entertainment, had put forth one
foot already from the wagon, asking at the same time, “But whose
retinue is this, so splendid that the king can have no better?”

“Whose should it be,” replied the attendant, “but that of our lord,
the Prince Marshal of Lithuania?”

“Whose?” repeated Zagloba.

“Are you deaf? Prince Boguslav Radzivill, who is going to the
Convocation, but who, God grant, after the election will be
elected.”

Zagloba hid his foot quickly in the wagon. “Drive on!” cried he.
“There is nothing here for us!”

And he went on, trembling from indignation.

“O Great God!” said he, “inscrutable are Thy decrees; and if Thou
dost not shatter this traitor with Thy thunderbolts. Thou hast
in this some hidden designs which it is not permitted to reach
by man’s reason, though judging in human fashion, it would have
been proper to give a good blow to such a bull-driver. But it is
evident that evil is working in this most illustrious Commonwealth,
if such traitors, without honor and conscience, not only receive
no punishment, but ride in safety and power,--nay, exercise civil
functions also. It must be that we shall perish, for in what other
country, in what other State, could such a thing be brought to
pass? Yan Kazimir was a good king, but he forgave too often, and
accustomed the wickedest to trust in impunity and safety. Still,
that is not his fault alone. It is clear that in the nation civil
conscience and the feeling of public virtue has perished utterly.
Tfu! tfu! he a deputy! In his infamous hands citizens place the
integrity and safety of the country,--in those very hands with
which he was rending it and fastening it in Swedish fetters. We
shall be lost; it cannot be otherwise! Still more to make a king of
him, the--But what! ’tis evident that everything is possible among
such people. He a deputy! For God’s sake! But the law declares
clearly that a man who fills offices in a foreign country cannot be
a deputy; and he is a governor-general in princely Prussia under
his mangy uncle. Ah, ha! wait, I have thee. And verifications at
the Diet, what are they for? If I do not go to the hall and raise
this question, though I am only a spectator, may I be turned this
minute into a fat sheep, and my driver into a butcher! I will find
among deputies men to support me. I know not, traitor, whether
I can overcome such a potentate and exclude thee; but what I
shall do will not help thy election,--that is sure. And Michael,
poor fellow, must wait for me, since this is an action of public
importance.”

So thought Zagloba, promising himself to attend with care to that
case of expulsion, and to bring over deputies in private; for this
reason he hastened on more hurriedly to Warsaw from Minsk, fearing
to be late for the opening of the Diet. But he came early enough.
The concourse of deputies and other persons was so great that it
was utterly impossible to find lodgings in Warsaw itself, or in
Praga, or even outside the city; it was difficult too to find a
place in a private house, for three or four persons were lodged
in single rooms. Zagloba spent the first night in a shop, and it
passed rather pleasantly; but in the morning, when he found himself
in his wagon, he did not know well what to do.

“My God! my God!” said he, falling into evil humor, and looking
around on the Cracow suburbs, which he had just passed; “here are
the Bernardines, and there is the ruin of the Kazanovski Palace!
Thankless city! I had to wrest it from the enemy with my blood and
toil, and now it grudges me a corner for my gray head.”

But the city did not by any means grudge Zagloba a corner for
his gray head; it simply hadn’t one. Meanwhile a lucky star was
watching over him, for barely had he reached the palace of the
Konyetspolskis when a voice called from one side to his driver,
“Stop!”

The man reined in the horses; then an unknown nobleman approached
the wagon with gleaming face, and cried out, “Pan Zagloba! Does
your grace not know me?”

Zagloba saw before him a man of somewhat over thirty years, wearing
a leopard-skin cap with a feather,--an unerring mark of military
service,--a poppy-colored under-coat, and a dark-red kontush,
girded with a gold brocade belt. The face of the unknown was of
unusual beauty: his complexion was pale, but burned somewhat by
wind in the fields to a yellowish tinge; his blue eyes were full of
a certain melancholy and pensiveness; his features were unusually
symmetrical, almost too beautiful for a man. Notwithstanding his
Polish dress, he wore long hair and a beard cut in foreign fashion.
Halting at the wagon, he opened his arms widely; and Zagloba,
though he could not remember him at once, bent over and embraced
him. They pressed each other heartily, and at moments one pushed
the other back so as to have a better look.

“Pardon me, your grace,” said Zagloba, at last; “but I cannot call
to mind yet.”

“Hassling-Ketling!”

“For God’s sake! The face seemed well known to me, but the dress
has changed you entirely, for I saw you in old times in a Prussian
uniform. Now you wear the Polish dress?”

“Yes; for I have taken as my mother this Commonwealth, which
received me when a wanderer, almost in years of boyhood, and gave
me abundant bread and another mother I do not wish. You do not know
that I received citizenship after the war.”

“But you bring me good news! So Fortune favored you in this?”

“Both in this and in something else; for in Courland, on the very
boundary of Jmud, I found a man of my own name, who adopted me,
gave me his escutcheon, and bestowed on me property. He lives in
Svyenta in Courland; but on this side he has an estate called
Shkudy, which he gave me.”

“God favor you! Then you have given up war?”

“Only let the chance come, and I’ll take my place without fail. In
view of that, I have rented my land, and am waiting here for an
opening.”

“That is the courage that I like. Just as I was in youth, and I
have strength yet in my bones. What are you doing now in Warsaw?”

“I am a deputy at the Diet of Convocation.”

“God’s wounds! But you are already a Pole to the bones!”

The young knight smiled. “To my soul, which is better.”

“Are you married?”

Ketling sighed. “No.”

“Only that is lacking. But I think--wait a minute! But has that old
feeling for Panna Billevich gone out of your mind?”

“Since you know of that which I thought my secret, be assured that
no new one has come.”

“Oh, leave her in peace! She will soon give the world a young
Kmita. Never mind! What sort of work is it to sigh when another
is living with her in better confidence? To tell the truth, ’tis
ridiculous.”

Ketling raised his pensive eyes. “I have said only that no new
feeling has come.”

“It will come, never fear! we’ll have you married. I know from
experience that in love too great constancy brings merely
suffering. In my time I was as constant as Troilus, and lost a
world of pleasure and a world of good opportunities; and how much I
suffered!”

“God grant every one to retain such jovial humor as your grace!”

“Because I lived in moderation always, therefore I have no aches in
my bones. Where are you stopping? Have you found lodgings?”

“I have a comfortable cottage, which I built after the war.”

“You are fortunate; but I have been travelling through the whole
city in vain since yesterday.”

“For God’s sake! my benefactor, you will not refuse, I hope, to
stop with me. There is room enough; besides the house, there are
wings and a commodious stable. You will find room for your servants
and horses.”

“You have fallen from heaven, as God is dear to me!”

Ketling took a seat in the wagon and they drove forward. On the way
Zagloba told him of the misfortune that had met Pan Michael, and he
wrung his hands, for hitherto he had not heard of it.

“The dart is all the keener for me,” said he, at last; “and perhaps
your grace does not know what a friendship sprang up between us
in recent times. Together we went through all the later wars
with Prussia, at the besieging of fortresses, where there were
only Swedish garrisons. We went to the Ukraine and against Pan
Lyubomirski, and after the death of the voevoda of Rus, to the
Ukraine a second time under Sobieski, the marshal of the kingdom.
The same saddle served us as a pillow, and we ate from the same
dish; we were called Castor and Pollux. And only when he went for
his affianced, did the moment of separation come. Who could think
that his best hopes would vanish like an arrow in the air?”

“There is nothing fixed in this vale of tears,” said Zagloba.

“Except steady friendship. We must take counsel and learn where he
is at this moment. We may hear something from the marshal of the
kingdom, who loves Michael as the apple of his eye. If he can tell
nothing, there are deputies here from all sides. It cannot be that
no man has heard of such a knight. In what I have power, in that I
will aid you, more quickly than if the question affected myself.”

Thus conversing, they came at last to Ketling’s cottage, which
turned out to be a mansion. Inside was every kind of order and no
small number of costly utensils, either purchased, or obtained in
campaigns. The collection of weapons especially was remarkable.
Zagloba was delighted with what he saw, and said,--

“Oh, you could find lodgings here for twenty men. It was lucky
for me that I met you. I might have occupied apartments with Pan
Anton Hrapovitski, for he is an acquaintance and friend. The
Patses also invited me,--they are seeking partisans against the
Radzivills,--but I prefer to be with you.”

“I have heard among the Lithuanian deputies,” said Ketling, “that
since the turn comes now to Lithuania, they wish absolutely to
choose Pan Hrapovitski as marshal of the Diet.”

“And justly. He is an honest man and a sensible one, but too
good-natured. For him there is nothing more precious than harmony;
he is only seeking to reconcile some man with some other, and that
is useless. But tell me sincerely, what is Boguslav Radzivill to
you?”

“From the time that Pan Kmita’s Tartars took me captive at Warsaw,
he has been nothing; for although he is a great lord, he is a
perverse and malicious man. I saw enough of him when he plotted in
Taurogi against that being superior to earth.”

“How superior to earth? What are you talking of, man? She is of
clay, and may be broken like any clay vessel. But that is no
matter.”

Here Zagloba grew purple from rage, till the eyes were starting
from his head. “Imagine to yourself, that ruffian is a deputy!”

“Who?” asked in astonishment Ketling, whose mind was still on
Olenka.

“Boguslav Radzivill! But the verification of powers,--what is that
for? Listen: you are a deputy; you can raise the question. I will
roar to you from the gallery in support; have no fear on that
point. The right is with us; and if they try to degrade the right,
a tumult may be raised in the audience that will not pass without
blood.”

“Do not do that, your grace, for God’s sake! I will raise the
question, for it is proper to do so; but God preserve us from
stopping the Diet!”

“I will go to Hrapovitski, though he is lukewarm; but no matter,
much depends on him as the future marshal. I will rouse the Patses.
At least I will mention in public all Boguslav’s intrigues.
Moreover, I have heard on the road that that ruffian thinks of
seeking the crown for himself.”

“A nation would have come to its final decline and would not be
worthy of life if such a man could become king,” said Ketling. “But
rest now, and on some later day we will go to the marshal of the
kingdom and inquire about our friend.”




CHAPTER V.


Some days later came the opening of the Diet, over which, as
Ketling had foreseen, Pan Hrapovitski was chosen to preside; he
was at that time chamberlain of Smolensk, and afterward voevoda
of Vityebsk. Since the only question was to fix the time of
election and appoint the supreme Chapter, and as intrigues of
various parties could not find a field in such questions, the
Diet was carried on calmly enough. The question of verification
roused it merely a little in the very beginning. When the deputy
Ketling challenged the election of the secretary of Belsk and his
colleague, Prince Boguslav Radzivill, some powerful voice in the
audience shouted “Traitor! foreign official!” After that voice
followed others; some deputies joined them; and all at once the
Diet was divided into two parties,--one striving to exclude the
deputies of Belsk, the other to confirm their election. Finally
a court was appointed to settle the question, and recognized the
election. Still, the blow was a painful one to Prince Boguslav.
This alone, that the Diet was considering whether the prince was
qualified to sit in the chamber; this alone, that all his treasons
and treacheries in time of the Swedish invasion were mentioned
in public,--covered him with fresh disgrace in the eyes of the
Commonwealth, and undermined fundamentally all his ambitious
designs. For it was his calculation that when the partisans of
Condé, Neuburgh, and Lorraine, not counting inferior candidates,
had injured one another mutually, the choice might fall easily on
a man of the country. Hence, pride and his sycophants told him
that if that were to happen, the man of the country could be no
other than a man endowed with the highest genius, and of the most
powerful and famous family,--in other words, he himself.

Keeping matters in secret till the hour came, the prince spread
his nets in advance over Lithuania, and just then he was spreading
them in Warsaw, when suddenly he saw that in the very beginning
they were torn, and such a broad rent made that all the fish might
escape through it easily. He gritted his teeth during the whole
time of the court; and since he could not wreak his vengeance on
Ketling, as he was a deputy, he announced among his attendants a
reward to him who would indicate that spectator who had cried out
just after Ketling’s proposal, “Traitor! foreign official!”

Zagloba’s name was too famous to remain hidden long; moreover,
he did not conceal himself in any way. The prince indeed raised
a still greater uproar, but was disconcerted not a little when
he heard that he was met by so popular a man and one whom it was
dangerous to attack.

Zagloba too knew his own power; for when threats had begun to fly
about, he said once at a great meeting of nobles, “I do not know
if there would be danger to any one should a hair of my head fall.
The election is not distant; and when a hundred thousand sabres
of brothers are collected, there may easily be some making of
mince-meat.”

These words reached the prince, who only bit his lips and smiled
sneeringly; but in his soul he thought that the old man was right.
On the following day he changed his plans evidently with regard to
the old knight, for when some one spoke of Zagloba at a feast given
by the prince chamberlain, Boguslav said,--

“That noble is greatly opposed to me, as I hear; but I have such
love for knightly people that even if he does not cease to injure
me in future, I shall always love him.”

And a week later the prince repeated the same directly to Pan
Zagloba, when they met at the house of the Grand Hetman Sobieski.
Though Zagloba preserved a calm face, full of courage, the heart
fluttered a little in his breast at sight of the prince; for
Boguslav had far-reaching hands, and was a man-eater of whom all
were in dread. The prince called out, however, across the whole
table,--

“Gracious Pan Zagloba, the report has come to me that you, though
not a deputy, wished to drive me, innocent man, from the Diet;
but I forgive you in Christian fashion, and should you ever need
advancement, I shall not be slow to serve you.”

“I merely stood by the Constitution,” answered Zagloba, “as a noble
is bound to do; as to assistance, at my age it is likely that the
assistance of God is needed most, for I am near ninety.”

“A beautiful age if its virtue is as great as its length, and this
I have not the least wish to doubt.”

“I served my country and my king without seeking strange gods.”

The prince frowned a little. “You served against me too; I know
that. But let there be harmony between us. All is forgotten, and
this too, that you aided the private hatred of another against me.
With that enemy I have still some accounts; but I extend my hand to
your grace, and offer my friendship.”

“I am only a poor man; the friendship is too high for me. I should
have to stand on tiptoe, or spring to it; and that in old age is
annoying. If your princely grace is speaking of accounts with Pan
Kmita, my friend, then I should be glad from my heart to leave that
arithmetic.”

“But why so, I pray?” asked the prince.

“For there are four fundamental rules in arithmetic. Though Pan
Kmita has a respectable fortune, it is a fly if compared with your
princely wealth; therefore Pan Kmita will not consent to division.
He is occupied with multiplication himself, and will let no man
take aught from him, though he might give something to others, I do
not think that your princely grace would be eager to take what he’d
give you.”

Though Boguslav was trained in word-fencing, still, whether it was
Zagloba’s argument or his insolence that astonished him so much, he
forgot the tongue in his own mouth. The breasts of those present
began to shake from laughter. Pan Sobieski laughed with his whole
soul, and said,--

“He is an old warrior of Zbaraj. He knows how to wield a sabre, but
is no common player with the tongue. Better let him alone.”

In fact, Boguslav, seeing that he had hit upon an irreconcilable,
did not try further to capture Zagloba; but beginning conversation
with another man, he cast from time to time malign glances across
the table at the old knight.

But Sobieski was delighted, and continued, “You are a master, lord
brother,--a genuine master. Have you ever found your equal in this
Commonwealth?”

“At the sabre,” answered Zagloba, satisfied with the praise,
“Volodyovski has come up to me; and Kmita too I have trained not
badly.”

Saying this, he looked at Boguslav; but the prince feigned not to
hear him, and spoke diligently with his neighbor.

“Why!” said the hetman, “I have seen Pan Michael at work more than
once, and would guarantee him even if the fate of all Christendom
were at stake. It is a pity that a thunderbolt, as it were, has
struck such a soldier.”

“But what has happened to him?” asked Sarbyevski, the sword-bearer
of Tsehanov.

“The maiden he loved died in Chenstohova,” answered Zagloba; “and
the worst is that I cannot learn from any source where he is.”

“But I saw him,” cried Pan Varshytski, the castellan of Cracow.
“While coming to Warsaw, I saw him on the road coming hither
also; and he told me that being disgusted with the world and its
vanities, he was going to Mons Regius to end his suffering life in
prayer and meditation.”

Zagloba caught at the remnant of his hair. “He has become a monk
of Camaldoli, as God is dear to me!” exclaimed he, in the greatest
despair.

Indeed, the statement of the castellan had made no small impression
on all. Pan Sobieski, who loved soldiers, and knew himself best
how the country needed them, was pained deeply, and said after a
pause,--

“It is not proper to oppose the free-will of men and the glory of
God, but it is a pity to lose him; and it is hard for me to hide
from you, gentlemen, that I am grieved. From the school of Prince
Yeremi that was an excellent soldier against every enemy, but
against the horde and ruffiandom incomparable. There are only a few
such partisans in the steppes, such as Pan Pivo among the Cossacks,
and Pan Rushchyts in the cavalry; but even these are not equal to
Pan Michael.”

“It is fortunate that the times are somewhat calmer,” said the
sword-bearer of Tsehanov, “and that Paganism observes faithfully
the treaty of Podhaytse extorted by the invincible sword of my
benefactor.”

Here the sword-bearer inclined before Sobieski, who rejoiced in
his heart at the public praise, and answered, “That was due, in
the first instance, to the goodness of God, who permitted me to
stand at the threshold of the Commonwealth, and cut the enemy
somewhat; and in the second, to the courage of good soldiers who
are ready for everything. That the Khan would be glad to keep
the treaties, I know; but in the Crimea itself there are tumults
against the Khan, and the Belgrod horde does not obey him at all.
I have just received tidings that on the Moldavian boundary clouds
are collecting, and that raids may come in; I have given orders to
watch the roads carefully, but I have not soldiers sufficient. If I
send some to one place, an opening is left in another. I need men
trained specially and knowing the ways of the horde; this is why I
am so sorry for Volodyovski.”

In answer to this, Zagloba took from his temples the hands with
which he was pressing his head, and cried, “But he will not remain
a monk, even if I have to make an assault on Mons Regius and
take him by force. For God’s sake! I will go to him straightway
to-morrow, and perhaps he will obey my persuasion; if not, I will
go to the primate, to the prior. Even if I have to go to Rome, I
will go. I have no wish to detract from the glory of God; but what
sort of a monk would he be without a beard? He has as much hair on
his face as I on my fist! As God is dear to me, he will never be
able to sing Mass; or if he sings it, the rats will run out of the
cloister, for they will think a tom-cat is wailing. Forgive me,
gentlemen, for speaking what sorrow brings to my tongue. If I had
a son, I could not love him as I do that man. God be with him! God
be with him! Even if he were to become a Bernardine, but a monk of
Camaldoli! As I sit here, a living man, nothing can come of this! I
will go straightway to the primate to-morrow, for a letter to the
prior.”

“He cannot have made vows yet,” put in the marshal, “but let not
your grace be too urgent, lest he grow stubborn; and it is needful
to reckon with this too,--has not the will of God appeared in his
intention?”

“The will of God? The will of God does not come on a sudden; as
the old proverb says, ‘What is sudden is of the Devil.’ If it were
the will of God, I should have noted the wish long ago in him; and
he was not a priest, but a dragoon. If he had made such a resolve
while in full reason, in meditation and calmness, I should say
nothing; but the will of God does not strike a despairing man as
a falcon does a duck. I will not press him. Before I go I will
meditate well with myself what to say, so that he may not play the
fox to begin with; but in God is my hope. This little soldier has
confided always more to my wit than his own, and will do the like
this time, I trust, unless he has changed altogether.”




CHAPTER VI.


Next day, Zagloba, armed with a letter from the primate, and having
a complete plan made with Ketling, rang the bell at the gate of
the monastery on Mons Regius. His heart was beating with violence
at this thought, “How will Michael receive me?” and though he had
prepared in advance what to say, he acknowledged himself that much
depended on the reception. Thinking thus, he pulled the bell a
second time; and when the key squeaked in the lock, and the door
opened a little, he thrust himself into it straightway a trifle
violently, and said to the confused young monk,--

“I know that to enter here a special permission is needed; but I
have a letter from the archbishop, which you, _carissime frater_,
will be pleased to give the reverend prior.”

“It will be done according to the wish of your grace,” said the
doorkeeper, inclining at sight of the primate’s seal.

Then he pulled a strap hanging at the tongue of a bell, and pulled
twice to call some one, for he himself had no right to go from
the door. Another monk appeared at that summons, and taking the
letter, departed in silence. Zagloba placed on a bench a package
which he had with him, then sat down and began to puff wonderfully.
“Brother,” said he, at last, “how long have you been in the
cloister?”

“Five years,” answered the porter.

“Is it possible? so young, and five years already! Then it is
too late to leave, even if you wanted to do so. You must yearn
sometimes for the world; the world smells of war for one man, of
feasts for another, of fair heads for a third.”

“Avaunt!” said the monk, making the sign of the cross with devotion.

“How is that? Has not the temptation to go out of the cloister come
on you?” continued Zagloba.

The monk looked with distrust at the envoy of the archbishop,
speaking in such marvellous fashion, and answered, “When the door
here closes on any man, he never goes out.”

“We’ll see that yet! What is happening to Pan Volodyovski? Is he
well?”

“There is no one here named in that way.”

“Brother Michael?” said Zagloba, on trial. “Former colonel of
dragoons, who came here not long since.”

“We call him Brother Yerzy; but he has not made his vows yet, and
cannot make them till the end of the term.”

“And surely he will not make them; for you will not believe,
brother, what a woman’s man he is! You could not find another man
so hostile to woman’s virtue in all the clois-- I meant to say in
all the cavalry.”

“It is not proper for me to hear this,” said the monk, with
increasing astonishment and confusion.

“Listen, brother; I do not know where you receive visitors, but if
it is in this place, I advise you to withdraw a little when Brother
Yerzy comes,--as far as that gate, for instance,--for we shall talk
here of very worldly matters.”

“I prefer to go away at once,” said the monk.

Meanwhile Pan Michael, or rather Brother Yerzy, appeared; but
Zagloba did not recognize the approaching man, for Pan Michael had
changed greatly. To begin with, he seemed taller in the long white
habit than in the dragoon jacket; secondly, his mustaches, pointing
upward toward his eyes formerly, were hanging down now, and he was
trying to let out his beard, which formed two little yellow tresses
not longer than half a finger; finally, he had grown very thin and
meagre, and his eyes had lost their former glitter. He approached
slowly, with his hands hidden on his bosom under his habit, and
with drooping head.

Zagloba, not recognizing him, thought that perhaps the prior
himself was coming; therefore he rose from the bench and began,
“Laudetur--” Suddenly he looked more closely, opened his arms, and
cried, “Pan Michael! Pan Michael!”

Brother Yerzy let himself be seized in the embrace; something like
a sob shook his breast, but his eyes remained dry. Zagloba pressed
him a long time; at last he began to speak,--

“You have not been alone in weeping over your misfortune. I wept;
Yan and his family wept; the Kmitas wept. It is the will of God! be
resigned to it, Michael. May the Merciful Father comfort and reward
you! You have done well to shut yourself in for a time in these
walls. There is nothing better than prayer and pious meditation in
misfortune. Come, let me embrace you again! I can hardly see you
through my tears.”

And Zagloba wept with sincerity, moved at the sight of Pan Michael.
“Pardon me for disturbing your meditation,” said he, at last; “but
I could not act otherwise, and you will do me justice when I give
you my reasons. Ai, Michael! you and I have gone through a world of
evil and of good. Have you found consolation behind these bars?”

“I have,” replied Pan Michael,--“in those words which I hear in
this place daily, and repeat, and which I desire to repeat till my
death, _memento mori_. In death is consolation for me.”

“H’m! death is more easily found on the battlefield than in the
cloister, where life passes as if some one were unwinding thread
from a ball, slowly.”

“There is no life here, for there are no earthly questions; and
before the soul leaves the body, it lives, as it were, in another
world.”

“If that is true, I will not tell you that the Belgrod horde
are mustering in great force against the Commonwealth; for what
interest can that have for you?”

Pan Michael’s mustaches quivered on a sudden, and he stretched his
right hand unwittingly to his left side; but not finding a sword
there, he put both hands under his habit, dropped his head, and
repeated, “Memento mori!”

“Justly, justly!” answered Zagloba, blinking his sound eye with a
certain impatience. “No longer ago than yesterday Pan Sobieski, the
hetman, said: ‘Only let Volodyovski serve even through this one
storm, and then let him go to whatever cloister he likes. God would
not be angry for the deed; on the contrary, such a monk would have
all the greater merit.’ But there is no reason to wonder that you
put your own peace above the happiness of the country, for _prima
charitas ab ego_ (the first love is of self).”

A long interval of silence followed; only Pan Michael’s mustaches
stood out somewhat and began to move quickly, though lightly.

“You have not taken your vows yet,” asked Zagloba, at last, “and
you can go out at any moment?”

“I am not a monk yet, for I have been waiting for the favor of
God, and waiting till all painful thoughts of earth should leave
my soul. His favor is upon me now; peace is returning to me. I can
go out; but I have no wish to go, since the time is drawing near
in which I can make my vows with a clear conscience and free from
earthly desires.”

“I have no wish to lead you away from this; on the contrary, I
applaud your resolution, though I remember that when Yan in his
time intended to become a monk, he waited till the country was
free from the storm of the enemy. But do as you wish. In truth,
it is not I who will lead you away; for I myself in my own time
felt a vocation for monastic life. Fifty years ago I even began my
novitiate; I am a rogue if I did not. Well, God gave me another
direction. Only I tell you this, Michael, you must go out with me
now even for two days.”

“Why must I go out? Leave me in peace!” said Volodyovski.

Zagloba raised the skirt of his coat to his eyes and began to sob.
“I do not beg rescue for myself,” said he, in a broken voice,
“though Prince Boguslav Radzivill is hunting me with vengeance; he
puts his murderers in ambush against me, and there is no one to
defend and protect me, old man. I was thinking that you-- But never
mind! I will love you all my life, even if you are unwilling to
know me. Only pray for my soul, for I shall not escape Boguslav’s
hands. Let that come upon me which has to come; but another friend
of yours, who shared every morsel of bread with you, is now on his
death-bed, and wishes to see you without fail. He is unwilling to
die without you; for he has some confession to make on which his
soul’s peace depends.”

Pan Michael, who had heard of Zagloba’s danger with great emotion,
sprang forward now, and seizing him by the arms, inquired, “Is it
Pan Yan?”

“No, not Yan, but Ketling!”

“For God’s sake! what has happened to him?”

“He was shot by Prince Boguslav’s ruffians while defending me; I
know not whether he will be alive in twenty-four hours. It is for
you, Michael, that we have both fallen into these straits, for we
came to Warsaw only to think out some consolation for you. Come
for even two days, and console a dying man. You will return later;
you will become a monk. I have brought the recommendation of the
primate to the prior to raise no impediment against you. Only
hasten, for every moment is precious.”

“For God’s sake!” cried Pan Michael; “what do I hear? Impediments
cannot keep me, for so far I am here only on meditation. As God
lives, the prayer of a dying man is sacred! I cannot refuse that.”

“It would be a mortal sin!” cried Zagloba.

“That is true! It is always that traitor, Boguslav--But if I do not
avenge Ketling, may I never come back! I will find those ruffians,
and I will split their skulls! O Great God! sinful thoughts are
already attacking me! _Memento mori!_ Only wait here till I put on
my old clothes, for it is not permitted to go out in the habit.”

“Here are clothes!” cried Zagloba, springing to the bundle, which
was lying there on the bench near them. “I foresaw everything,
prepared everything! Here are boots, a rapier, a good overcoat.”

“Come to the cell,” said the little knight, with haste.

They went to the cell; and when they came out again, near Zagloba
walked, not a white monk, but an officer with yellow boots to the
knees, with a rapier at his side, and a white pendant across his
shoulder. Zagloba blinked and smiled under his mustaches at sight
of the brother at the door, who, evidently scandalized, opened the
gate to the two.

Not far from the cloister and lower down, Zagloba’s wagon was
waiting, and with it two attendants. One was sitting on the seat,
holding the reins of four well-attached horses; at these Pan
Michael cast quickly the eye of an expert. The other stood near
the wagon, with a mouldy, big-bellied bottle in one hand, and two
goblets in the other.

“It is a good stretch of road to Mokotov,” said Zagloba; “and
harsh sorrow is waiting for us at the bedside of Ketling. Drink
something, Michael, to gain strength to endure all this, for you
are greatly reduced.”

Saying this, Zagloba took the bottle from the hands of the man and
filled both glasses with Hungarian so old that it was thick from
age.

“This is a goodly drink,” said Zagloba, placing the bottle on the
ground and taking the goblets. “To the health of Ketling!”

“To his health!” repeated Pan Michael. “Let us hurry!”

They emptied the glasses at a draught.

“Let us hurry,” repeated Zagloba. “Pour out, man!” said he, turning
to the servant. “To the health of Pan Yan! Let us hurry!”

They emptied the goblets again at a draught, for there was real
urgency.

“Let us take our seats!” cried Pan Michael.

“But will you not drink my health?” asked Zagloba, with a
complaining voice.

“If quickly!”

And they drank quickly. Zagloba emptied the goblet at a breath,
though there was half a quart in it, then without wiping his
mustaches, he cried, “I should be thankless not to drink your
health. Pour out, man!”

“With thanks!” answered Brother Yerzy.

The bottom appeared in the bottle, which Zagloba seized by the neck
and broke into small pieces, for he never could endure the sight of
empty vessels. Then he took his seat quickly, and they rode on.

The noble drink soon filled their veins with beneficent warmth,
and their hearts with a certain consolation. The cheeks of Brother
Yerzy were covered with a slight scarlet, and his glance regained
its former vivacity. He stretched his hand unwittingly once, twice,
to his mustaches, and turned them upward like awls, till at last
they came near his eyes. He began meanwhile to gaze around with
great curiosity, as if looking at the country for the first time.
All at once Zagloba struck his palms on his knees and cried without
evident reason,--

“Ho! ho! I hope that Ketling will return to health when he sees
you! Ho! ho!”

And clasping Pan Michael around the neck, he began to embrace him
with all his power. Pan Michael did not wish to remain in debt to
Zagloba; he pressed him with the utmost sincerity. They went on
for some time in silence, but in a happy one. Meanwhile the small
houses of the suburbs began to appear on both sides of the road.
Before the houses there was a great movement. On this side and
that, townspeople were strolling, servants in various liveries,
soldiers and nobles, frequently very well-dressed.

“Swarms of nobles have come to the Diet,” said Zagloba; “for though
not one of them is a deputy, they wish to be present, to hear and
to see. The houses and inns are so filled everywhere that it is
hard to find a room, and how many noble women are strolling along
the streets! I tell you that you could not count them on the hairs
of your beard. They are pretty too, the rogues, so that sometimes a
man has the wish to slap his hands on his sides as a cock does his
wings, and crow. But look! look at that brunette behind whom the
haiduk is carrying the green shuba; isn’t she splendid? Eh?”

Here Zagloba nudged Pan Michael in the side with his fist, and Pan
Michael looked, moved his mustaches; his eyes glittered, but in
that moment he grew shamefaced, dropped his head, and said after a
brief silence, “Memento mori!”

But Zagloba clasped him again, and cried, “As you love me, _per
amicitiam nostram_ (by our friendship), as you respect me, get
married. There are so many worthy maidens, get married!”

Brother Yerzy looked with astonishment on his friend. Zagloba
could not be drunk, however, for many a time he had taken thrice
as much wine without visible effect; therefore he spoke only from
tenderness. But all thoughts of marriage were far away then from
the head of Pan Michael, so that in the first instant astonishment
overcame in him indignation; then he looked severely into the eyes
of Zagloba and asked,--

“Are you tipsy?”

“From my whole heart I say to you, get married!”

Pan Michael looked still more severely. “Memento mori.”

But Zagloba was not easily disconcerted. “Michael, if you love me,
do this for me, and kiss a dog on the snout with your ‘memento.’
I repeat, you will do as you please, but I think in this way: Let
each man serve God with that for which he was created; and God
created you for the sword: in this His will is evident, since He
has permitted you to attain such perfection in the use of it. In
case He wished you to be a priest, He would have adorned you with a
wit altogether different, and inclined your heart more to books and
to Latin. Consider, too, that soldier saints enjoy no less respect
in heaven than saints with vows, and they go campaigning against
the legions of hell, and receive rewards from God’s hands when they
return with captured banners. All this is true; you will not deny
it?”

“I do not deny it, and I know that it is hard to skirmish against
your reasoning; but you also will not deny that for grief life is
better in the cloister than in the world.”

“If it is better, bah! then all the more should cloisters be
shunned. Dull is the man who feeds mourning instead of keeping it
hungry, so that the beast may die of famine as quickly as possible.”

Pan Michael found no ready argument; therefore he was silent, and
only after a while answered with a sad voice, “Do not mention
marriage, for such mention only rouses fresh grief in me. My old
desire will not revive, for it has passed away with tears; and my
years are not suitable. My hair is beginning to whiten. Forty-two
years, and twenty-five of them spent in military toil, are no jest,
no jest!”

“O God, do not punish him for blasphemy! Forty-two years! Tfu! I
have more than twice as many on my shoulders, and still at times I
must discipline myself to shake the heat out of my blood, as dust
is shaken from clothing. Respect the memory of that dear dead one.
You were good enough for her, I suppose? But for others are you too
cheap, too old?”

“Give me peace! give me peace!” said Pan Michael, with a voice of
pain; and the tears began to flow to his mustaches.

“I will not say another syllable,” added Zagloba; “only give me the
word of a cavalier that no matter what happens to Ketling you will
stay a month with us. You must see Yan. If you wish afterward to
return to the cloister, no one will raise an impediment.”

“I give my word,” said Pan Michael.

And they fell to talking of something else. Zagloba began to tell
of the Diet, and how he had raised the question of excluding Prince
Boguslav, and of the adventure with Ketling. Occasionally, however,
he interrupted the narrative and buried himself in thoughts; they
must have been cheerful, for from time to time he struck his knees
with his palms, and repeated,--

“Ho! ho!”

But as he approached Mokotov, a certain disquiet appeared on his
face. He turned suddenly to Pan Michael and said, “Your word is
given, you remember, that no matter what happens to Ketling, you
will stay a month with us.”

“I gave it, and I will stay,” said Pan Michael.

“Here is Ketling’s house,” cried Zagloba,--“a respectable place.”
Then he shouted to the driver, “Fire out of your whip! There will
be a festival in this house to-day.”

Loud cracks were heard from the whip. But the wagon had not entered
the gate when a number of officers rushed from the ante-room,
acquaintances of Pan Michael; among them also were old comrades
from the days of Hmelnitski and young officers of recent times.
Of the latter were Pan Vasilevski and Pan Novoveski,--youths
yet, but fiery cavaliers who in years of boyhood had broken away
from school and had been working at war for some years under Pan
Michael. These the little knight loved beyond measure. Among the
oldest was Pan Orlik of the shield Novin, with a skull stopped with
gold, for a Swedish grenade had taken a piece of it on a time; and
Pan Rushchyts, a half-wild knight of the steppes, an incomparable
partisan, second in fame to Pan Michael alone; and a number of
others. All, seeing the two men in the wagon, began to shout,--

“He is there! he is there! Zagloba has conquered! He is there!”

And rushing to the wagon, they seized the little knight in their
arms and bore him to the entrance, repeating, “Welcome! dearest
comrade, live for us! We have you; we won’t let you go! Vivat
Volodyovski, the first cavalier, the ornament of the whole army!
To the steppe with us, brother! To the wild fields! There the wind
will blow your grief away.”

They let him out of their arms only at the entrance. He greeted
them all, for he was greatly touched by that reception, and then he
inquired at once, “How is Ketling? Is he alive yet?”

“Alive! alive!” answered they, in a chorus, and the mustaches of
the old soldiers began to move with a strange smile. “Go to him,
for he cannot stay lying down; he is waiting for you impatiently.”

“I see that he is not so near death as Pan Zagloba said,” answered
the little knight.

Meanwhile they entered the ante-room and passed thence to a large
chamber, in the middle of which stood a table with a feast on it;
in one corner was a plank bed covered with white horse-skin, on
which Ketling was lying.

“Oh, my friend!” said Pan Michael, hastening toward him.

“Michael!” cried Ketling, and springing to his feet as if in the
fulness of strength, he seized the little knight in his embrace.

They pressed each other then so eagerly that Ketling raised
Volodyovski, and Volodyovski Ketling.

“They commanded me to simulate sickness,” said the Scot, “to feign
death: but when I saw you, I could not hold out. I am as well as
a fish, and no misfortune has met me. But it was a question of
getting you out of the cloister. Forgive, Michael. We invented this
ambush out of love for you.”

“To the wild fields with us!” cried the knights, again; and they
struck with their firm palms on their sabres till a terrible
clatter was raised in the room.

But Pan Michael was astounded. For a time he was silent, then
he began to look at all, especially at Zagloba. “Oh, traitors!”
exclaimed he, at last, “I thought that Ketling was wounded unto
death.”

“How is that, Michael?” cried Zagloba. “You are angry because
Ketling is well? You grudge him his health, and wish death to
him? Has your heart become stone in such fashion that you would
gladly see all of us ghosts, and Ketling, and Pan Orlik, and Pan
Rushchyts, and these youths,--nay, even Pan Yan, even me, who
love you as a son?” Here Zagloba closed his eyes and cried still
more piteously, “We have nothing to live for, gracious gentlemen;
there is no thankfulness left in this world; there is nothing but
callousness.”

“For God’s sake!” answered Pan Michael, “I do not wish you ill, but
you have not respected my grief.”

“Have pity on our lives!” repeated Zagloba.

“Give me peace!”

“He says that we show no respect to his grief; but what fountains
we have poured out over him, gracious gentlemen! We have, Michael.
I take God to witness that we should be glad to bear apart your
grief on our sabres, for comrades should always act thus. But since
you have given your word to stay with us a month, then love us at
least for that month.”

“I will love you till death,” said Pan Michael.

Further conversation was interrupted by the coming of a new guest.
The soldiers, occupied with Volodyovski, had not heard the arrival
of that guest, and saw him only when he was standing in the door.
He was a man enormous in stature, of majestic form and bearing.
He had the face of a Roman emperor; in it was power, and at the
same time the true kindness and courtesy of a monarch. He differed
entirely from all those soldiers around him; he grew notably
greater in face of them, as if the eagle, king of birds, had
appeared among hawks, falcons, and merlins.

“The grand hetman!” cried Ketling, and sprang up, as the host, to
greet him.

“Pan Sobieski!” cried others.

All heads were inclined in an obeisance of deep homage. All
save Pan Michael knew that the hetman would come, for he had
promised Ketling; still, his arrival had produced so profound an
impression that for a time no one dared to speak first. That too
was homage extraordinary. But Sobieski loved soldiers beyond all
men, especially those with whom he had galloped over the necks of
Tartar chambuls so often; he looked on them as his own family, and
for this reason specially he had determined to greet Volodyovski,
to comfort him, and finally, by showing such unusual favor and
attention, to retain him in the ranks of the army. Therefore when
he had greeted Ketling, he stretched out his hands at once to the
little knight; and when the latter approached and seized him by the
knees, Sobieski pressed the head of Pan Michael with his palms.

“Old soldier,” said he, “the hand of God has bent thee to the
earth, but it will raise thee, and give comfort. God aid thee! Thou
wilt stay with us now.”

Sobbing shook the breast of Pan Michael. “I will stay!” said he,
with tears.

“That is well; give me of such men as many as possible. And now,
old comrade, let us recall those times which we passed in the
Russian steppes, when we sat down to feast under tents. I am happy
among you. Now, our host, now!”

“Vivat Joannes dux!” shouted every voice.

The feast began and lasted long. Next day the hetman sent a
cream-colored steed of great price to Pan Michael.




CHAPTER VII.


Ketling and Pan Michael promised each other to ride stirrup to
stirrup again should occasion offer, to sit at one fire, and to
sleep with their heads on one saddle. But meanwhile an event
separated them. Not later than a week after their first greeting,
a messenger came from Courland with notice that that Hassling who
had adopted the youthful Scot and given him his property had fallen
suddenly ill, and wished greatly to see his adopted son. The young
knight did not hesitate; he mounted his horse and rode away. Before
his departure he begged Zagloba and Pan Michael to consider his
house as their own, and to live there until they were tired of it.

“Pan Yan may come,” said he. “During the election he will come
himself surely; even should he bring all his children, there will
be room here for the whole family. I have no relatives; and even if
I had brothers, they would not be nearer to me than you are.”

Zagloba especially was gratified by these invitations, for he was
very comfortable in Ketling’s house; but they were pleasant for
Pan Michael also. Pan Yan did not come, but Pan Michael’s sister
announced her arrival. She was married to Pan Makovetski, stolnik
of Latychov. His messenger came to the residence of the hetman
to inquire if any of his attendants knew of the little knight.
Evidently Ketling’s house was indicated to him at once.

Volodyovski was greatly delighted, for whole years had passed
since he had seen his sister; and when he learned that, in absence
of better lodgings, she had stopped at Rybaki in a poor little
cottage, he flew off straightway to invite her to Ketling’s house.
It was dusk when he rushed into her presence; but he knew her
at once, though two other women were with her in the room, for
the lady was small of stature, like a ball of thread. She too
recognized him; while the other women stood like two candles and
looked at the greeting.

Pani Makovetski found speech first, and began to cry out in a
thin and rather squeaking voice, “So many years,--so many years!
God give you aid, dearest brother! The moment the news of your
misfortune came, I sprang up at once to come hither; and my husband
did not detain me, for a storm is threatening us from the side of
Budjyak. People are talking also of the Belgrod Tartars; and surely
the roads are growing black, for tremendous flocks of birds are
appearing, and before every invasion it is that way. God console
you, beloved, dear, golden brother! My husband must come to the
election himself, so this is what he said: ‘Take the young ladies,
and go on before me. You will comfort Michael,’ said he, ‘in his
grief; and you must hide your head somewhere from the Tartars, for
the country here will be in a blaze, therefore one thing fits with
another. Go,’ said he, ‘to Warsaw, hire good lodgings in time, so
there may be some place to live in.’ He, with men of those parts,
is listening on the roads. There are few troops in the country; it
is always that way with us. You, Michael, my loved one, come to the
window, let me look in your face; your lips have grown thin, but
in grief it cannot be otherwise. It was easy for my husband to say
in Russia, ‘Find lodgings!’ but here there is nothing anywhere. We
are in this hovel; you see it. I have hardly been able to get three
bundles of straw to sleep on.”

“Permit me, sister,” said the little knight.

But the sister would not permit, and spoke on, as if a mill were
rattling: “We stopped here; there was no other place. My host
looks out of his eyes like a wolf; maybe they are bad people
in the house. It is true that we have four attendants,--trusty
fellows,--and we ourselves are not timid, for in our parts a woman
must have a cavalier’s heart, or she could not live there. I have
a pistol which I carry always, and Basia[8] has two of them; but
Krysia[9] does not like fire-arms. This is a strange place, though,
and we prefer safer lodgings.”

“Permit me, sister,” repeated Volodyovski.

“But where do you live, Michael? You must help me to find lodgings,
for you have experience in Warsaw.”

“I have lodgings ready,” interrupted Pan Michael, “and such good
ones that a senator might occupy them with his retinue. I live with
my friend, Captain Ketling, and will take you with me at once.”

“But remember that there are three of us, and two servants and four
attendants. But for God’s sake! I have not made you acquainted with
the company.” Here she turned to her companions. “You know, young
ladies, who he is, but he does not know you; make acquaintance even
in the dark. The host has not heated the stove for us yet. This is
Panna Krystina Drohoyovski, and that Panna Barbara Yezorkovski. My
husband is their guardian, and takes care of their property; they
live with us, for they are orphans. To live alone does not beseem
such young ladies.”

While his sister was speaking, Pan Michael bowed in soldier
fashion; the young ladies, seizing their skirts with their fingers,
courtesied, wherewith Panna Barbara nodded like a young colt.

“Let us take our seats in the carriage, and drive on!” said the
little knight. “Pan Zagloba lives with me. I asked him to have
supper prepared for us.”

“That famous Pan Zagloba?” asked Panna Basia, all at once.

“Basia, be quiet!” said the lady. “I am afraid that there will be
annoyance.”

“Oh, if Pan Zagloba has his mind on supper,” said the little
knight, “there will be enough, even if twice as many were to come.
And, young ladies, will you give command to carry out the trunks? I
brought a wagon too for things, and Ketling’s carriage is so wide
that we four can sit in it easily. See what comes to my head; if
your attendants are not drunken fellows, let them stay here till
morning with the horses and larger effects. We’ll take now only
what things are required most.”

“We need leave nothing,” said the lady, “for our wagons are still
unpacked; just attach the horses, and they can move at once. Basia,
go and give orders!”

Basia sprang to the entrance; and a few “Our Fathers” later she
returned with the announcement that all was ready.

“It is time to go,” said Pan Michael.

After a while they took their seats in the carriage and moved on
toward Mokotov. Pan Michael’s sister and Panna Krysia occupied the
rear seats; in front sat the little knight at the side of Basia. It
was so dark already that they could not see one another’s features.

“Young ladies, do you know Warsaw?” asked Pan Michael, bending
toward Panna Krysia, and raising his voice above the rattle of the
carriage.

“No,” answered Krysia, in a low but resonant and agreeable voice.
“We are real rustics, and up to this time have known neither famous
cities nor famous men.”

Saying this, she inclined her head somewhat, as if giving to
understand that she counted Pan Michael among the latter; he
received the answer thankfully. “A polite sort of maiden!” thought
he, and straightway began to rack his head over some kind of
compliment to be made in return.

“Even if the city were ten times greater than it is,” said he at
last, “still, ladies, you might be its most notable ornament.”

“But how do you know that in the dark?” inquired Panna Basia, on a
sudden.

“Ah, here is a kid for you!” thought Pan Michael.

But he said nothing, and they rode on in silence for some time;
Basia turned again to the little knight and asked, “Do you know
whether there will be room enough in the stable? We have ten horses
and two wagons.”

“Even if there were thirty, there would be room for them.”

“Hwew! hwew!” exclaimed the young lady.

“Basia! Basia!” said Pani Makovetski, persuasively.

“Ah, it is easy to say, ‘Basia, Basia!’ but in whose care were the
horses during the whole journey?”

Conversing thus, they arrived before Ketling’s house. All the
windows were brilliantly lighted to receive the lady. The servants
ran out with Pan Zagloba at the head of them; he, springing to the
wagon and seeing three women, inquired straightway,--

“In which lady have I the honor to greet my special benefactress,
and at the same time the sister of my best friend, Michael?”

“I am she!” answered the lady.

Then Zagloba seized her hand, and fell to kissing it eagerly,
exclaiming, “I beat with the forehead,--I beat with the forehead!”

Then he helped her to descend from the carriage, and conducted her
with great attention and clattering of feet to the ante-room. “Let
me be permitted to give greeting once more inside the threshold,”
said he, on the way.

Meanwhile Pan Michael was helping the young ladies to descend.
Since the carriage was high, and it was difficult to find the steps
in the darkness, he caught Panna Krysia by the waist, and bearing
her through the air, placed her on the ground; and she, without
resisting, inclined during the twinkle of an eye her breast on his,
and said, “I thank you.”

Pan Michael turned then to Basia; but she had already jumped down
on the other side of the carriage, therefore he gave his arm to
Panna Krysia. In the room acquaintance with Zagloba followed. He,
at sight of the two young ladies, fell into perfect good-humor,
and invited them straightway to supper. The platters were steaming
already on the table; and as Pan Michael had foreseen, there was
such an abundance that it would have sufficed for twice as many
persons.

They sat down. Pan Michael’s sister occupied the first place; next
to her, on the right, sat Zagloba, and beyond him Panna Basia. Pan
Michael sat on the left side near Panna Krysia. And now for the
first time the little knight was able to have a good look at the
ladies. Both were comely, but each in her own style. Krysia had
hair as black as the wings of a raven, brows of the same color,
deep-blue eyes; she was a pale brunette, but of complexion so
delicate that the blue veins on her temples were visible. A barely
discernible dark down covered her upper lip, showing a mouth sweet
and attractive, as if put slightly forward for a kiss. She was in
mourning, for she had lost her father not long before, and the
color of her garments, with the delicacy of her complexion and
her dark hair, lent her a certain appearance of pensiveness and
severity. At the first glance she seemed older than her companion;
but when he had looked at her more closely, Pan Michael saw that
the blood of first youth was flowing under that transparent skin.
The more he looked, the more he admired the distinction of her
posture, the swanlike neck, and those proportions so full of maiden
charms.

“She is a great lady,” thought he, “who must have a great soul; but
the other is a regular tomboy.”

In fact, the comparison was just. Basia was much smaller than her
companion, and generally minute, though not meagre; she was ruddy
as a bunch of roses, and light-haired. Her hair had been cut,
apparently after illness, and she wore it gathered in a golden net.
But the hair would not sit quietly on her restless head; the ends
of it were peeping out through every mesh of the net, and over
her forehead formed an unordered yellow tuft which fell to her
brows like the tuft of a Cossack, which, with her quick, restless
eyes and challenging mien, made that rosy face like the face of a
student who is only watching to embroil some one and go unpunished
himself. Still, she was so shapely and fresh that it was difficult
to take one’s eyes from her; she had a slender nose, somewhat in
the air, with nostrils dilating and active; she had dimples in her
cheeks and a dimple in her chin, indicating a joyous disposition.
But now she was sitting with dignity and eating heartily, only
shooting glances every little while, now at Pan Zagloba, now at
Volodyovski, and looking at them with almost childlike curiosity,
as if at some special wonder.

Pan Michael was silent; for though he felt it his duty to entertain
Panna Krysia, he did not know how to begin. In general, the little
knight was not happy in conversation with ladies; but now he was
the more gloomy, since these maidens brought vividly to his mind
the dear dead one.

Pan Zagloba entertained Pani Makovetski, detailing to her the deeds
of Pan Michael and himself. In the middle of the supper he fell to
relating how once they had escaped with Princess Kurtsevich and
Jendzian, four of them, through a whole chambul, and how, finally,
to save the princess and stop the pursuit, they two had hurled
themselves on the chambul.

Basia stopped eating, and resting her chin on her hand, listened
carefully, shaking her forelock, at moments blinking, and snapping
her fingers in the most interesting places, and repeating, “Ah, ah!
Well, what next?” But when they came to the place where Kushel’s
dragoons rushed up with aid unexpectedly, sat on the necks of the
Tartars, and rode on, slashing them, for three miles, she could
contain herself no longer, but clapping her hands with all her
might, cried, “Ah, I should like to be there, God knows I should!”

“Basia!” cried the plump little Pani Makovetski, with a strong
Russian accent, “you have come among polite people; put away your
‘God knows.’ O Thou Great God! this alone is lacking, Basia, that
you should cry, ‘May the bullets strike me!’”

The maiden burst out into fresh laughter, resonant as silver, and
cried, “Well, then, auntie, may the bullets strike me!”

“O my God, the ears are withering on me! Beg pardon of the whole
company!” cried the lady.

Then Basia, wishing to begin with her aunt, sprang up from her
place, but at the same time dropped the knife and the spoons under
the table, and then dived down after them herself.

The plump little lady could restrain her laughter no longer;
and she had a wonderful laugh, for first she began to shake and
tremble, and then to squeak in a thin voice. All had grown joyous.
Zagloba was in raptures. “You see what a time I have with this
maiden,” said Pani Makovetski.

“She is a pure delight, as God is dear to me!” exclaimed Zagloba.

Meanwhile Basia had crept out from under the table; she had found
the spoons and the knife, but had lost her net, for her hair was
falling into her eyes altogether. She straightened herself, and
said, her nostrils quivering meanwhile, “Aha, lords and ladies, you
are laughing at my confusion. Very well!”

“No one is laughing,” said Zagloba, in a tone of conviction, “no
one is laughing,--no one is laughing! We are only rejoicing that
the Lord God has given us delight in the person of your ladyship.”

After supper they passed into the drawing-room. There Panna Krysia,
seeing a lute on the wall, took it down and began to run over the
strings. Pan Michael begged her to sing.

“I am ready, if I can drive sadness from your soul.”

“I thank you,” answered the little knight, raising his eyes to her
in gratitude.

After a while this song was heard:--

      “O knights, believe me,
      Useless is armor;
      Shields give no service;
      Cupid’s keen arrows,
      Through steel and iron,
      Go to all hearts.”

“I do not indeed know how to thank you,” said Zagloba, sitting at
a distance with Pan Michael’s sister, and kissing her hands, “for
coming yourself and bringing with you such elegant maidens that
the Graces themselves might heat stoves for them. Especially does
that little haiduk please my heart, for such a rogue drives away
sorrow in such fashion that a weasel could not hunt mice better. In
truth, what is grief unless mice gnawing the grains of joyousness
placed in our hearts? You, my benefactress, should know that our
late king, Yan Kazimir, was so fond of my comparisons that he could
not live a day without them. I had to arrange for him proverbs and
wise maxims. He used to have these repeated to him before bed-time,
and by them it was that he directed his policy. But that is
another matter. I hope too that our Michael, in company with these
delightful girls, will forget altogether his unhappy misfortune.
You do not know that it is only a week since I dragged him out
of the cloister, where he wished to make vows; but I won the
intervention of the nuncio himself, who declared to the prior that
he would make a dragoon of every monk in the cloister if he did
not let Michael out straightway. There was no reason for him to be
there. Praise be to God! Praise be to God! If not to-day, to-morrow
some one of those two will strike such sparks out of him that his
heart will be burning like punk.”

Meanwhile Krysia sang on:--

      “If shields cannot save
      From darts a strong hero,
      How can a fair head
      Guard her own weakness?
      Where can she hide!”

“The fair heads have as much fear of those shafts as a dog has of
meat,” whispered Zagloba to Pan Michael’s sister. “But confess, my
benefactress, that you did not bring these titmice here without
secret designs. They are maidens in a hundred!--especially that
little haiduk. Would that I were as blooming as she! Ah, Michael
has a cunning sister.”

Pani Makovetski put on a very artful look, which did not, however,
become her honest, simple face in the least, and said, “I thought
of this and that, as is usual with us; shrewdness is not wanting to
women. My husband had to come here to the election; and I brought
the maidens beforehand, for with us there is no one to see unless
Tartars. If anything lucky should happen to Michael from this, I
would make a pilgrimage on foot to some wonder-working image.”

“It will come; it will come!” said Zagloba.

“Both maidens are from great houses, and both have property; that,
too, means something in these grievous times.”

“There is no need to repeat that to me. The war has consumed
Michael’s fortune, though I know that he has some money laid up
with great lords. We took famous booty more than once, gracious
lady; and though that was placed at the hetman’s discretion, still,
a part went to be divided ‘according to sabres,’ as the saying is
in our soldier speech. So much came to Michael’s share more than
once that if he had saved all his own, he would have to-day a
nice fortune. But a soldier has no thought for to-morrow; he only
frolics to-day. And Michael would have frolicked away all he had,
were it not that I restrained him on every occasion. You say, then,
gracious lady, that these maidens are of high blood?”

“Krysia is of senatorial blood. It is true that our castellans on
the border are not castellans of Cracow, and there are some of whom
few in the Commonwealth have heard; but still, whoso has sat once
in a senator’s chair bequeaths to posterity his splendor. As to
relationship, Basia almost surpasses Krysia.”

“Indeed, indeed! I myself am descended from a certain king of the
Massagetes, therefore I like to hear genealogies.”

“Basia does not come from such a lofty nest as that; but if you
wish to listen,--for in our parts we can recount the relationship
of every house on our fingers,--she is, in fact, related to the
Pototskis and the Yazlovyetskis and the Lashches. You see, it was
this way.” Here Pan Michael’s sister gathered in the folds of her
dress and took a more convenient position, so that there might be
no hindrance to any part of her favorite narrative; she spread out
the fingers of one hand, and straightening the index finger of the
other, made ready to enumerate the grandfathers and grandmothers.
“The daughter of Pan Yakob Pototski, Elizabeth, from his second
wife, a Yazlovyetski, married Pan Yan Smyotanko, banneret of
Podolia.”

“I have caulked that into my memory,” said Zagloba.

“From that marriage was born Michael Smyotanko, also banneret of
Podolia.”

“H’m! a good office,” said Zagloba.

“He was married the first time to a Dorohosto--no! to a
Rojynski--no! to a Voronich! God guard me from forgetting!”

“Eternal rest to her, whatever her name was,” said Zagloba, with
gravity.

“And for his second wife he married Panna Lashch.”

“I was waiting for that! What was the result of the marriage?”

“Their sons died.”

“Every joy crumbles in this world.”

“But of four daughters, the youngest, Anna, married Yezorkovski,
of the shield Ravich, a commissioner for fixing the boundaries
of Podolia; he was afterward, if I mistake not, sword-bearer of
Podolia.”

“He was, I remember!” said Zagloba, with complete certainty.

“From that marriage, you see, was born Basia.”

“I see, and also that at this moment she is aiming Ketling’s
musket.” In fact, Krysia and the little knight were occupied in
conversation, and Basia was aiming the musket at the window for her
own amusement.

Pani Makovetski began to shake and squeak at sight of that. “You
cannot imagine what I pass through with that girl! She is a regular
haydamak.”

“If all the haydamaks were like her, I would join them at once.”

“There is nothing in her head but arms, horses, and war. Once she
broke out of the house to hunt ducks with a gun. She crept in
somewhere among the rushes, was looking ahead of her, the reeds
began to open--what did she see? The head of a Tartar stealing
along through the reeds to the village. Another woman would have
been terrified, and woe to her if she had not fired quickly; the
Tartar dropped into the water. Just imagine, she laid him out on
the spot; and with what? With duck-shot.”

Here the lady began to shake again and laugh at the mishap of the
Tartar; then she added, “And to tell the truth, she saved us all,
for a whole chambul was advancing; but as she came and gave the
alarm, we had time to escape to the woods with the servants. With
us it is always so!”

Zagloba’s face was covered with such delight that he half closed
his eye for a moment; then he sprang up, hurried to the maiden, and
before she saw him, he kissed her on the forehead. “This from an
old soldier for that Tartar in the rushes,” said he.

The maiden gave a sweeping shake to her yellow forelock. “Didn’t I
give him beans?” cried she, with her fresh, childish voice, which
sounded so strangely in view of what she meant with her words.

“Oh, my darling little haydamak!” cried Zagloba, with emotion.

“But what is one Tartar? You gentlemen have cut them down by the
thousand, and Swedes, and Germans, and Rakotsi’s Hungarians. What
am I before you, gentlemen,--before knights who have not their
equals in the Commonwealth? I know that perfectly! Oho!”

“I will teach you to work with the sabre, since you have so much
courage. I am rather heavy now, but Michael there, he too is a
master.”

The maiden sprang up in the air at such a proposal; then she kissed
Zagloba on the shoulder and courtesied to the little knight,
saying, “I give thanks for the promise. I know a little already.”

But Pan Michael was wholly occupied talking with Krysia; therefore
he answered inattentively, “Whatever you command.”

Zagloba, with radiant face, sat down again near Pani Makovetski.
“My gracious benefactress,” said he, “I know well which Turkish
sweetmeats are best, for I passed long years in Stambul; but I know
this too, that there is just a world of people hungry for them. How
has it happened that no man has coveted that maiden to this time?”

“As God lives, there was no lack of men who were courting them
both. But Basia we call, in laughing, a widow of three husbands,
for at one time three worthy cavaliers paid her addresses,--all
nobles of our parts, and heirs, whose relationship I can explain in
detail to you.”

Saying this, Pani Makovetski spread out the fingers of her left
hand and straightened her right index finger; but Zagloba inquired
quickly, “And what happened to them?”

“All three died in war; therefore we call Basia a widow.”

“H’m! but how did she endure the loss?”

“With us, you see, a case like that happens every day; and it is a
rare thing for any man, after reaching ripe age, to pass away with
his own death. Among us people even say that it is not befitting a
nobleman to die otherwise than in the field. ‘How did Basia endure
it?’ Oh, she whimpered a little, poor girl, but mostly in the
stable; for when anything troubles her, she is off to the stable. I
sent for her once and inquired, ‘For whom are you crying?’ ‘For all
three,’ said she. I saw from the answer that no one of them pleased
her specially. I think that as her head is stuffed with something
else, she has not felt the will of God yet; Krysia has felt it
somewhat, but Basia perhaps not at all.”

“She will feel it!” said Zagloba. “Gracious benefactress, we
understand that perfectly. She will feel it! she will feel it!”

“Such is our predestination,” said Pani Makovetski.

“That is just it. You took the words out of my mouth.”

Further conversation was interrupted by the approach of the younger
society. The little knight had grown much emboldened with Krysia;
and she, through evident goodness of heart, was occupied with him
and his grief, like a physician with a patient. And perhaps for
this very reason she showed him more kindness than their brief
acquaintance permitted. But as Pan Michael was a brother of the
stolnik’s wife, and the young lady was related to the stolnik, no
one was astonished. Basia remained, as it were, aside; and only
Pan Zagloba turned to her unbroken attention. But however that
might be, it was apparently all one to Basia whether some one was
occupied with her or not. At first, she gazed with admiration on
both knights; but with equal admiration did she examine Ketling’s
wonderful weapons distributed on the walls. Later she began to yawn
somewhat; then her eyes grew heavier and heavier, and at last she
said,--

“I am so sleepy that I may wake in the morning.”

After these words the company separated at once; for the ladies
were very weary from the journey, and were only waiting to have
beds prepared. When Zagloba found himself at last alone with Pan
Michael, he began first of all to wink significantly, then he
covered the little knight with a shower of light fists. “Michael!
what, Michael, hei? like turnips! Will you become a monk, what?
That bilberry Krysia is a sweet one. And that rosy little haiduk,
uh! What will you say of her, Michael?”

“What? Nothing!” answered the little knight.

“That little haiduk pleased me principally. I tell you that when I
sat near her during supper I was as warm from her as from a stove.”

“She is a kid yet; the other is ever so much more stately.”

“Panna Krysia is a real Hungarian plum; but this one is a little
nut! As God lives, if I had teeth! I wanted to say if I had such
a daughter, I’d give her to no man but you. An almond, I say, an
almond!”

Volodyovski grew sad on a sudden, for he remembered the nicknames
which Zagloba used to give Anusia. She stood as if living before
him there in his mind and memory,--her form, her small face, her
dark tresses, her joyfulness, her chattering, and ways of looking.
Both these were younger, but still she was a hundred times dearer
than all who were younger.

The little knight covered his face with his palms, and sorrow
carried him away the more because it was unexpected. Zagloba was
astonished; for some time he was silent and looked unquietly, then
he asked, “Michael, what is the matter? Speak, for God’s sake!”

Volodyovski spoke, “So many are living, so many are walking through
the world, but my lamb is no longer among them; never again shall
I see her.” Then pain stifled his voice; he rested his forehead on
the arm of the sofa and began to whisper through his set lips, “O
God! O God! O God!”




CHAPTER VIII.


Basia insisted that Volodyovski should give her instruction in
“fencing;” he did not refuse, though he delayed for some days. He
preferred Krysia; still, he liked Basia greatly, so difficult was
it, in fact, not to like her.

A certain morning the first lesson began, mainly because of Basia’s
boasting and her assurances that she knew that art by no means
badly, and that no common person could stand before her. “An old
soldier taught me,” said she; “there is no lack of these among us;
it is known too that there are no swordsmen superior to ours. It is
a question if even you, gentlemen, would not find your equals.”

“Of what are you talking?” asked Zagloba. “We have no equals in the
whole world.”

“I should wish it to come out that even I am your equal. I do not
expect it, but I should like it.”

“If it were firing from pistols, I too would make a trial,” said
Pani Makovetski, laughing.

“As God lives, it must be that the Amazons themselves dwell in
Latychov,” said Zagloba. Here he turned to Krysia: “And what weapon
do you use best, your ladyship?”

“None,” answered Krysia.

“Ah, ha! none!” exclaimed Basia. And here, mimicking Krysia’s
voice, she began to sing:--

      “‘O knights, believe me,
      Useless is armor,
      Shields give no service;
      Cupid’s keen arrows,
      Through steel and iron,
      Go to all hearts.’

“She wields arms of that kind; never fear,” added Basia, turning
to Pan Michael and Zagloba. “In that she is a warrior of no common
skill.”

“Take your place, young lady!” said Pan Michael, wishing to conceal
a slight confusion.

“Oh, as God lives! if what I think should come true!” cried Basia,
blushing with delight.

And she stood at once in position with a light Polish sabre in her
right hand; the left she put behind her, and with breast pushed
forward, with raised head and dilated nostrils, she was so pretty
and so rosy that Zagloba whispered to Pan Michael’s sister, “No
decanter, even if filled with Hungarian a hundred years old, would
delight me so much with the sight of it.”

“Remember,” said the little knight to Basia, “that I will only
defend myself; I will not thrust once. You may attack as quickly as
you choose.”

“Very well. If you wish me to stop, give the word.”

“The fencing could be stopped without a word, if I wished.”

“And how could that be done?”

“I could take the sabre easily out of the hand of a fencer like
you.”

“We shall see!”

“We shall not, for I will not do so, through politeness.”

“There is no need of politeness in this case. Do it if you can. I
know that I have less skill than you, but still I will not let that
be done.”

“Then you permit it?”

“I permit it.”

“Oh, do not permit, sweetest haiduk,” said Zagloba. “He has
disarmed the greatest masters.”

“We shall see!” repeated Basia.

“Let us begin,” said Pan Michael, made somewhat impatient by the
boasting of the maiden.

They began. Basia thrust terribly, skipping around like a pony
in a field. Volodyovski stood in one place, making, according to
his wont, the slightest movements of the sabre, paying but little
respect to the attack.

“You brush me off like a troublesome fly!” cried the irritated
Basia.

“I am not making a trial of you; I am teaching you,” answered the
little knight. “That is good! For a fair head, not bad at all!
Steadier with the hand!”

“‘For a fair head?’ You call me a fair head! you do! you do!”

But Pan Michael, though Basia used her most celebrated thrusts,
was untouched. Even he began to talk with Zagloba, of purpose to
show how little he cared for Basia’s thrusts: “Step away from the
window, for you are in the lady’s light; and though a sabre is
larger than a needle, she has less experience with the sabre.”

Basia’s nostrils dilated still more, and her forelock fell to her
flashing eyes. “Do you hold me in contempt?” inquired she, panting
quickly.

“Not your person; God save me from that!”

“I cannot endure Pan Michael!”

“You learned fencing from a schoolmaster.” Again he turned to
Zagloba: “I think snow is beginning to fall.”

“Here is snow! snow for you!” repeated Basia, giving thrust after
thrust.

“Basia, that is enough! you are barely breathing,” said Pani
Makovetski.

“Now hold to your sabre, for I will strike it from your hand.”

“We shall see!”

“Here!” And the little sabre, hopping like a bird out of Basia’s
hands, fell with a rattle near the stove.

“I let it go myself without thinking! It was not you who did that!”
cried the young lady, with tears in her voice; and seizing the
sabre, in a twinkle she thrust again: “Try it now.”

“There!” said Pan Michael. And again the sabre was at the stove.
“That is enough for to-day,” said the little knight.

Pani Makovetski began to bustle about and talk louder than usual;
but Basia stood in the middle of the room, confused, stunned,
breathing heavily, biting her lips and repressing the tears which
were crowding into her eyes in spite of her. She knew that they
would laugh all the more if she burst out crying, and she wished
absolutely to restrain herself; but seeing that she could not, she
rushed from the room on a sudden.

“For God’s sake!” cried Pani Makovetski. “She has run to the
stable, of course, and being so heated, will catch cold. Some one
must go for her. Krysia, don’t you go!”

So saying, she went out, and seizing a warm shuba in the ante-room,
hurried to the stable; and after her ran Zagloba, troubled about
his little haiduk. Krysia wished to go also, but the little knight
held her by the hand. “You heard the prohibition. I will not let
this hand go till they come back.”

And, in fact, he did not let it go. But that hand was as soft as
satin. It seemed to Pan Michael that a kind of warm current was
flowing from those slender fingers into his bones, rousing in them
an uncommon pleasantness; therefore he held them more firmly. A
slight blush flew over Krysia’s face. “I see that I am a prisoner
taken captive.”

“Whoever should take such a prisoner would not have reason to envy
the Sultan, for the Sultan would gladly give half his kingdom for
her.”

“But you would not sell me to the Pagans?”

“Just as I would not sell my soul to the Devil.”

Here Pan Michael remarked that momentary enthusiasm had carried him
too far, and he corrected himself: “As I would not sell my sister.”

“That is the right word,” said Krysia, seriously. “I am a sister in
affection to your sister, and I will be the same to you.”

“I thank you from my heart!” said Pan Michael, kissing her hand;
“for I have great need of consolation.”

“I know, I know,” repeated the young lady; “I am an orphan myself.”
Here a small tear rolled down from her eyelid and stopped at the
down on her lip.

Pan Michael looked on that tear, on the mouth slightly shaded, and
said, “You are as kind as a real angel; I feel comforted already.”

Krysia smiled sweetly: “May God reward you!”

“As God is dear to me.”

The little knight felt meanwhile that if he should kiss her hand a
second time, it would comfort him still more; but at that moment
his sister appeared. “Basia took the shuba,” said she, “but is in
such confusion that she will not come in for anything. Pan Zagloba
is chasing her through the whole stable.”

In fact, Zagloba, sparing neither jests nor persuasion, not only
followed Basia through the stable, but drove her at last to the
yard, in hopes that he would persuade her to the warm house. She
ran before him, repeating, “I will not go! Let the cold catch me! I
will not go! I will not go!”

Seeing at last a pillar before the house with pegs, and on it a
ladder, she sprang up the ladder like a squirrel, stopped, and
leaned at last on the eave of the roof. Sitting there, she turned
to Pan Zagloba and cried out half in laughter, “Well, I will go if
you climb up here after me.”

“What sort of a cat am I, little haiduk, to creep along roofs after
you? Is that the way you pay me for loving you?”

“I love you too, but from the roof.”

“Grandfather wants his way; grandmother will have hers. Come down
to me this minute!”

“I will not go down!”

“It is laughable, as God is dear to me, to take defeat to heart as
you do. Not you alone, angry weasel, but Kmita, who passed for a
master of masters, did Pan Michael treat in this way, and not in
sport, but in a duel. The most famous swordsmen--Italians, Germans,
and Swedes--could not stand before him longer than during one ‘Our
Father,’ and here such a gadfly takes the affair to heart. Fie! be
ashamed of yourself! Come down, come down! Besides, you are only
beginning to learn.”

“But I cannot endure Pan Michael!”

“God be good to you! Is it because he is _exquisitissimus_ in that
which you yourself wish to know? You should love him all the more.”

Zagloba was not mistaken. The admiration of Basia for the little
knight increased in spite of her defeat; but she answered, “Let
Krysia love him.”

“Come down! come down!”

“I will not come down.”

“Very well, stay there; but I will tell you one thing: it is not
nice for a young lady to sit on a ladder, for she may give an
amusing exhibition to the world.”

“But that’s not true,” answered Basia, gathering in her skirts with
her hand.

“I am an old fellow,--I won’t look my eyes out; but I’ll call
everybody this minute, let others stare at you.”

“I’ll come down!” cried Basia.

With that, Zagloba turned toward the side of the house. “As God
lives, somebody is coming!” said he.

In fact, from behind the corner appeared young Adam Novoveski, who,
coming on horseback, had tied his beast at the side-gate and passed
around the house himself, wishing to enter through the main door.
Basia, seeing him, was on the ground in two springs, but too late.
Unfortunately Pan Adam had seen her springing from the ladder, and
stood confused, astonished, and covered with blushes like a young
girl. Basia stood before him in the same way, till at last she
cried out,--

“A second confusion!”

Zagloba, greatly amused, blinked some time with his sound eye; at
length he said, “Pan Novoveski, a friend and subordinate of our
Michael, and this is Panna Drabinovski (Ladder). Tfu! I wanted to
say Yezorkovski.”

Pan Adam recovered readily; and because he was a soldier of quick
wit, though young, he bowed, and raising his eyes to the wonderful
vision, said, “As God lives! roses bloom on the snow in Ketling’s
garden.”

But Basia, courtesying, muttered to herself, “For some other nose
than yours.” Then she said very charmingly, “I beg you to come in.”

She went forward herself, and rushing into the room where Pan
Michael was sitting with the rest of the company, cried, making
reference to the red kontush of Pan Adam, “The red finch has come!”
Then she sat at the table, put one hand into the other, and pursed
her mouth in the style of a demure and strictly reared young lady.

Pan Michael presented his young friend to his sister and Panna
Krysia; and the friend, seeing another young lady of equal beauty,
but of a different order, was confused a second time; he covered
his confusion, however, with a bow, and to add to his courage
reached his hand to his mustache, which had not grown much yet.
Twisting his fingers above his lip, he turned to Pan Michael
and told him the object of his coming. The grand hetman wished
anxiously to see the little knight. As far as Pan Adam could
conjecture, it was a question of some military function, for the
hetman had received letters recently from Pan Vilchkovski, from Pan
Silnitski, from Colonel Pivo, and other commandants stationed in
the Ukraine and Podolia, with reports of Crimean events which were
not of favorable promise.

“The Khan himself and Sultan Galga, who made treaties with us at
Podhaytse,” continued Pan Adam, “wish to observe the treaties; but
Budjyak is as noisy as a bee-hive at time of swarming. The Belgrod
horde also are in an uproar; they do not wish to obey either the
Khan or Galga.”

“Pan Sobieski has informed me already of that, and asked for
advice,” said Zagloba. “What do they say now about the coming
spring?”

“They say that with the first grass there will be surely a movement
of those worms; that it will be necessary to stamp them out a
second time,” replied Pan Adam, assuming the face of a terrible
Mars, and twisting his mustache till his upper lip reddened.

Basia, who was quick-eyed, saw this at once; therefore she pushed
back a little, so that Pan Adam might not see her, and then
twisted, as it were, her mustache, imitating the youthful cavalier.
Pan Michael’s sister threatened with her eyes, but at the same time
she began to quiver, restraining her laughter with difficulty.
Volodyovski bit his lips; and Krysia dropped her eyes till the long
lashes threw a shadow on her cheeks.

“You are a young man,” said Zagloba, “but a soldier of experience.”

“I am twenty-two years old, and I have served the country seven
years without ceasing; for I escaped to the field from the lowest
bench in my fifteenth year,” answered the young man.

“He knows the steppe, knows how to make his way through the grass,
and to fall on the horde as a kite falls on grouse,” said Pan
Michael. “He is no common partisan! The Tartar will not hide from
him in the steppe.”

Pan Adam blushed with delight that praise from such famous lips met
him in presence of ladies. He was withal not merely a falcon of
the steppes, but a handsome fellow, dark, embrowned by the winds.
On his face he bore a scar from his ear to his nose, which from
this cut was thinner on one side than the other. He had quick eyes,
accustomed to look into the distance, above them very dark brows,
joined at the nose and forming, as it were, a Tartar bow. His head,
shaven at the sides, was surmounted by a black, bushy forelock. He
pleased Basia both in speech and in bearing; but still she did not
cease to mimic him.

“As I live!” said Zagloba, “it is pleasant for old men like me to
see that a new generation is rising up worthy of us.”

“Not worthy yet,” answered Pan Adam.

“I praise the modesty too. We shall see you soon receiving
commands.”

“That has happened already!” cried Pan Michael. “He has been
commandant, and gained victories by himself.”

Pan Adam began so to twist his mustache that he lacked little of
pulling out his lip. And Basia, without taking her eyes from him,
raised both hands also to her face, and mimicked him in everything.
But the clever soldier saw quickly that the glances of the whole
company were turning to one side, where, somewhat behind him, was
sitting the young lady whom he had seen on the ladder, and he
divined at once that something must be against him. He spoke on, as
if paying no heed to the matter, and sought his mustache as before.
At last he selected the moment, and wheeled around so quickly that
Basia had no time either to turn her eyes from him, or to take her
hands from her face. She blushed terribly, and not knowing herself
what to do, rose from the chair. All were confused, and a moment of
silence followed.

Basia struck her sides suddenly with her hands: “A third
confusion!” cried she, with her silvery voice.

“My gracious lady,” said Pan Adam, with animation, “I saw at once
that something hostile was happening behind me. I confess that I am
anxious for a mustache; but if I do not get it, it will be because
I shall fall for the country, and in that event I hope I shall
deserve tears rather than laughter from your ladyship.”

Basia stood with downcast eyes, and was the more put to shame by
the sincere words of the cavalier.

“You must forgive her,” said Zagloba. “She is wild because she is
young, but she has a golden heart.”

And Basia, as if confirming Zagloba’s words, said at once in a low
voice, “I beg your forgiveness most earnestly.”

Pan Adam caught her hands that moment and fell to kissing them.
“For God’s sake, do not take it to heart! I am not some kind of
barbarian. It is for me to beg pardon for having dared to interrupt
your amusement. We soldiers ourselves are fond of jokes. _Mea
culpa!_ I will kiss those hands again, and if I have to kiss them
till you forgive me, then, for God’s sake, do not forgive me till
evening!”

“Oh, he is a polite cavalier. You see, Basia!” said Pani Makovetski.

“I see!” answered Basia.

“It is all over now,” cried Pan Adam.

When he said this he straightened himself, and with great
resolution reached to his mustache from habit, but suddenly
remembered himself and burst out in hearty laughter. Basia followed
him; others followed Basia. Joy seized all. Zagloba gave command
straightway to bring one and a second bottle from Ketling’s cellar,
and all felt well. Pan Adam, striking one spur against the other,
passed his fingers through his forelock and looked more and more
ardently at Basia. She pleased him greatly. He grew immensely
eloquent; and since he had served with the hetman, he had lived in
the great world, therefore had something to talk about. He told
them of the Diet of Convocation, of its close, and how in the
senate the stove had tumbled down under the inquisitive spectators,
to the great amusement of all. He departed at last after dinner,
with his eyes and his soul full of Basia.




CHAPTER IX.


That same day Pan Michael announced himself at the quarters of the
hetman, who gave command to admit the little knight, and said to
him, “I must send Rushchyts to the Crimea to see what is passing
there, and to stir up the Khan to observe his treaties. Do you wish
to enter service again and take the command after Rushchyts? You,
Vilchkovski, Silnitski, and Pivo will have an eye on Doroshenko,
and on the Tartars, whom it is impossible to trust altogether at
any time.”

Pan Michael grew sad. He had served the flower of his life. For
whole tens of years he had not known rest; he had lived in fire,
in smoke, in toil, in sleeplessness, without a roof over his head,
without a handful of straw to lie on. God knows what blood his
sabre had not shed. He had not settled down; he had not married.
Men who deserved a hundred times less were eating the bread of
merit; had risen to honors, to offices, to starostaships. He was
richer when he began to serve than he was then. But still it was
intended to use him again, like an old broom. His soul was rent,
because, when friendly and pleasant hands had been found to dress
his wounds, the command was given to tear himself away and fly to
the desert, to the distant boundaries of the Commonwealth, without
a thought that he was so greatly wearied in soul. Had it not been
for interruptions and service, he would have enjoyed at least
a couple of years with Anusia. When he thought of all this, an
immense bitterness rose in his soul; but since it did not seem to
him worthy of a cavalier to mention his own services and dwell on
them, he answered briefly,--

“I will go.”

“You are not in service,” said the hetman; “you can refuse. You
know better yourself if this is too soon for you.”

“It is not too soon for me to die,” replied Pan Michael.

Sobieski walked a number of times through the chamber, then he
stopped before the little knight and put his hand on his shoulder
confidentially. “If your tears are not dried yet, the wind of the
steppe will dry them for you. You have toiled, cherished soldier,
all your life; toil on still further! And should it come ever to
your head that you are forgotten, unrewarded, that rest is not
granted you, that you have received not buttered toast, but a
crust, not a starostaship, but wounds, not rest, but suffering
only, set your teeth and say, ‘For thee, O Country!’ Other
consolation I cannot give, for I haven’t it; but though not a
priest, I can give you the assurance that serving in this way, you
will go farther on a worn-out saddle than others in a carriage and
six, and that gates will be opened for you which will be closed
before them.”

“To thee, O Country!” said Pan Michael, in his soul, wondering at
the same time that the hetman could penetrate his secret thoughts
so quickly.

Pan Sobieski sat down in front of him and continued: “I do not
wish to speak with you as with a subordinate, but as with a
friend,--nay! as a father with a son. When we were in the fire at
Podhaytse, and before that in the Ukraine; when we were barely
able to prevent the preponderance of the enemy,--here, in the
heart of the country, evil men in security, behind our shoulders,
were attaining in turbulence their own selfish ends. Even in those
days it came more than once to my head that this Commonwealth must
perish. License lords it too much over order; the public good
yields too often to private ends. This has never happened elsewhere
in such a degree. These thoughts were gnawing me in the day in
the field, and in the night in the tent, for I thought to myself:
‘Well, we soldiers are in a woful condition; but this is our duty
and our portion. If we could only know that with this blood which
is flowing from our wounds, salvation was issuing also.’ No!
even that consolation there was not. Oh, I passed heavy days in
Podhaytse, though I showed a glad face to you officers, lest you
might think that I had lost hope of victory in the field. ‘There
are no men,’ thought I,--‘there are no men who love this country
really.’ And it was to me as if some one had planted a knife in
my breast, till a certain time--the last day at Podhaytse, when
I sent you with two thousand to the attack against twenty-six
thousand of the horde, and you all flew to apparent death, to
certain slaughter, with such a shouting, with such willingness,
as if you were going to a wedding--suddenly the thought came to
me: ‘Ah, these are my soldiers.’ And God in one moment took the
stone from my heart, and in my eyes it grew clear. ‘These,’ said
I, ‘are perishing from pure love of the mother; they will not go
to confederacies, nor to traitors. Of these I will form a sacred
brotherhood; of these I will form a school, in which the young
generation will learn. Their example will have influence; through
them this ill-fated people will be reborn, will become free of
selfishness, forget license, and be as a lion feeling wonderful
strength in his limbs, and will astonish the world. Such a
brotherhood will I form of my soldiers!’”

Here Sobieski flushed up, reared his head, which was like the head
of a Roman Cæsar, and stretching forth his hands, exclaimed, “O
Lord! inscribe not on our walls ‘Mene, Tekel, Peres!’ and permit me
to regenerate my country!”

A moment of silence followed. Pan Michael sat with drooping head
and felt that trembling had seized his whole body.

The hetman walked some time with quick steps through the room and
then stopped before the little knight. “Examples are needed,” said
he,--“examples every day to strike the eye. Volodyovski, I have
reckoned you in the first rank of the brotherhood. Do you wish to
belong to it?”

The little knight rose and embraced the hetman’s knees. “See,” said
he, with a voice of emotion, “when I heard that I had to march
again, I thought that a wrong had been done, and that leisure for
my suffering belonged to me; but now I see that I sinned, and I
repent of my thought and am unable to speak, for I am ashamed.”

The hetman pressed Pan Michael to his heart in silence. “There is a
handful of us,” said he; “but others will follow the example.”

“When am I to go?” asked the little knight. “I could go even to the
Crimea, for I have been there.”

“No,” answered the hetman; “to the Crimea I will send Pan
Rushchyts. He has relations there, and even namesakes, likely
cousins, who, seized in childhood by the horde, have become
Mussulmans and obtained office among the Pagans. They will help him
in everything. Besides, I need you in the field; there is no man
your equal in dealing with Tartars.”

“When have I to go?” repeated the little knight.

“In two weeks at furthest. I need to confer yet with the
vice-chancellor of the kingdom and with the treasurer, to prepare
letters for Rushchyts and give him instructions. But be ready, for
I shall be urgent.”

“I shall be ready from to-morrow.”

“God reward you for the intention! but it is not needful to be
ready so soon. Moreover, you will not go to stay long; for during
the election, if only there is peace, I shall need you in Warsaw.
You have heard of candidates. What is the talk among nobles?”

“I came from the cloister not long since, and there they do not
think of worldly matters. I know only what Pan Zagloba has told me.”

“True. I can obtain information from him; he is widely known among
the nobles. But for whom do you think of voting?”

“I know not myself yet; but I think that a military king is
necessary for us.”

“Yes, yes! I have such a man too in mind, who by his name alone
would terrify our neighbors. We need a military king, as was
Stefan Batory. But farewell, cherished soldier! We need a military
king. Do you repeat this to all. Farewell. God reward you for your
readiness!”

Pan Michael took farewell and went out. On the road he meditated.
The soldier, however, was glad that he had before him a week or
two, for that friendship and consolation which Krysia gave was dear
to him. He was pleased also with the thought that he would return
to the election, and in general he went home without suffering. The
steppes too had for him a certain charm; he was pining for them
without knowing it. He was so used to those spaces without end, in
which the horseman feels himself more a bird than a man.

“Well, I will go,” said he, “to those measureless fields, to
those stanitsas and mounds, to taste the old life again, make new
campaigns with the soldiers, to guard those boundaries like a
crane, to frolic in spring in the grass,--well, now, I will go, I
will go!”

Meanwhile he urged on the horse and went at a gallop, for he was
yearning for the speed and the whistle of the wind in his ears.
The day was clear, dry, frosty. Frozen snow covered the ground
and squeaked under the feet of the horse. Compressed lumps of it
flew with force from his hoofs. Pan Michael sped forward so that
his attendant, sitting on an inferior horse remained far behind.
It was near sunset; a little later twilight was in the heavens,
casting a violet reflection on the snowy expanse. On the ruddy sky
the first twinkling stars came out; the moon hung in the form of a
silver sickle. The road was empty; the knight passed an odd wagon
and flew on without interruption. Only when he saw Ketling’s house
in the distance did he rein in his horse and let his attendant come
up. All at once he saw a slender figure coming toward him. It was
Krysia.

When he recognized her, Pan Michael sprang at once from his horse,
which he gave to the attendant, and hurried up to the maiden,
somewhat astonished, but still more delighted at sight of her.
“Soldiers declare,” said he, “that at twilight we may meet various
supernatural beings, who are sometimes of evil, sometimes of good,
omen; but for me there can be no better omen than to meet you.”

“Pan Adam has come,” answered Krysia; “he is passing the time with
Basia and Pani Makovetski. I slipped out purposely to meet you, for
I was anxious about what the hetman had to say.”

The sincerity of these words touched the little knight to the
heart. “Is it true that you are so concerned about me?” asked he,
raising his eyes to her.

“It is,” answered Krysia, with a low voice.

Pan Michael did not take his eyes from her; never before had
she seemed to him so attractive. On her head was a satin hood;
white swan’s-down encircled her small, palish face, on which the
moonlight was falling,--light which shone mildly on those noble
brows, downcast eyes, long lids, and that dark, barely visible
down above her mouth. There was a certain calm in that face and
great goodness. Pan Michael felt at the moment that the face was a
friendly and beloved one; therefore he said,--

“Were it not for the attendant who is riding behind, I should fall
on the snow at your feet from thankfulness.”

“Do not say such things,” answered Krysia, “for I am not worthy;
but to reward me say that you will remain with us, and that I shall
be able to comfort you longer.”

“I shall not remain,” said Pan Michael.

Krysia stopped suddenly. “Impossible!”

“Usual soldier’s service! I go to Russia and to the Wilderness.”

“Usual service?” repeated Krysia, And she began to hurry in silence
toward the house. Pan Michael walked quickly at her side, a trifle
confused. Somehow it was a little oppressive and dull in his
mind. He wanted to say something; he wanted to begin conversation
again; he did not succeed. But still it seemed to him that he had
a thousand things to say to her, and that just then was the time,
while they were alone and no one preventing.

“If I begin,” thought he, “it will go on;” therefore he inquired
all at once, “But is it long since Pan Adam came?”

“Not long,” answered Krysia.

And again their conversation stopped.

“The road is not that way,” thought Pan Michael. “While I begin in
that fashion, I shall never say anything. But I see that sorrow has
gnawed away what there was of my wit.”

And for a time he hurried on in silence; his mustaches merely
quivered more and more vigorously. At last he halted before the
house and said, “Think, if I deferred my happiness so many years to
serve the country, with what face could I refuse now to put off my
own comfort?”

It seemed to the little knight that such a simple argument should
convince Krysia at once; in fact, after a while she answered with
sadness and mildness, “The more nearly one knows Pan Michael, the
more one respects and honors him.”

Then she entered the house. Basia’s exclamations of “Allah!
Allah!” reached her in the entrance. And when they came to the
reception-room, they saw Pan Adam in the middle of it, blindfolded,
bent forward, and with outstretched arms trying to catch Basia,
who was hiding in corners and giving notice of her presence by
cries of “Allah!” Pani Makovetski was occupied near the window in
conversation with Zagloba.

The entrance of Krysia and the little knight interrupted the
amusement. Pan Adam pulled off the handkerchief and ran to greet
Volodyovski. Immediately after came Pani Makovetski, Zagloba, and
the panting Basia.

“What is it? what is it? What did the hetman say?” asked one,
interrupting another.

“Lady sister,” answered Pan Michael, “if you wish to send a letter
to your husband, you have a chance, for I am going to Russia.”

“Is he sending you? In God’s name, do not volunteer yet, and do not
go,” cried his sister, with a pitiful voice. “Will they not give
you this bit of time?”

“Is your command fixed already?” asked Zagloba, gloomily. “Your
sister says justly that they are threshing you as with flails.”

“Rushchyts is going to the Crimea, and I take the squadron after
him; for as Pan Adam has mentioned already, the roads will surely
be black (with the enemy) in spring.”

“Are we alone to guard this Commonwealth from thieves, as a dog
guards a house?” cried Zagloba. “Other men do not know from which
end of a musket to shoot, but for us there is no rest.”

“Never mind! I have nothing to say,” answered Pan Michael. “Service
is service! I gave the hetman my word that I would go, and earlier
or later it is all the same.” Here Pan Michael put his finger on
his forehead and repeated the argument which he had used once with
Krysia, “You see that if I put off my happiness so many years to
serve the Commonwealth, with what face can I refuse to give up the
pleasure which I find in your company?”

No one made answer to this; only Basia came up, with lips pouting
like those of a peevish child, and said, “I am sorry for Pan
Michael.”

Pan Michael laughed joyously. “God grant you happy fortune! But
only yesterday you said that you could no more endure me than a
wild Tartar.”

“What Tartar? I did not say that at all. You will be working there
against the Tartars, and we shall be lonely here without you.”

“Oh, little haiduk, comfort yourself; forgive me for the name,
but it fits you most wonderfully. The hetman informed me that my
command would not last long. I shall set out in a week or two, and
must be in Warsaw at the election. The hetman himself wishes me to
come, and I shall be here even if Rushchyts does not return from
the Crimea in May.”

“Oh, that is splendid!”

“I will go with the colonel; I will go surely,” said Pan Adam,
looking quickly at Basia; and she said in answer,--

“There will be not a few like you. It is a delight for men to serve
under such a commander. Go; go! It will be pleasanter for Pan
Michael.”

The young man only sighed and stroked his forelock with his
broad palm; at last he said, stretching his hands, as if playing
blind-man’s-buff, “But first I will catch Panna Barbara! I will
catch her most surely.”

“Allah! Allah!” exclaimed Basia, starting back.

Meanwhile Krysia approached Pan Michael, with face radiant and full
of quiet joy. “But you are not kind, not kind to me, Pan Michael;
you are better to Basia than to me.”

“I not kind? I better to Basia?” asked the knight, with astonishment.

“You told Basia that you were coming back to the election; if I had
known that, I should not have taken your departure to heart.”

“My golden--” cried Pan Michael. But that instant he checked
himself and said, “My dear friend, I told you little, for I had
lost my head.”




CHAPTER X.


Pan Michael began to prepare slowly for his departure; he did not
cease, however, to give lessons to Basia, whom he liked more and
more, nor to walk alone with Krysia and seek consolation in her
society. It seemed to him also that he found it; for his good-humor
increased daily, and in the evening he even took part in the games
of Basia and Pan Adam. That young cavalier became an agreeable
guest at Ketling’s house. He came in the morning or at midday, and
remained till evening; as all liked him, they were glad to see
him, and very soon they began to hold him as one of the family. He
took the ladies to Warsaw, gave their orders at the silk shops,
and in the evening played blind-man’s-buff and patience with them,
repeating that he must absolutely catch the unattainable Basia
before his departure.

But Basia laughed and escaped always, though Zagloba said to her,
“If this one does not catch you at last, another man will.”

It became clearer and clearer that just “this one” had resolved
to catch her. This must have come even to the head of the haiduk
herself, for she fell sometimes to thinking till the forelock
dropped into her eyes altogether. Pan Zagloba had his reasons,
according to which Pan Adam was not suitable. A certain evening,
when all had retired, he knocked at Pan Michael’s chamber.

“I am so sorry that we must part,” said he, “that I have come to
get a good look at you. God knows when we shall see each other
again.”

“I shall come in all certainty to the election,” said the little
knight, embracing his old friend, “and I will tell you why. The
hetman wishes to have here the largest number possible of men
beloved by the knighthood, so that they may capture nobles for his
candidate; and because--thanks to God!--my name has some weight
among our brethren, he wants me to come surely. He counts on you
also.”

“Indeed, he is trying to catch me with a large net; yet I see
something, and though I am rather bulky, still I can creep out
through any hole in that net. I will not vote for a Frenchman.”

“Why?”

“Because he would be for _absolutum dominium_ (absolute rule).”

“Condé would have to swear to the _pacta conventa_ like any other
man; and he must be a great leader,--he is renowned for warlike
achievement.”

“With God’s favor we have no need of seeking leaders in France.
Pan Sobieski himself is surely no worse than Condé. Think of it,
Michael; the French wear stockings like the Swedes; therefore, like
them they of course keep no oaths. Carolus Gustavus was ready to
take an oath every hour. For the Swedes to take an oath or crack a
nut is all one. What does a pact mean when a man has no honesty?”

“But the Commonwealth needs defence. Oh, if Prince Yeremi were
alive! We would elect him king with one voice.”

“His son is alive, the same blood.”

“But not the same courage. It is God’s pity to look at him, for
he is more like a serving-man than a prince of such worthy blood.
If it were a different time! But now the first virtue is regard
for the good of the country. Pan Yan says the same thing. Whatever
the hetman does, I will do, for I believe in his love of the
Commonwealth as in the Gospel.”

“It is time to think of that. It is too bad that you are going now.”

“But what will you do?”

“I will go to Pan Yan. The boys torment me at times; still, when I
am away for a good while I feel lonely without them.”

“If war comes after the election, Pan Yan too will go to it.
Who knows? You may take the field yourself; we may campaign yet
together in Russia. How much good and evil have we gone through in
those parts!”

“True, as God is dear to me! there our best years flowed by. At
times the wish comes to see all those places which witnessed our
glory.”

“Then come with me now. We shall be cheerful together; in five
months I will return to Ketling. He will be at home then, and Pan
Yan will be here.”

“No, Michael, it is not the time for me now; but I promise that if
you marry some lady with land in Russia, I will go with you and see
your installation.”

Pan Michael was confused a little, but answered at once, “How
should I have a wife in my head? The best proof that I have not is
that I am going to the army.”

“It is that which torments me; for I used to think, if not one,
then another woman. Michael, have God in your heart; stop; where
will you find a better chance than just at this moment? Remember
that years will come later in which you will say to yourself:
‘Each has his wife and his children, but I am alone, like Matsek’s
pear-tree, sticking up in the field.’ And sorrow will seize you and
terrible yearning. If you had married that dear one; if she had
left children,--I should not trouble you; I should have some object
for my affection and ready hope for consolation; but as things
now are, the time may come when you will look around in vain for
a near soul, and you will ask yourself, ‘Am I living in a foreign
country?’”

Pan Michael was silent; he meditated; therefore Zagloba began to
speak again, looking quickly into the face of the little knight,
“In my mind and my heart I chose first of all that rosy haiduk for
you: to begin with, she is gold, not a maiden; and secondly, such
venomous soldiers as you would give to the world have not been on
earth yet.”

“She is a storm; besides, Pan Adam wants to strike fire with her.”

“That’s it,--that’s it! To-day she would prefer you to a certainty,
for she is in love with your glory; but when you go, and he
remains--I know he will remain, the rascal! for there is no
war--who knows what will happen?”

“Basia is a storm! Let Novoveski take her. I wish him well, because
he is a brave man.”

“Michael!” said Zagloba, clasping his hands, “think what a
posterity that would be!”

To this the little knight answered with the greatest simplicity, “I
knew two brothers Bal whose mother was a Drohoyovski,[10] and they
were excellent soldiers.”

“Ah! I was waiting for that. You have turned in that direction?”
cried Zagloba.

Pan Michael was confused beyond measure; at last he replied,
“What do you say? I am turning to no side; but when I thought of
Basia’s bravery, which is really manlike, Krysia came to my mind at
once; in her there is more of woman’s nature. When one of them is
mentioned, the other comes to mind, for they are both together.”

“Well, well! God bless you with Krysia, though as God is dear to
me, if I were young, I should fall in love with Basia to kill. You
would not need to leave such a wife at home in time of war; you
could take her to the field, and have her at your side. Such a
woman would be good for you in the tent; and if it came to that,
even in time of battle she would handle a musket. But she is honest
and good. Oh, my haiduk, my little darling haiduk, they have not
known you here, and have nourished you with thanklessness; but if I
were something like sixty years younger, I should see what sort of
a Pani Zagloba there would be in my house.”

“I do not detract from Basia.”

“It is not a question of detracting from her virtues, but of giving
her a husband. But you prefer Krysia.”

“Krysia is my friend.”

“Your friend, not your friend_ess_? That must be because she has
a mustache. I am your friend; Pan Yan is; so is Ketling. You do
not need a man for a friend, but a woman. Tell this to yourself
clearly, and don’t throw a cover over your eyes. Guard yourself,
Michael, against a friend of the fair sex, even though that friend
has a mustache; for either you will betray that friend, or you
yourself will be betrayed. The Devil does not sleep, and he is glad
to sit between such friends; as example of this, Adam and Eve began
to be friends, till that friendship became a bone in Adam’s throat.”

“Do not offend Krysia, for I will not endure it in any way.”

“God guard Krysia! There is no one above my little haiduk; but
Krysia is a good maiden too. I do not attack her in any way, but
I say this to you: When you sit near her, your cheeks are as
flushed as if some one had pinched them, and your mustaches are
quivering, your forelock rises, and you are panting and striking
with your feet and stamping like a ring-dove; and all this is a
sign of desires. Tell some one else about friendship; I am too old
a sparrow for that talk.”

“So old that you see that which is not.”

“Would that I were mistaken! Would that my haiduk were in question!
Michael, good-night to you. Take the haiduk; the haiduk is the
comelier. Take the haiduk; take the haiduk!”

Zagloba rose and went out of the room.

Pan Michael tossed about the whole night; he could not sleep, for
unquiet thoughts passed through his head all the time. He saw
before him Krysia’s face, her eyes with long lashes, and her lip
with down. Dozing seized him at moments, but the vision did not
vanish. On waking, he remembered the words of Zagloba, and called
to mind how rarely the wit of that man was mistaken in anything.
At times when half sleeping, half waking, the rosy face of Basia
gleamed before him, and the sight calmed him; but again Krysia took
her place quickly. The poor knight turns to the wall now, sees her
eyes; turns to the darkness in the room, sees her eyes, and in them
a certain languishing, a certain encouragement. At times those eyes
are closing, as if to say, “Let thy will be done!” Pan Michael sat
up in the bed and crossed himself. Toward morning the dream flew
away altogether; then it became oppressive and bitter to him. Shame
seized him, and he began to reproach himself harshly, because he
did not see before him that beloved one who was dead; that he had
his eyes, his heart, his soul, full not of her, but of the living.
It seemed to him that he had sinned against the memory of Anusia,
hence he shook himself once and a second time; then springing from
the bed, though it was dark yet, he began to say his morning “Our
Father.”

When Pan Michael had finished, he put his finger on his forehead
and said, “I must go as soon as possible, and restrain this
friendship at once, for perhaps Zagloba is right.” Then, more
cheerful and calm, he went down to breakfast. After breakfast he
fenced with Basia, and noticed, beyond doubt, for the first time,
that she drew one’s eyes, she was so attractive with her dilated
nostrils and panting breast. He seemed to avoid Krysia, who, noting
this, followed him with her eyes, staring from astonishment; but he
avoided even her glance. It was cutting his heart; but he held out.

After dinner he went with Basia to the storehouse, where Ketling
had another collection of arms. He showed her various weapons, and
explained the use of them. Then they shot at a mark from Astrachan
bows. The maiden was made happy with the amusement, and became
giddier than ever, so that Pani Makovetski had to restrain her.
Thus passed the second day. On the third Pan Michael went with
Zagloba to Warsaw to the Danilovich Palace to learn something
concerning the time of his departure. In the evening the little
knight told the ladies that he would go surely in a week. While
saying this, he tried to speak carelessly and joyfully. He did not
even look at Krysia. The young lady was alarmed, tried to ask him
touching various things; he answered politely, with friendliness,
but talked more with Basia.

Zagloba, thinking this to be the fruit of his counsel, rubbed his
hands with delight; but since nothing could escape his eye, he saw
Krysia’s sadness. “She has changed,” thought he; “she has changed
noticeably. Well, that is nothing,--the ordinary nature of fair
heads. But Michael has turned away sooner than I hoped. He is a
man in a hundred, but a whirlwind in love, and a whirlwind he will
remain.”

Zagloba had, in truth, a good heart, and was sorry at once for
Panna Krysia. “I will say nothing to the maiden directly,” thought
he, “but I must think out some consolation for her.” Then, using
the privilege of age and a white head, he went to her after supper
and began to stroke her black, silky hair. She sat quietly, raising
toward him her mild eyes, somewhat astonished at his tenderness,
but grateful.

In the evening Zagloba nudged Pan Michael in the side at the door
of the little knight’s room, “Well, what?” said he. “No one can
beat the haiduk?”

“A charming kid,” answered Pan Michael. “She will make as much
uproar as four soldiers in the house,--a regular drummer.”

“A drummer? God grant her to go with your drum as quickly as
possible!”

“Good-night!”

“Good-night! Wonderful creatures, those fair heads! Since you
approached Basia a little, have you noted the change in Krysia?”

“No, I have not,” answered the little knight.

“As if some one had tripped her.”

“Good-night,” repeated Pan Michael, and went quickly to his room.

Zagloba, in counting on the little knight’s instability,
over-reckoned somewhat, and in general acted awkwardly in
mentioning the change in Krysia; for Pan Michael was so affected
that something seemed to seize him by the throat.

“And this is how I pay her for kindness, for comforting me in
grief, like a sister,” said he to himself. “Well, what evil have
I done to her?” thought he, after a moment of meditation. “What
have I done? I have slighted her for three days, which was rude,
to say the least. I have slighted the cherished girl, the dear
one. Because she wished to cure my wounds, I have nourished her
with ingratitude. If I only knew,” continued he, “how to preserve
measure and restrain dangerous friendship, and not offend her; but
evidently my wit is too dull for such management.”

Pan Michael was angry at himself; but at the same time great pity
rose in his breast. Involuntarily he began to think of Krysia as
of a beloved and injured person. Anger against himself grew in him
every moment.

“I am a barbarian, a barbarian!” repeated he. And Krysia
overwhelmed Basia completely in his mind. “Let him who pleases take
that kid, that windmill, that rattler,” said he to himself,--“Pan
Adam or the Devil, it is all one to me!”

Anger rose in him against Basia, who was indebted to God for her
disposition; but it never came to his head once that he might
wrong her more with this anger than Krysia with his pretended
indifference. Krysia, with a woman’s instinct, divined straightway
that some change was taking place in Pan Michael. It was at once
both bitter and sad for the maiden that the little knight seemed
to avoid her; but she understood instantly that something must be
decided between them, and that their friendship could not continue
unmodified, but must become either far greater than it had been or
cease altogether. Hence she was seized by alarm, which increased
at the thought of Pan Michael’s speedy departure. Love was not in
Krysia’s heart yet. The maiden had not come to self-consciousness
on that point; but in her heart and in her blood there was a
great readiness for love. Perhaps too she felt a light turning of
the head. Pan Michael was surrounded with the glory of the first
soldier in the Commonwealth. All knights were repeating his name
with respect. His sister exalted his honor to the sky; the charm
of misfortune covered him; and in addition, the young lady, living
under the same roof with him, grew accustomed to his attraction.

Krysia had this in her nature, she was fond of being loved;
therefore when Pan Michael began in those recent days to treat her
with indifference, her self-esteem suffered greatly; but having a
good heart, she resolved not to show an angry face or vexation,
and to win him by kindness. That came to her all the more easily,
since on the following day Pan Michael had a penitent mien, and
not only did not avoid Krysia’s glance, but looked into her eyes,
as if wishing to say, “Yesterday I offended you; to-day I implore
your forgiveness.” He said so much to her with his eyes that under
their influence the blood flowed to the young lady’s face, and her
disquiet was increased, as if with a presentiment that very soon
something important would happen. In fact, it did happen. In the
afternoon Pani Makovetski went with Basia to Basia’s relative,
the wife of the chamberlain of Lvoff, who was stopping in Warsaw;
Krysia feigned purposely a headache, for curiosity seized her to
know what she and Pan Michael would do if left to themselves.

Zagloba did not go, it is true, to the chamberlain’s wife, but he
had the habit of sleeping a couple of hours after dinner, for he
said that it saved him from fatness, and gave him clear wit in the
evening; therefore, after he had chatted an hour or so, he began to
prepare for his room. Krysia’s heart beat at once more unquietly.
But what a disillusion was awaiting her! Pan Michael sprang up, and
went out with Zagloba.

“He will come back soon,” thought Krysia. And taking a little
drum, she began to embroider on it a gold top for a cap to give
Pan Michael at his departure. Her eyes rose, however, every little
while, and went to the Dantzig clock, which stood in the corner of
Ketling’s room, and ticked with importance.

But one hour and a second passed; Pan Michael was not to be seen.
Krysia placed the drum on her knees, and crossing her hands on it,
said in an undertone, “But before he decides, they may come, and we
shall not say anything, or Pan Zagloba may wake.”

It seemed to her in that moment that they had in truth to speak of
some important affair, which might be deferred through the fault
of Pan Michael. At last, however, his steps were heard in the next
room. “He is wandering around,” thought she, and began to embroider
diligently again.

Volodyovski was, in fact, wandering; he was walking through the
room, and did not dare to come in. Meanwhile the sun was growing
red and approaching its setting.

“Pan Michael!” called Krysia, suddenly.

He came in and found her sewing. “Did you call me?”

“I wished to know if some stranger was walking in the house; I have
been here alone for two hours.”

Pan Michael drew up a chair and sat on the edge of it. A long time
elapsed; he was silent; his feet clattered somewhat as he pushed
them under the table, and his mustache quivered. Krysia stopped
sewing and raised her eyes to him; their glances met, and then both
dropped their eyes suddenly.

When Pan Michael raised his eyes again, the last rays of the sun
were falling on Krysia’s face, and it was beautiful in the light;
her hair gleamed in its folds like gold. “In a couple of days you
are going?” asked she, so quietly that Pan Michael barely heard her.

“It cannot be otherwise.”

Again a moment of silence, after which Krysia said, “I thought
these last days that you were angry with me.”

“As I live,” cried Pan Michael, “I would not be worthy of your
regard if I had been, but I was not.”

“What was the matter?” asked Krysia, raising her eyes to him.

“I wish to speak sincerely, for I think that sincerity is always
better than dissimulation; but I cannot tell how much solace you
have poured into my heart, and how grateful I feel.”

“God grant it to be always so!” said Krysia, crossing her hands on
the drum.

To this Pan Michael answered with great sadness, “God grant! God
grant--But Pan Zagloba told me--I speak before you as before a
priest--Pan Zagloba told me that friendship with fair heads is
not a safe thing, for a more ardent feeling may be hidden beneath
it, as fire under ashes. I thought that perhaps Pan Zagloba was
right. Forgive me, a simple soldier; another would have brought out
the idea more cleverly, but my heart is bleeding because I have
offended you these recent days, and life is not pleasant to me.”

When he had said this, Pan Michael began to move his mustaches more
quickly than any beetle. Krysia dropped her head, and after a while
two tears rolled down her cheeks. “If it will be easier for you, I
will conceal my sisterly affection.” A second pair of tears, and
then a third, appeared on her cheeks.

At sight of this, Pan Michael’s heart was rent completely; he
sprang toward Krysia, and seized her hands. The drum rolled from
her knees to the middle of the room; the knight, however, did not
care for that; he only pressed those warm, soft, velvety hands to
his mouth, repeating,--

“Do not weep. For God’s sake, do not weep!”

Pan Michael did not cease to kiss the hands even when Krysia put
them on her head, as people do usually when embarrassed; but he
kissed them the more ardently, till the warmth coming from her
hair and forehead intoxicated him as wine does, and his ideas grew
confused. Then not knowing himself how and when, his lips came
to her forehead and kissed that still more eagerly; and then he
pushed down to her tearful eyes, and the world went around with
him altogether. Next he felt that most delicate down on her lip;
and after that their mouths met and were pressed together with all
their power. Silence fell on the room; only the clock ticked with
importance.

Suddenly Basia’s steps were heard in the ante-room, and her
childlike voice repeating, “Frost! frost! frost!”

Pan Michael sprang away from Krysia like a frightened panther from
his victim; and at that moment Basia rushed in with an uproar,
repeating incessantly, “Frost! frost! frost!” Suddenly she stumbled
against the drum lying in the middle of the room. Then she stopped,
and looking with astonishment, now on the drum, now on Krysia, now
on the little knight, said, “What is this? You struck each other,
as with a dart?”

“But where is auntie?” asked Krysia, striving to bring out of her
heaving breast a quiet, natural voice.

“Auntie is climbing out of the sleigh by degrees,” answered Basia,
with an equally changed voice. Her nostrils moved a number of
times. She looked once more at Krysia and Pan Michael, who by that
time had raised the drum, then she left the room suddenly.

Pani Makovetski rolled into the room; Pan Zagloba came downstairs,
and a conversation set in about the wife of the chamberlain of
Lvoff.

“I did not know that she was Pan Adam’s godmother,” said Pani
Makovetski; “he must have made her his confidante, for she is
persecuting Basia with him terribly.”

“But what did Basia say?” asked Zagloba.

“‘A halter for a dog!’ She said to the chamberlain’s lady: ‘He has
no mustache, and I have no sense; and it is not known which one
will get what is lacking first.’”

“I knew that she would not lose her tongue; but who knows what her
real thought is? Ah, woman’s wiles!”

“With Basia, what is on her heart is on her lips. Besides, I have
told you already that she does not feel the will of God yet; Krysia
does, in a higher degree.”

“Auntie!” said Krysia, suddenly.

Further conversation was interrupted by the servant, who announced
that supper was on the table. All went then to the dining-room; but
Basia was not there.

“Where is the young lady?” asked Pani Makovetski of the servant.

“The young lady is in the stable. I told the young lady that supper
was ready; the young lady said, ‘Well,’ and went to the stable.”

“Has something unpleasant happened to her? She was so gay,” said
Pani Makovetski, turning to Zagloba.

Then the little knight, who had an unquiet conscience, said, “I
will go and bring her.” And he hurried out. He found her just
inside the stable-door, sitting on a bundle of hay. She was so sunk
in thought that she did not see him as he entered.

“Panna Basia,” said the little knight, bending over her.

Basia trembled as if roused from sleep, and raised her eyes, in
which Pan Michael saw, to his utter astonishment, two tears as
large as pearls. “For God’s sake! What is the matter? You are
weeping.”

“I do not dream of it,” cried Basia, springing up; “I do not dream
of it! That is from frost.” She laughed joyously, but the laughter
was rather forced. Then, wishing to turn attention from herself,
she pointed to the stall in which was the steed given Pan Michael
by the hetman, and said with animation, “You say it is impossible
to go to that horse? Now let us see!”

And before Pan Michael could restrain her, she had sprung into the
stall. The fierce beast began to rear, to paw, and to put back his
ears.

“For God’s sake! he will kill you!” cried Pan Michael, springing
after her.

But Basia had begun already to stroke with her palm the shoulder of
the horse, repeating, “Let him kill! let him kill!”

But the horse turned to her his steaming nostrils and gave a low
neigh, as if rejoiced at the fondling.




CHAPTER XI.


All the nights that Pan Michael had spent were nothing in
comparison with the night after that adventure with Krysia. For,
behold, he had betrayed the memory of his dead one, and he loved
that memory. He had deceived the confidence of the living woman,
had abused friendship, had contracted certain obligations, had
acted like a man without conscience. Another soldier would have
made nothing of such a kiss, or, what is more, would have twisted
his mustache at thought of it; but Pan Michael was squeamish,
especially since the death of Anusia, as is every man who has a
soul in pain and a torn heart. What was left for him to do, then?
How was he to act?

Only a few days remained until his departure; that departure would
cut short everything. But was it proper to go without a word to
Krysia, and leave her as he would leave any chamber-maid from whom
he might steal a kiss? The brave heart of Pan Michael trembled at
the thought. Even in the struggle in which he was then, the thought
of Krysia filled him with pleasure, and the remembrance of that
kiss passed through him with a quiver of delight. Rage against his
own head seized him; still he could not refrain from a feeling of
sweetness. And he took the whole blame on himself.

“I brought Krysia to that,” repeated he, with bitterness and pain;
“I brought her to it, therefore it is not just for me to go away
without a word. What, then? Make a proposal, and go away Krysia’s
betrothed?”

Here the form of Anusia stood before the knight, dressed in white,
and pale herself as wax, just as he had laid her in the coffin.
“This much is due me,” said the figure, “that you mourn and grieve
for me. You wished at first to become a monk, to bewail me all your
life; but now you are taking another before my poor soul could fly
to the gates of heaven. Ah! wait, let me reach heaven first; let me
cease looking at the earth.”

And it seemed to the knight that he was a species of perjurer
before that bright soul whose memory he should honor and hold
as sacred. Sorrow and immeasurable shame seized him, and
self-contempt. He desired death.

“Anulya,”[11] repeated he, on his knees, “I shall not cease to
bewail thee till death; but what am I to do now?”

The white form gave no answer to that as it vanished like a
light mist; and instead of it appeared in the imagination of the
knight Krysia’s eyes and her lip covered with down, and with it
temptations from which the knight wished to free himself. So his
heart was wavering in uncertainty, suffering, and torment. At
moments it came to his head to go and confess all to Zagloba,
and take counsel of that man whose reason could settle all
difficulties. And he had foreseen everything; he had told
beforehand what it was to enter into “friendship” with fair heads.
But just that view restrained the little knight. He recollected how
sharply he had called to Pan Zagloba, “Do not offend Panna Krysia,
sir!” And now, who had offended Panna Krysia? Who was the man who
had thought, “Is it not best to leave her like a chamber-maid and
go away?”

“If it were not for that dear one up there, I would not hesitate
a moment,” thought the knight, “I should not be tormented at all;
on the contrary, I should be glad in soul that I had tasted such
delight.” After a while he muttered, “I would take it willingly a
hundred times.” Seeing, however, that temptations were flocking
around him, he shook them off again powerfully, and began to reason
in this way: “It is all over. Since I have acted like one who is
not desirous of friendship, but who is looking for satisfaction
from Cupid, I must go by that road, and tell Krysia to-morrow that
I wish to marry her.”

Here he stopped awhile, then thought further thuswise: “Through
which declaration the confidence of to-day will become quite
proper, and to-morrow I can permit myself--” But at this moment he
struck his mouth with his palm. “Tfu!” said he; “is a whole chambul
of devils sitting behind my collar?”

But still he did not set aside his plan of making the declaration,
thinking to himself simply: “If I offend the dear dead one, I
can conciliate her with Masses and prayer; by this I shall show
also that I remember her always, and will not cease in devotion.
If people wonder and laugh at me because two weeks ago I wanted
from sorrow to be a monk, and now have made a declaration of love
to another, the shame will be on my side alone. If I make no
declaration, the innocent Krysia will have to share my shame and my
fault. I will propose to her to-morrow; it cannot be otherwise,”
said he, at last.

He calmed himself then considerably; and when he had repeated “Our
Father,” and prayed earnestly for Anusia, he fell asleep. In the
morning, when he woke, he repeated, “I will propose to-day.” But it
was not so easy to propose, for Pan Michael did not wish to inform
others, but to talk with Krysia first, and then act as was proper.
Meanwhile Pan Adam arrived in the early morning, and filled the
whole house with his presence.

Krysia went about as if poisoned; the whole day she was pale,
worried, sometimes dropped her eyes, sometimes blushed so that the
color went to her neck; at times her lips quivered as if she were
going to cry; then again she was as if dreamy and languid. It was
difficult for the knight to approach her, and especially to remain
long alone with her. It is true he might have taken her to walk,
for the weather was wonderful, and some time before he would have
done so without any scruple; but now he dared not, for it seemed
to him that all would divine on the spot what his object was,--all
would think he was going to propose.

Pan Adam saved him. He took Pani Makovetski aside, conversed with
her a good while touching something, then both returned to the room
in which the little knight was sitting with the two young ladies
and Pan Zagloba, and said, “You young people might have a ride in
two sleighs, for the snow is sparkling.”

At this Pan Michael inclined quickly to Krysia’s ear and said, “I
beg you to sit with me. I have a world of things to say.”

“Very well,” answered Krysia.

Then the two men hastened to the stables, followed by Basia; and in
the space of a few “Our Fathers,” the two sleighs were driven up
before the house. Pan Michael and Krysia took their places in one.
Pan Adam and the little haiduk in the other, and moved on without
drivers.

When they had gone, Pani Makovetski turned to Zagloba and said,
“Pan Adam has proposed for Basia.”

“How is that?” asked Zagloba, alarmed.

“His godmother, the wife of the chamberlain of Lvoff, is to come
here to-morrow to talk with me; Pan Adam himself has begged of me
permission to talk with Basia, even hintingly, for he understands
himself that if Basia is not his friend, the trouble and pains will
be useless.”

“It was for this that you, my benefactress, sent them sleigh-riding?”

“For this. My husband is very scrupulous. More than once he has
said to me, ‘I will guard their property, but let each choose a
husband for herself; if he is honorable, I will not oppose, even in
case of inequality of property.’ Moreover, they are of mature years
and can give advice to themselves.”

“But what answer do you think of giving Pan Adam’s godmother?”

“My husband will come in May. I will turn the affair over to him;
but I think this way,--as Basia wishes, so will it be.”

“Pan Adam is a stripling!”

“But Michael himself says that he is a famous soldier, noted
already for deeds of valor. He has a respectable property, and his
godmother has recounted to me all his relations. You see, it is
this way: his great-grandfather was born of Princess Senyut; he was
married the first time to--”

“But what do I care for his relations?” interrupted Zagloba, not
hiding his ill-humor; “he is neither brother nor godfather to me,
and I tell your ladyship that I have predestined the little haiduk
to Michael; for if among maidens who walk the world on two feet
there is one better or more honest than she, may I from this moment
begin to walk on all-four like a bear!”

“Michael is thinking of nothing yet; and even if he were, Krysia
has struck his eye more. Ah! God, whose ways are inscrutable, will
decide this.”

“But if that bare-lipped youngster goes away with a water-melon,[12]
I shall be drunk with delight,” added Zagloba.

Meanwhile in the two sleighs the fates of both knights were in the
balance. Pan Michael was unable to utter a word for a long time; at
last he said to Krysia, “Do not think that I am a frivolous man, or
some kind of fop, for not such are my years.”

Krysia made no answer.

“Forgive me for what I did yesterday, for it was from the good
feeling which I have for you, which is so great that I was
altogether unable to restrain it. My gracious lady, my beloved
Krysia, consider who I am; I am a simple soldier, whose life
has been passed in wars. Another would have prepared an oration
beforehand, and then come to confidence; I have begun with
confidence. Remember this also, that if a horse, though trained,
takes the bit in his teeth and runs away with a man, why should
not love, whose force is greater, run away with him? Love carried
me away, simply because you are dear to me. My beloved Krysia, you
are worthy of castellans and senators; but if you do not disdain
a soldier, who, though in simple rank, has served the country not
without some glory, I fall at your feet, I kiss your feet, and I
ask, do you wish me? Can you think of me without repulsion?”

“Pan Michael!” answered Krysia. And her hand, drawn from her muff,
hid itself in the hand of the knight.

“Do you consent?” asked Volodyovski.

“I do!” answered Krysia; “and I know that I could not find a more
honorable man in all Poland.”

“God reward you! God reward you, Krysia!” said the knight, covering
the hand with kisses. “A greater happiness could not meet me. Only
tell me that you are not angry at yesterday’s confidence, so that I
may find relief of conscience.”

“I am not angry.”

“Oh that I could kiss your feet!” cried Pan Michael.

They remained some time in silence; the runners were whistling on
the snow, and snowballs were flying from under the horse’s feet.
Then Pan Michael said, “I marvel that you regard me.”

“It is more wonderful,” answered Krysia, “that you came to love me
so quickly.”

At this Pan Michael’s face grew very serious, and he said, “It may
seem ill to you that before I shook off sorrow for one, I fell in
love with another. I own to you also, as if I were at confession,
that in my time I have been giddy; but now it is different. I have
not forgotten that dear one, and shall never forget her; I love her
yet, and if you knew how much I weep for her, you would weep over
me yourself.”

Here voice failed the little knight, for he was greatly moved, and
perhaps for that reason he did not notice that these words did not
seem to make a very deep impression on Krysia.

Silence followed again, interrupted this time by the lady: “I will
try to comfort you, as far as my strength permits.”

“I loved you so soon,” said Pan Michael, “because you began from
the first day to cure my wounds. What was I to you? Nothing! But
you began at once, because you had pity in your heart for an
unfortunate. Ah! I am thankful to you, greatly thankful! Who does
not know this will perhaps reproach me, since I wished to be a monk
in November, and am preparing for marriage in December. First,
Pan Zagloba will be ready to jeer, for he is glad to do that when
occasion offers; but let the man jeer who is able! I do not care
about that, especially since the reproach will not fall on you, but
on me.”

Krysia began to look at the sky thoughtfully, and said at last,
“Must we absolutely tell people of our engagement?”

“What is your meaning?”

“You are going away, it seems, in a couple of days?”

“Even against my will, I must go.”

“I am wearing mourning for my father. Why should we exhibit
ourselves to the gaze of people? Let our engagement remain between
ourselves, and people need not know of it till you return from
Russia. Are you satisfied?”

“Then I am to say nothing to my sister?”

“I will tell her myself, but after you have gone.”

“And to Pan Zagloba?”

“Pan Zagloba would sharpen his wit on me. Ei, better say nothing!
Basia too would tease me; and she these last days is so whimsical
and has such changing humor as never before. Better say nothing.”
Here Krysia raised her dark-blue eyes to the heavens: “God is the
witness above us; let people remain uninformed.”

“I see that your wit is equal to your beauty. I agree. Then God is
our witness. Amen! Now rest your shoulder on me; for as soon as our
contract is made, modesty is not opposed to that. Have no fear!
Even if I wished to repeat yesterday’s act, I cannot, for I must
take care of the horse.”

Krysia gratified the knight, and he said, “As often as we are
alone, call me by name only.”

“Somehow it does not fit,” said she, with a smile. “I never shall
dare to do that.”

“But I have dared.”

“For Pan Michael is a knight, Pan Michael is daring, Pan Michael is
a soldier.”

“Krysia, you are my love!”

“Mich--” But Krysia had not courage to finish, and covered her face
with her muff.

After a while Pan Michael returned to the house; they did not
converse much on the road, but at the gate the little knight asked
again, “But after yesterday’s--you understand--were you very sad?”

“Oh, I was ashamed and sad, but had a wonderful feeling,” added
she, in a lower voice.

All at once they put on a look of indifference, so that no one
might see what had passed between them. But that was a needless
precaution, for no one paid heed to them. It is true that Zagloba
and Pan Michael’s sister ran out to meet the two couples, but their
eyes were turned only on Basia and Pan Adam.

Basia was red, certainly, but it was unknown whether from cold or
emotion; and Pan Adam was as if poisoned. Immediately after, too,
he took farewell of the lady of the house. In vain did she try to
detain him; in vain Pan Michael himself tried to persuade him to
remain to supper: he excused himself with service and went away.
That moment Pan Michael’s sister, without saying a word, kissed
Basia on the forehead; the young lady flew to her own chamber and
did not return to supper.

Only on the next day did Zagloba make a direct attack on her and
inquire, “Well, little haiduk, a thunderbolt, as it were, struck
Pan Adam?”

“Aha!” answered she, nodding affirmatively and blinking.

“Tell me what you said to him.”

“The question was quick, for he is daring; but so was the answer,
for I too am daring. Is it not true?”

“You acted splendidly! Let me embrace you! What did he say? Did he
let himself be beaten off easily?”

“He asked if with time he could not effect something. I was sorry
for him, but no, no; nothing can come of that!”

Here Basia, distending her nostrils, began to shake her forelock
somewhat sadly, as if in thought.

“Tell me your reasons,” said Zagloba.

“He too wanted them, but it was of no use; I did not tell him, and
I will tell no man.”

“But perhaps,” said Zagloba, looking quickly into her eyes, “you
bear some hidden love in your heart. Hei?”

“A fig for love!” cried Basia. And springing from the place, she
began to repeat quickly, as if wishing to cover her confusion, “I
do not want Pan Adam! I do not want Pan Adam! I do not want any
one! Why do you plague me? Why do you plague me, all of you?” And
on a sudden she burst into tears.

Zagloba comforted her as best he could, but during the whole day
she was gloomy and peevish. “Michael,” said he at dinner, “you are
going, and Ketling will come soon; he is a beauty above beauties. I
know not how these young ladies will defend themselves, but I think
this, when you come back, you will find them both dead in love.”

“Profit for us!” said Volodyovski. “We’ll give him Panna Basia at
once.”

Basia fixed on him the look of a wild-cat and said, “But why are
you less concerned about Krysia?”

The little knight was confused beyond measure at these words, and
said, “You do not know Ketling’s power, but you will discover it.”

“But why should not Krysia discover it? Besides, it is not I who
sing,--

      ‘The fair head grows faint;
      Where will she hide herself?
      How will the poor thing defend herself?’”

Now Krysia was confused in her turn, and the little wasp continued,
“In extremities I will ask Pan Adam to lend me his shield; but when
you go away, I know not with what Krysia will defend herself, if
peril comes on her.”

Pan Michael had now recovered, and answered somewhat severely,
“Perhaps she will find wherewith to defend herself better than you.”

“How so?”

“For she is less giddy, and has more sedateness and dignity.”

Pan Zagloba and the little knight’s sister thought that the keen
haiduk would come to battle at once; but to their great amazement,
she dropped her head toward the plate, and after a while said, in a
low voice, “If you are angry, I ask pardon of you and of Krysia.”




CHAPTER XII.


As Pan Michael had permission to set out whenever he wished, he
went to Anusia’s grave at Chenstohova. After he had shed the
last of his tears there, he journeyed on farther; and under the
influence of fresh reminiscences it occurred to him that the secret
engagement with Krysia was in some way too early. He felt that
in sorrow and mourning there is something sacred and inviolable,
which should not be touched, but permitted to rise heavenward like
a cloud, and vanish in measureless space. Other men, it is true,
after losing their wives, had married in a month or in two months;
but they had not begun with the cloister, nor had misfortune met
them at the threshold of happiness after whole years of waiting.
But even if men of common mould do not respect the sacredness of
sorrow, is it proper to follow their example?

Pan Michael journeyed forward then toward Russia, and reproaches
went with him. But he was so just that he took all the blame on
himself, and did not put any on Krysia; and to the many alarms
which seized him was added this also, would not Krysia in the depth
of her soul take that haste ill of him?

“Surely she would not act thus in my place,” said Pan Michael to
himself; “and having a lofty soul herself, beyond doubt, she seeks
loftiness in others.”

Fear seized the little knight lest he might seem to her petty;
but that was vain fear. Krysia cared nothing for Pan Michael’s
mourning; and when he spoke to her too much concerning it, not
only did it not excite sympathy in the lady, but it roused her
self-love. Was not she, the living woman, equal to the dead one?
Or, in general, was she of such small worth that the dead Anusia
could be her rival? If Zagloba had been in the secret, he would
have pacified Pan Michael certainly, by saying that women have not
over-much mercy for one another.

After Volodyovski’s departure, Panna Krysia was astonished not
a little at what had happened, and at this, that the latch had
fallen. In going from the Ukraine to Warsaw, where she had
never been before, she had imagined that it would be different
altogether. At the Diet of Convocation the escorts of bishops and
dignitaries would meet; a brilliant knighthood would assemble from
all sides of the Commonwealth. How many amusements and reviews
would there be, how much bustle! and in all that whirl, in the
concourse of knights, would appear some unknown “he,” some knight
such as maidens see only in dreams. This knight would flush up
with love, appear under her windows with a lute; he would form
cavalcades, love and sigh a long time, wear on his armor the knot
of his loved one, suffer and overcome obstacles before he would
fall at her feet and win mutual love.

But nothing of all that had come to pass. The haze, changing
and colored, like a rainbow, vanished; a knight appeared, it is
true,--a knight not at all common, heralded as the first soldier
of the Commonwealth, a great cavalier, but not much, or indeed,
not at all, like that “he.” There were no cavalcades either, nor
playing of lutes, nor tournaments, nor the knot on the armor, nor
bustle, nor games, nor any of all that which rouses curiosity like
a May dream, or a wonderful tale in the evening, which intoxicates
like the odor of flowers, which allures as bait does a bird; from
which the face flushes, the heart throbs, the body trembles. There
was nothing but a small house outside the city; in the house
Pan Michael; then intimacy grew up, and the rest of the vision
disappeared as the moon disappears in the sky when clouds come and
hide it. If that Pan Michael had appeared at the end of the story,
he would be the desired one. More than once, when thinking of his
fame, of his worth, of his valor, which made him the glory of the
Commonwealth and the terror of its enemies, Krysia felt that, in
spite of all, she loved him greatly; only it seemed to her that
something had missed her, that a certain injustice had met her, a
little through him, or rather through haste. That haste, therefore,
had fallen into the hearts of both like a grain of sand; and
since both were farther and farther from each other, that grain
began to pain them somewhat. It happens frequently that something
insignificant as a little thorn pricks the feelings of people,
and in time either heals or festers more and more, and brings
bitterness and pain, even to the greatest love. But in this case it
was still far to pain and bitterness. For Pan Michael, the thought
of Krysia was especially agreeable and soothing; and the thought of
her followed him as his shadow follows a man. He thought too that
the farther he went, the dearer she would become to him, and the
more he would sigh and yearn for her. The time passed more heavily
for her; for no one visited Ketling’s house since the departure of
the little knight, and day followed day in monotony and weariness.

Pani Makovetski counted the days before the election, waited for
her husband, and talked only of him; Basia had put on a very long
face. Zagloba reproached her, saying that she had rejected Pan Adam
and was then wishing for him. In fact, she would have been glad if
even he had come; but Novoveski said to himself, “There is nothing
for me there,” and soon he followed Pan Michael. Zagloba too was
preparing to return to Pan Yan’s, saying that he wished to see his
boys. Still, being heavy, he put off his journey day after day;
he explained to Basia that she was the cause of his delay, that
he was in love with her and intended to seek her hand. Meanwhile
he kept company with Krysia when Pan Michael’s sister went with
Basia to visit the wife of the chamberlain of Lvoff. Krysia never
accompanied them in those visits; for the lady, notwithstanding
her worthiness, could not endure Krysia. Frequently and often too
Zagloba went to Warsaw, where he met pleasant company and returned
more than once tipsy on the following day; and then Krysia was
entirely alone, passing the dreary hours in thinking a little of
Pan Michael, a little of what might happen if that latch had not
fallen once and forever, and often, what did that unknown rival of
Pan Michael look like,--the King’s son in the fairy tale?

Once Krysia was sitting by the window and looking in thoughtfulness
at the door of the room, on which a very bright gleam of the
setting sun was falling, when suddenly a sleigh-bell was heard on
the other side of the house. It ran through Krysia’s head that Pani
Makovetski and Basia must have returned; but that did not bring her
out of meditation, and she did not even withdraw her eyes from the
door. Meanwhile the door opened; and on the background of the dark
depth beyond appeared to the eyes of the maiden some unknown man.

At the first moment it seemed to Krysia that she saw a picture,
or that she had fallen asleep and was dreaming, such a wonderful
vision stood before her. The unknown was young, dressed in black
foreign costume, with a white lace collar coming to his shoulders.
Once in childhood Krysia had seen Pan Artsishevski, general of the
artillery of the kingdom, dressed in such a costume; by reason
of the dress, as well as of his unusual beauty, the general had
remained long in her memory. Now, that young man before her
was dressed in like fashion; but in beauty he surpassed Pan
Artsishevski and all men walking the earth. His hair, cut evenly
over his forehead, fell in bright curls on both sides of his
face, just marvellously. He had dark brows, definitely outlined
on a forehead white as marble; eyes mild and melancholy; a yellow
mustache and a yellow, pointed beard. It was an incomparable head,
in which nobility was united to manfulness,--the head at once of
an angel and a warrior. Krysia’s breath was stopped in her breast,
for looking, she did not believe her own eyes, nor could she decide
whether she had before her an illusion or a real man. He stood
awhile motionless, astonished, or through politeness feigning
astonishment at Krysia; at last he moved from the door, and waving
his hat downward began to sweep the floor with its plumes. Krysia
rose, but her feet trembled under her; and now blushing, now
growing pale, she closed her eyes.

Meanwhile his voice sounded low and soft, “I am Ketling of
Elgin,--the friend and companion-at-arms of Pan Volodyovski. The
servant has told me already that I have the unspeakable happiness
and honor to receive as guests under my roof the sister and
relatives of my Pallas; but pardon, worthy lady, my confusion, for
the servant told me nothing of what my eyes see, and my eyes are
overcome by the brightness of your presence.”

With such a compliment did the knightly Ketling greet Krysia;
but she did not repay him in like manner, for she could not find
a single word. She thought only that when he had finished, he
would incline surely a second time, for in the silence she heard
again the rustle of plumes on the floor. She felt also that there
was need, urgent need, to make some answer and return compliment
for compliment, otherwise she might be held a simple woman; but
meanwhile her breath fails her, the pulse is throbbing in her
hands and her temples, her breast rises and falls as if she were
suffering greatly. She opens her eyelids; he stands before her
with head inclined somewhat, with admiration and respect in his
wonderful face. With trembling hand Krysia seizes her robe to make
even a courtesy before the cavalier; fortunately, at that moment
cries of “Ketling! Ketling!” are heard behind the door, and into
the room rushes, with open arms, the panting Zagloba.

The two men embraced each other then; and during that time the
young lady tried to recover, and to look two or three times at
the knight. He embraced Zagloba heartily, but with that unusual
elegance in every movement which he had either inherited from his
ancestors or acquired at the refined courts of kings and magnates.

“How are you?” cried Zagloba. “I am as glad to see you in your
house as in my own. Let me look at you. Ah, you have grown thin!
Is it not some love-affair? As God lives, you have grown thin.
Do you know, Michael has gone to the squadron? Oh, you have done
splendidly to come! Michael thinks no more of the cloister. His
sister is living here with two young ladies,--maidens like turnips!
Oh, for God’s sake, Panna Krysia is here! I beg pardon for my
words, but let that man’s eyes crawl out who denies beauty to
either of you; this cavalier has seen it already in your case.”

Ketling inclined his head a third time, and said with a smile, “I
left the house a barrack and find it Olympus; for I see a goddess
at the entrance.”

“Ketling! how are you?” cried a second time Zagloba, for whom one
greeting was too little, and he seized him again in his arms.
“Never mind,” said he, “you haven’t seen the haiduk yet. One is a
beauty, but the other is honey! How are you, Ketling? God give you
health! I will talk to you. It is you; very good. That is a delight
to this old man. You are glad of your guests. Pani Makovetski has
come here, for it was difficult to find lodgings in the time of the
Diet; but now it is easier, and she will go out, of course, for it
is not well for young ladies to lodge in a single man’s house, lest
people might look awry, and some gossip might come of the matter.”

“For God’s sake! I will never permit that! I am to Volodyovski
not a friend, but a brother; and I may receive Pani Makovetski
as a sister under my roof. To you, young lady, I shall turn for
assistance, and if necessary will beg it here on my knees.”

Saying this, Ketling knelt before Krysia, and seizing her hand,
pressed it to his lips and looked into her eyes imploringly,
joyously, and at the same time pensively; she began to blush,
especially as Zagloba cried out straightway, “He has barely come
when he is on his knees before her. As God lives! I’ll tell Pani
Makovetski that I found you in that posture. Sharp, Ketling! See
what court customs are!”

“I am not skilled in court customs,” whispered the lady, in great
confusion.

“Can I reckon on your aid?” asked Ketling.

“Rise, sir!”

“May I reckon on your aid? I am Pan Michael’s brother. An injury
will be done him if this house is abandoned.”

“My wishes are nothing here,” answered Krysia, with more presence
of mind, “though I must be grateful for yours.”

“I thank you!” answered Ketling, pressing her hand to his mouth.

“Ah! frost out of doors, and Cupid is naked; but he would not
freeze in this house,” said Zagloba. “And I see that from sighs
alone there will be a thaw,--from nothing but sighs.”

“Spare us,” said Krysia.

“I thank God that you have not lost your jovial humor,” said
Ketling, “for joyousness is a sign of health.”

“And a clear conscience,” added Zagloba. “‘He grieves who is
troubled,’ declares the Seer in Holy Writ. Nothing troubles me,
therefore I am joyous. Oh, a hundred Turks! What do I behold? For I
saw you in Polish costume with a lynx-skin cap and a sabre, and now
you have changed again into some kind of Englishman, and are going
around on slim legs like a stork.”

“For I have been in Courland, where the Polish dress is not worn,
and have just passed two days with the English resident in Warsaw.”

“Then you are returning from Courland?”

“I am. The relative who adopted me has died, and left me another
estate there.”

“Eternal repose to him! He was a Catholic, of course?”

“He was.”

“You have this consolation at least. But you will not leave us for
this property in Courland?”

“I will live and die here,” answered Ketling, looking at Krysia;
and at once she dropped her long lashes on her eyes.

Pani Makovetski arrived when it was quite dark; and Ketling went
outside the gate to meet her. He conducted the lady to his house
with as much homage as if she had been a reigning princess. She
wished on the following day to seek other quarters in the city
itself; but her resolve was ineffective. The young knight implored,
dwelt on his brotherhood with Pan Michael, and knelt until she
agreed to stay with him longer. It was merely stipulated that Pan
Zagloba should remain some time yet, to shield the ladies with his
age and dignity from evil tongues. He agreed willingly, for he
had become attached beyond measure to the haiduk; and besides, he
had begun to arrange in his head certain plans which demanded his
presence absolutely. The maidens were both glad, and Basia came out
at once openly on Ketling’s side.

“We will not move out to-day, anyhow,” said she to Pan Michael’s
hesitating sister; “and if not, it is all the same whether we stay
one day or twelve.”

Ketling pleased her as well as Krysia, for he pleased all women;
besides, Basia had never seen a foreign cavalier, except officers
of foreign infantry,--men of small rank and rather common persons.
Therefore she walked around him, shaking her forelock, dilating
her nostrils, and looking at him with a childlike curiosity; so
importunate was she that at last she heard the censure of Pani
Makovetski. But in spite of the censure, she did not cease to
investigate him with her eyes, as if wishing to fix his military
value, and at last she turned to Pan Zagloba.

“Is he a great soldier?” asked she of the old man in a whisper.

“Yes; so that he cannot be more celebrated. You see he has immense
experience, for, remaining in the true faith, he served against the
English rebels from his fourteenth year. He is a noble also of high
birth, which is easily seen from his manners.”

“Have you seen him under fire?”

“A thousand times! He would halt for you in it without a frown, pat
his horse on the shoulder, and be ready to talk of love.”

“Is it the fashion to talk of love at such a time? Hei?”

“It is the fashion to do everything by which contempt for bullets
is shown.”

“But hand-to-hand, in a duel, is he equally great?”

“Yes, yes! a wasp; it is not to be denied.”

“But could he stand before Pan Michael?”

“Before Michael he could not!”

“Ha!” exclaimed Basia, with joyous pride, “I knew that he could
not. I thought at once that he could not.” And she began to clap
her hands.

“So, then, do you take Pan Michael’s side?” asked Zagloba.

Basia shook her forelock and was silent; after a while a quiet sigh
raised her breast. “Ei! what of that? I am glad, for he is ours.”

“But think of this, and beat it into yourself, little haiduk,”
said Zagloba, “that if on the field of battle it is hard to find a
better man than Ketling, he is most dangerous for maidens, who love
him madly for his beauty. He is trained famously in love-making
too.”

“Tell that to Krysia, for love is not in my head,” answered Basia,
and turning to Krysia, she began to call, “Krysia! Krysia! Come
here just for a word.”

“I am here,” said Krysia.

“Pan Zagloba says that no lady looks on Ketling without falling in
love straightway. I have looked at him from every side, and somehow
nothing has happened; but do you feel anything?”

“Basia, Basia!” said Krysia, in a tone of persuasion.

“Has he pleased you, eh?”

“Spare us! be sedate. My Basia, do not talk nonsense, for Ketling
is coming.”

In fact, Krysia had not taken her seat when Ketling approached and
inquired, “Is it permitted to join the company?”

“We request you earnestly,” answered Krysia.

“Then I am bold to ask, of what was your conversation?”

“Of love,” cried Basia, without hesitation.

Ketling sat down near Krysia. They were silent for a time; for
Krysia, usually self-possessed and with presence of mind, had in
some wonderful way become timid in presence of the cavalier; hence
he was first to ask,--

“Is it true that the conversation was of such a pleasant subject?”

“It was,” answered Krysia, in an undertone.

“I shall be delighted to hear your opinion.”

“Pardon me, for I lack courage and wit, so I think that I should
rather hear something new from you.”

“Krysia is right,” said Zagloba. “Let us listen.”

“Ask a question,” said Ketling. And raising his eyes somewhat, he
meditated a little, then, although no one had questioned him, he
began to speak, as if to himself: “Loving is a grievous misfortune;
for by loving, a free man becomes a captive. Just as a bird, shot
by an arrow, falls it the feet of the hunter, so the man struck
by love has no power to escape from the feet of the loved one.
To love is to be maimed; for a man, like one blind, does not see
the world beyond his love. To love is to mourn; for when do more
tears flow, when do more sighs swell the breast? When a man loves,
there are neither dresses nor hunts in his head; he is ready to sit
embracing his knees with his arms, sighing as plaintively as if he
had lost some one near to him. Love is an illness; for in it, as in
illness, the face becomes pale, the eyes sink, the hands tremble,
the fingers grow thin, and the man thinks of death, or goes around
in derangement, with dishevelled hair, talks with the moon, writes
gladly the cherished name on the sand, and if the wind blows it
away, he says, ‘misfortune,’ and is ready to sob.”

Here Ketling was silent for a while; one would have said that he
was sunk in musing. Krysia listened to his words with her whole
soul, as if they were a song. Her lips were parted, and her eyes
did not leave the pale face of the knight. Basia’s forelock fell to
her eyes, hence it could not be known what she was thinking of; but
she sat in silence also.

Then Zagloba yawned loudly, drew a deep breath, stretched his legs,
and said, “Give command to make boots for dogs of such love!”

“But yet,” began the knight, anew, “if it is grievous to love,
it is more grievous still not to love; for who without love is
satisfied with pleasure, glory, riches, perfumes, or jewels?
Who will not say to the loved one, ‘I choose thee rather than a
kingdom, than a sceptre, than health or long life’? And since each
would give life for love willingly, love has more value than life.”
Ketling finished.

The young ladies sat nestling closely to each other, wondering at
the tenderness of his speech and those conclusions of love foreign
to Polish cavaliers, till Zagloba, who was napping at the end, woke
and began to blink, looking now at one, now at another, now at the
third; at last gaining presence of mind, he inquired in a loud
voice, “What do you say?”

“We say good-night to you,” said Basia.

“Ah! I know now we were talking of love. What was the conclusion?”

“The lining was better than the cloak.”

“There is no use in denying that I was drowsy; but this loving,
weeping, sighing--Ah, I have found another rhyme for it,--namely,
sleeping,--and at this time the best, for the hour is advanced.
Good-night to the whole company, and give us peace with your love.
O my God, my God, while the cat is miauwing, she will not eat the
cheese; but until she eats, her mouth is watering. In my day I
resembled Ketling as one cup does another; and I was in love so
madly that a ram might have pounded my back for an hour before
I should have known it. But in old age I prefer to rest well,
especially when a polite host not only conducts me to bed, but
gives me a drink on the pillow.”

“I am at the service of your grace,” said Ketling.

“Let us go; let us go! See how high the moon is already. It will be
fine to-morrow; it is glittering and clear as in the day. Ketling
is ready to talk about love with you all night; but remember, kids,
that he is road-weary.”

“Not road-weary, for I have rested two days in the city. I am only
afraid that the ladies are not used to night-watching.”

“The night would pass quickly in listening to you,” said Krysia.

Then they parted, for it was really late. The young ladies slept
in the same room and usually talked long before sleeping; but this
evening Basia could not understand Krysia, for as much as the first
had a wish to speak, so much was the second silent and answered
in half-words. A number of times too, when Basia, in speaking of
Ketling, caught at an idea, laughing somewhat at him and mimicking
him a little, Krysia embraced her with great tenderness, begging
her to leave off that nonsense.

“He is host here, Basia,” said she; “we are living under his roof;
and I saw that he fell in love with you at once.”

“Whence do you know that?” inquired Basia.

“Who does not love you? All love you, and I very much.” Thus
speaking, she put her beautiful face to Basia’s face, nestled up to
her, and kissed her eyes.

They went at last to their beds, but Krysia could not sleep for
a long time. Disquiet had seized her. At times her heart beat
with such force that she brought both hands to her satin bosom to
restrain the throbbing. At times too, especially when she tried to
close her eyes, it seemed to her that some head, beautiful as a
dream, bent over her, and a low voice whispered into her ear,--

“I would rather have thee than a kingdom, than a sceptre, than
health, than long life!”




CHAPTER XIII.


A few days later Zagloba wrote a letter to Pan Yan with the
following conclusion, “If I do not go home before election, be not
astonished. This will not happen through my lack of good wishes for
you; but as the Devil does not sleep, I do not wish that instead of
a bird something useless should remain in my hand. It will come out
badly if when Michael returns, I shall not be able to say to him,
‘That one is engaged, and the haiduk is free.’ Everything is in the
power of God; but this is my thought, that it will not be necessary
then to urge Michael, nor to make long preparations, and that you
will come when the engagement is made. Meanwhile, remembering
Ulysses, I shall be forced to use stratagems and exaggerate more
than once, which for me is not easy, since all my life I have
preferred truth to every delight, and was glad to be nourished by
it. Still, for Michael and the haiduk I will take this on my head,
for they are pure gold. Now I embrace you both with the boys, and
press you to my heart, commending you to the Most High God.”

When he had finished writing, Zagloba sprinkled sand on the paper;
then he struck it with his hand, read it once more, holding it at a
distance from his eyes; then he folded it, took his seal ring from
his finger, moistened it, and prepared to seal the letter, at which
occupation Ketling found him.

“A good-day to your grace!”

“Good-day, good-day!” said Zagloba. “The weather, thanks be to God,
is excellent, and I am just sending a messenger to Pan Yan.”

“Send an obeisance from me.”

“I have done so already. I said at once to myself, ‘It is necessary
to send a greeting from Ketling. Both of them will be glad to
receive good news.’ It is evident that I have sent a greeting from
you, since I have written a whole epistle touching you and the
young ladies.”

“How is that?” inquired Ketling.

Zagloba placed his palms on his knees, which he began to tap with
his fingers; then he bent his head, and looking from under his
brows at Ketling, said, “My Ketling, it is not necessary to be a
prophet to know that where flint and steel are, sparks will flash
sooner or later. You are a beauty above beauties, and even you
would not find fault with the young ladies.”

Ketling was really confused, “I should have to be wall-eyed or be
a wild barbarian altogether,” said he, “if I did not see their
beauty, and do homage to it.”

“But, you see,” continued Zagloba, looking with a smile on the
blushing face of Ketling, “if you are not a barbarian, it is not
right for you to have both in view, for only Turks act like that.”

“How can you suppose--”

“I do not suppose; I only say it to myself. Ha! traitor! you have
so talked to them of love that pallor is on Krysia’s lips this
third day. It is no wonder; you are a beauty. When I was young
myself, I used to stand in the frost under the window of a certain
black brow; she was like Panna Krysia; and I remember how I used to
sing,--

      ‘You are sleeping there after the day;
      And I am here thrumming my lute,
                              Hōets! Hōets!’

If you wish, I will give you a song, or compose an entirely new
one, for I have no lack of genius. Have you observed that Panna
Krysia reminds one somewhat of Panna Billevich, except that Panna
Billevich had hair like flax and had no down on her lip? But there
are men who find superior beauty in that, and think it a charm. She
looks with great pleasure on you. I have just written so to Pan
Yan. Is it not true that she is like the former Panna Billevich?”

“I have not noticed the likeness, but it may be. In figure and
stature she recalls her.”

“Now listen to what I say. I am telling family secrets directly;
but as you are a friend, you ought to know them. Be on your guard
not to feed Volodyovski with ingratitude, for I and Pani Makovetski
have predestined one of those maidens to him.”

Here Zagloba looked quickly and persistently into Ketling’s eyes,
and he grew pale and inquired, “Which one?”

“Panna Krysia,” answered Zagloba, slowly. And pushing out his lower
lip, he began to blink from under his frowning brow with his one
seeing eye. Ketling was silent, and silent so long that at last
Zagloba inquired, “What do you say to this?”

And Ketling answered with changed voice, but with emphasis, “You
may be sure that I shall not indulge my heart to Michael’s harm.”

“Are you certain?”

“I have suffered much in life; my word of a knight that I will not
indulge it.”

Then Zagloba opened his arms to him: “Ketling, indulge your heart;
indulge it, poor man, as much as you like, for I only wanted to
try you. Not Panna Krysia, but the haiduk, have we predestined to
Michael.”

Ketling’s face grew bright with a sincere and deep joy, and seizing
Zagloba in his embrace, he held him long, then inquired, “Is it
certain already that they are in love?”

“But who would not be in love with my haiduk,--who?” asked Zagloba.

“Then has the betrothal taken place?”

“There has been no betrothal, for Michael has barely freed himself
from mourning; but there will be,--put that on my head. The maiden,
though she evades like a weasel, is very much inclined to him, for
with her the sabre is the main thing.”

“I have noticed that, as God is dear to me!” interrupted Ketling,
radiant.

“Ha! you noticed it? Michael is weeping yet for the other; but if
any one pleases his spirit, it is certainly the haiduk, for she is
most like the dead one, though she cuts less with her eyes, for she
is younger. Everything is arranging itself well. I am the guarantee
that these two weddings will be at election-time.”

Ketling, saying nothing, embraced Zagloba again, and placed his
beautiful face against his red cheeks, so that the old man panted
and asked, “Has Panna Krysia sewed herself into your skin like that
already?”

“I know not,--I know not,” answered Ketling; “but I know this, that
barely had the heavenly vision of her delighted my eyes when I said
at once to myself that she was the one woman whom my suffering
heart might love yet; and that same night I drove sleep away with
sighs, and yielded myself to pleasant yearnings. Thenceforth she
took possession of my being, as a queen does of an obedient and
loyal country. Whether this is love or something else, I know not.”

“But you know that it is neither a cap nor three yards of cloth for
trousers, nor a saddle-girth, nor a crouper, nor sausage and eggs,
nor a decanter of gorailka. If you are certain of this, then ask
Krysia about the rest; or if you wish, I will ask her.”

“Do not do that,” said Ketling, smiling. “If I am to drown, let it
seem to me, even a couple of days yet, that I am swimming.”

“I see that the Scots are fine men in battle; but in love they are
useless. Against women, as against the enemy, impetus is needful.
‘I came, I saw, I conquered!’ that was my maxim.”

“In time, if my most ardent desires are to be accomplished, perhaps
I shall ask you for friendly assistance; though I am naturalized,
and of noble blood, still my name is unknown here, and I am not
sure that Pani Makovetski--”

“Pani Makovetski?” interrupted Zagloba. “Have no fear about her.
Pani Makovetski is a regular music-box. As I wind her, so will she
play. I will go at her immediately; I must forewarn her, you know,
so that she may not look awry at your approaches to the young lady.
To such a degree is your Scottish method one, and ours another, I
will not make a declaration straightway in your name, of course; I
will say only that the maiden has taken your eye, and that it would
be well if from that flour there should be bread. As God is dear
to me, I will go at once; have no fear, for in every case I am at
liberty to say what I like.”

And though Ketling detained him, Zagloba rose and went out. On the
way he met Basia, rushing along as usual, and said to her, “Do you
know that Krysia has captured Ketling completely?”

“He is not the first man!” answered Basia.

“And you are not angry about it?”

“Ketling is a doll!--a pleasant cavalier, but a doll! I have struck
my knee against the wagon-tongue; that is what troubles me.”

Here Basia, bending forward, began to rub her knee, looking
meanwhile at Zagloba, and he said, “For God’s sake, be careful!
Whither are you flying now?”

“To Krysia.”

“But what is she doing?”

“She? For some time past she keeps kissing me, and rubs up to me
like a cat.”

“Do not tell her that she has captured Ketling.”

“Ah! but can I hold out?”

Zagloba knew well that Basia would not hold out, and it was for
that very reason that he forbade her. He went on, therefore,
greatly delighted with his own cunning, and Basia fell like a bomb
into Krysia’s chamber.

“I have smashed my knee; and Ketling is dead in love with you!”
cried she, right on the threshold. “I did not see the pole sticking
out at the carriage-house--and such a blow! There were flashes in
my eyes, but that is nothing. Pan Zagloba begged me to say nothing
to you about Ketling. I did not say that I would not; I have told
you at once. And you were pretending to give him to me! Never fear;
I know you-- My knee pains me a little yet. I was not giving Pan
Adam to you, but Ketling. Oho! He is walking through the whole
house now, holding his head and talking to himself. Well done,
Krysia; well done! Scot, Scot! kot, kot!”[13]

Here Basia began to push her finger toward the eye of her friend.

“Basia!” exclaimed Panna Krysia.

“Scot, Scot! kot, kot!”

“How unfortunate I am!” cried Krysia, on a sudden, and burst into
tears.

After a while Basia began to console her; but it availed nothing,
and the maiden sobbed as never before in her life. In fact, no one
in all that house knew how unhappy she was. For some days she had
been in a fever; her face had grown pale; her eyes had sunk; her
breast was moving with short, broken breath. Something wonderful
had taken place in her; she had dropped, as it were, into extreme
weakness, and the change had come not gradually, slowly, but on a
sudden. Like a whirlwind, like a storm, it had swept her away; like
a flame, it had heated her blood; like lightning, it had flashed
on her imagination. She could not, even for a moment, resist that
power which was so mercilessly sudden. Calmness had left her. Her
will was like a bird with broken wings.

Krysia herself knew not whether she loved Ketling or hated him;
and a measureless fear seized her in view of that question. But
she felt that her heart beat so quickly only through him; that her
head was thinking thus helplessly only through him; that in her
and above her it was full of him,--and no means of defence. Not to
love him was easier than not to think of him, for her eyes were
delighted with the sight of him, her ears were lost in listening to
his voice, her whole soul was absorbed by him. Sleep did not free
her from that importunate man, for barely had she closed her eyes
when his head bent above her, whispering, “I would rather have thee
than a kingdom, than a sceptre, than fame, than wealth.” And that
head was near, so near that even in the darkness blood-red blushes
covered the face of the maiden. She was a Russian with hot blood;
certain fires rose in her breast,--fires of which she had not known
till that time that they could exist, and from the ardor of which
she was seized with fear and shame, and a great weakness and a
certain faintness at once painful and pleasant. Night brought her
no rest. A weariness continually increasing gained control of her,
as if after great toil.

“Krysia! Krysia! what is happening to thee?” cried she to herself.
But she was as if in a daze and in unceasing distraction. Nothing
had happened yet; nothing had taken place. So far she had not
exchanged two words with Ketling alone; still, the thought of
him had taken hold of her thoroughly; still, a certain instinct
whispered unceasingly, “Guard thyself! Avoid him.” And she avoided
him.

Krysia had not thought yet of her agreement with Pan Michael,
and that was her luck; she had not thought specially, because
so far nothing had taken place, and because she thought of no
one,--thought neither of herself nor of others, but only of
Ketling. She concealed this too in her deepest soul; and the
thought that no one suspected what was taking place in her, that no
one was occupied with her and Ketling at the same time, brought her
no small consolation. All at once the words of Basia convinced her
that it was otherwise,--that people were looking at them already,
connecting them in thought, divining the position. Hence the
disturbance, the shame and pain, taken together, overcame her will,
and she wept like a little child.

But Basia’s words were only the beginning of those various hints,
significant glances, blinking of eyes, shaking of heads, finally,
of those double meaning phrases which Krysia must endure. This
began during dinner. Pan Michael’s sister turned her gaze from
Krysia to Ketling, and from Ketling to Krysia, which she had not
done hitherto. Pan Zagloba coughed significantly. At times the
conversation was interrupted,--it was unknown wherefore; silence
followed, and once during such an interval Basia, with dishevelled
hair, cried out to the whole table,--

“I know something, but I won’t tell!”

Krysia blushed instantly, and then grew pale at once, as if some
terrible danger had passed near her; Ketling too bent his head.
Both felt perfectly that that related to them, and though they
avoided conversation with each other, so that people might not
look at them, still it was clear to both that something was rising
between them; that some undefined community of confusion was in
process of creation; that it would unite them and at the same time
keep them apart, for by it they lost freedom completely, and could
be no longer ordinary friends to each other. Happily for them, no
one gave attention to Basia’s words. Pan Zagloba was preparing to
go to the city and return with a numerous company of knights; all
were intent on that event.

In fact, Ketling’s house was gleaming with light in the evening;
between ten and twenty officers came with music, which the
hospitable host provided for the amusement of the ladies. Dancing
of course there could not be, for it was Lent, and Ketling’s
mourning was in the way; but they listened to the music, and were
entertained with conversation. The ladies were dressed splendidly.
Pani Makovetski appeared in Oriental silk. The haiduk was arrayed
in various colors, and attracted the eyes of the military with her
rosy face and bright hair, which dropped at times over her eyes;
she roused laughter with the decision of her speech, and astonished
with her manners, in which Cossack daring was combined with
unaffectedness.

Krysia, whose mourning for her father was at an end, wore a white
robe trimmed with silver. The knights compared her, some to Juno,
others to Diana; but none came too near her; no man twirled his
mustache, struck his heels, or cast glances; no one looked at her
with flashing eyes or began a conversation about love. But soon she
noticed that those who looked at her with admiration and homage
looked afterward at Ketling; that some, on approaching him, pressed
his hand, as if congratulating him and giving him good wishes;
that he shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands, as if in
denial. Krysia, who by nature was watchful and keen, was nearly
certain that they were talking to him of her, that they considered
her as almost his affianced; and since she could not see that Pan
Zagloba whispered in the ear of each man, she was at a loss to know
whence these suppositions came. “Have I something written on my
forehead?” thought she, with alarm. She was ashamed and anxious.
And then even words began to fly to her through the air, as if not
to her, but still aloud. “Fortunate Ketling!” “He was born in a
caul.” “No wonder, for he is a beauty!” and similar words.

Other polite cavaliers, wishing to entertain her and say something
pleasant, spoke of Ketling, praising him beyond measure, exalting
his bravery, his kindness, his elegant manners, and ancient
lineage. Krysia, whether willing or unwilling, had to listen, and
involuntarily her eyes sought him of whom men were talking to
her, and at times they met his eyes. Then the charm seized her
with new force, and without knowing it, she was delighted at the
sight of him; for how different was Ketling from all those rugged
soldier-forms! “A king’s son among his attendants,” thought Krysia,
looking at that noble, aristocratic head and at those ambitious
eyes, full of a certain inborn melancholy, and on that forehead,
shaded by rich golden hair. Her heart began to sink and languish,
as if that head was the dearest on earth to her. Ketling saw this,
and not wishing to increase her confusion, did not approach, as if
another were sitting by her side. If she had been a queen, he could
not have surrounded her with greater honor and higher attention.
In speaking to her, he inclined his head and pushed back one foot,
as if in sign that he was ready to kneel at any moment; he spoke
with dignity, never jestingly, though with Basia, for example,
he was glad to jest. In intercourse with Krysia, besides the
greatest respect there was rather a certain shade of melancholy
full of tenderness. Thanks to that respect, no other man permitted
himself either a word too explicit, or a jest too bold, as if the
conviction had been fixed upon every one that in dignity and birth
she was higher than all others,--a lady with whom there was never
politeness enough.

Krysia was heartily grateful to him for this. In general, the
evening passed anxiously for her, but sweetly. When midnight
approached, the musicians stopped playing, the ladies took farewell
of the company, and among the knights goblets began to make the
round frequently, and there followed a noisier entertainment, in
which Zagloba assumed the dignity of hetman.

Basia went upstairs joyous as a bird, for she had amused herself
greatly. Before she knelt down to pray she began to play tricks and
imitate various guests; at last she said to Krysia, clapping her
hands,--

“It is perfect that your Ketling has come! At least, there will
be no lack of soldiers. Oho! only let Lent pass, and I will dance
to kill. We’ll have fun. And at your betrothal to Ketling, and at
your wedding, well, if I don’t turn the house over, let the Tartars
take me captive! What if they should take us really! To begin with,
there would be-- Ha! Ketling is good! He will bring musicians
for you; but with you I shall enjoy them. He will bring you new
wonders, one after another, until he does this--”

Then Basia threw herself on her knees suddenly before Krysia, and
encircling her waist with her arms, began to speak, imitating the
low voice of Ketling: “Your ladyship! I so love you that I cannot
breathe. I love you on foot and on horseback. I love you fasting
and after breakfast. I love you for the ages and as the Scots love.
Will you be mine?”

“Basia, I shall be angry!” cried Krysia. But instead of growing
angry, she caught Basia in her arras, and while trying, as it were,
to lift her, she began to kiss her eyes.




CHAPTER XIV.


Pan Zagloba knew perfectly that the little knight was more inclined
toward Krysia than Basia; but for that very reason he resolved to
set Krysia aside. Knowing Pan Michael through and through, he was
convinced that if he had no choice, he would turn infallibly to
Basia, with whom the old noble himself was so blindly in love that
he could not get it into his head how any man could prefer another
to her. He understood also that he could not render Pan Michael a
greater service than to get him his haiduk, and he was enchanted at
thought of that match. He was angry at Pan Michael, at Krysia also;
it was true he would prefer that Pan Michael should marry Krysia
rather than no one, but he determined to do everything to make
him marry the haiduk. And precisely because the little knight’s
inclination toward Krysia was known to him, he determined to make a
Ketling of her as quickly as possible.

Still, the answer which Zagloba received a few days later from
Pan Yan staggered him somewhat in his resolution. Pan Yan advised
him to interfere in nothing, for he feared that in the opposite
case great troubles might rise easily between the friends. Zagloba
himself did not wish this, therefore certain reproaches made
themselves heard in him; these he stilled in the following manner:--

“If Michael and Krysia were betrothed, and I had thrust Ketling
between them like a wedge, then I say nothing. Solomon says, ‘Do
not poke your nose into another man’s purse,’ and he is right. But
every one is free to wish. Besides, taking things exactly, what
have I done? Let any one tell me what.”

When he had said this, Zagloba put his hands on his hips, pouted
his lips, and looked challengingly on the walls of his chamber,
as if expecting reproaches from them; but since the walls made no
answer, he spoke on: “I told Ketling that I had predestined the
haiduk to Michael. But is this not permitted me? Maybe it is not
true that I have predestined her! If I wish any other woman for
Michael, may the gout bite me!”

The walls recognized the justice of Zagloba in perfect silence; and
he continued further: “I told the haiduk that Ketling was brought
down by Krysia; maybe that is not true? Has he not confessed; has
he not sighed, sitting near the fire, so that the ashes were flying
through the room! And what I saw, I have told others. Pan Yan has
sound sense; but no one will throw my wit to the dogs. I know
myself what may be told, and what would be better left in silence.
H’m! he writes not to interfere in anything. That may be done also.
Hereafter I will interfere in nothing. When I am a third party in
presence of Krysia and Ketling, I will go out and leave them alone.
Let them help themselves without me. In fact, I think they will be
able. They need no help, for now they are so pushed toward each
other that their eyes are growing white; and besides, the spring
is coming, at which time not only the sun, but desires begin to
grow warm. Well! I will leave them alone; but I shall see what the
result will be.”

And, in truth, the result was soon to appear. During Holy Week the
entire company at Ketling’s house went to Warsaw and took lodgings
in the hotel on Dluga Street, to be near the churches and perform
their devotions at pleasure, and at the same time to sate their
eyes with the holiday bustle of the city. Ketling performed here
the honors of host, for though a foreigner by origin, he knew the
capital thoroughly and had many acquaintances in every quarter,
through whom he was able to make everything easy. He surpassed
himself in politeness, and almost divined the thoughts of the
ladies he was escorting, especially Krysia. Besides, all had taken
to loving him sincerely. Pan Michael’s sister, forewarned by
Zagloba, looked on him and Krysia with a more and more favorable
eye; and if she had said nothing to the maiden so far, it was
only because he was silent. But it seemed to the worthy “auntie”
a natural thing and proper that the cavalier should win the lady,
especially as he was a cavalier really distinguished, who was met
at every step by marks of respect and friendship, not only from
the lower but from the higher people; he was so capable of winning
all to his side by his truly wonderful beauty, bearing, dignity,
liberality, mildness in time of peace, and manfulness in war.

“What God will give, and my husband decide, will come to pass,”
said Pani Makovetski to herself; “but I will not cross these two.”

Thanks to this decision, Ketling found himself oftener with Krysia
and stayed with her longer than when in his own house. Besides, the
whole company always went out together. Zagloba generally gave his
arm to Pan Michael’s sister, Ketling to Krysia, and Basia, as the
youngest, went alone, sometimes hurrying on far ahead, then halting
in front of shops to look at goods and various wonders from beyond
the sea, such as she had never seen before. Krysia grew accustomed
gradually to Ketling; and now when she was leaning on his arm, when
she listened to his conversation or looked at his noble face, her
heart did not beat in her breast with the former disquiet, presence
of mind did not leave her, and she was seized not by confusion,
but by an immense and intoxicating delight. They were continually
by themselves; they knelt near each other in the churches; their
voices were mingled in prayer and in pious hymns.

Ketling knew well the condition of his heart. Krysia, either from
lack of decision or because she wished to tempt herself, did not
say mentally, “I love him;” but they loved each other greatly.
A friendship had sprung up between them; and besides love, they
had immense regard for each other. Of love itself they had not
spoken yet; time passed for them as a dream, and a serene sky was
above them. Clouds of reproaches were soon to hide it from Krysia;
but the present was a time of repose. Specially through intimacy
with Ketling, through becoming accustomed to him, through that
friendship which with love bloomed up between them, Krysia’s alarms
were ended, her impressions were not so violent, the conflicts of
her blood and imagination ceased. They were near each other; it
was pleasant for them in the company of each other; and Krysia,
yielding herself with her whole soul to that agreeable present,
was unwilling to think that it would ever end, and that to scatter
those illusions it needed only one word[14] from Ketling, “I love.”
That word was soon uttered. Once, when Pan Michael’s sister and
Basia were at the house of a sick relative, Ketling persuaded
Krysia and Pan Zagloba to visit the king’s castle, which Krysia
had not seen hitherto, and concerning whose curiosities wonders
were related throughout the whole country. They went, then, three
in company. Ketling’s liberality had opened all doors, and Krysia
was greeted by obeisances from the doorkeepers as profound as if
she were a queen entering her own residence. Ketling, knowing the
castle perfectly, conducted her through lordly halls and chambers.
They examined the theatre, the royal baths; they halted before
pictures representing the battles and victories gained by Sigismund
and Vladislav over the savagery of the East; they went out on the
terraces, from which the eye took in an immense stretch of country.
Krysia could not free herself from wonder; he explained everything
to her, but was silent from moment to moment, and looking into her
dark-blue eyes, he seemed to say with his glance, “What are all
these wonders in comparison with thee, thou wonder? What are all
these treasures in comparison with thee, thou treasure?” The young
lady understood that silent speech. He conducted her to one of the
royal chambers, and stood before a door concealed in the wall.

“One may go to the cathedral through this door. There is a long
corridor, which ends with a balcony not far from the high altar.
From this balcony the king and queen hear Mass usually.”

“I know that way well,” put in Zagloba, “for I was a confidant of
Yan Kazimir. Marya Ludovika loved me passionately; therefore both
invited me often to Mass, so that they might take pleasure in my
company and edify themselves with piety.”

“Do you wish to enter?” asked Ketling, giving a sign to the
doorkeeper.

“Let us go in,” said Krysia.

“Go alone,” said Zagloba; “you are young and have good feet; I
have trotted around enough already. Go on, go on; I will stay here
with the doorkeeper. And even if you should say a couple of ‘Our
Fathers,’ I shall not be angry at the delay, for during that time I
can rest myself.”

They entered. Ketling took Krysia’s hand and led her through a
long corridor. He did not press her hand to his heart; he walked
calmly and collectedly. At intervals the side windows threw light
on their forms, then they sank again in the darkness. Her heart
beat somewhat, because they were alone for the first time; but his
calmness and mildness made her calm also. They came out at last
to the balcony on the right side of the church, not far from the
high altar. They knelt and began to pray. The church was silent
and empty. Two candles were burning before the high altar, but all
the deeper part of the nave was buried in impressive twilight.
Only from the rainbow-colored panes of the windows various gleams
entered and fell on the two wonderful faces, sunk in prayer, calm,
like the faces of cherubim.

Ketling rose first and began to whisper, for he dared not raise
his voice in the church, “Look,” said he, “at this velvet-covered
railing; on it are traces where the heads of the royal couple
rested. The queen sat at that side, nearer the altar. Rest in her
place.”

“Is it true that she was unhappy all her life?” whispered Krysia,
sitting down. “I heard her history when I was still a child, for it
is related in all knightly castles. Perhaps she was unhappy because
she could not marry him whom her heart loved.”

Krysia rested her head on the place where the depression was made
by the head of Marya Ludovika, and closed her eyes. A kind of
painful feeling straitened her breast; a certain coldness was blown
suddenly from the empty nave and chilled that calm which a moment
before filled her whole being.

Ketling looked at Krysia in silence; and a stillness really
churchlike set in. Then he sank slowly to her feet, and began to
speak thus with a voice that was full of emotion, but calm:--

“It is not a sin to kneel before you in this holy place; for where
does true love come for a blessing if not to the church? I love you
more than life; I love you beyond every earthly good; I love you
with my soul, with my heart; and here before this altar I confess
that love to you.”

Krysia’s face grew pale as linen. Resting her head on the velvet
back of the prayer-stool, the unhappy lady stirred not, but he
spoke on:--

“I embrace your feet and implore your decision. Am I to go from
this place in heavenly delight, or in grief which I am unable to
bear, and which I can in no way survive?”

He waited awhile for an answer; but since it did not come, he bowed
his head till he almost touched Krysia’s feet, and evident emotion
mastered him more and more, for his voice trembled, as if breath
were failing his breast,--

“Into your hands I give my happiness and life. I expect mercy, for
my burden is great.”

“Let us pray for God’s mercy!” exclaimed Krysia, suddenly, dropping
on her knees.

Ketling did not understand her; but he did not dare to oppose that
intention, therefore he knelt near her in hope and fear. They began
to pray again. From moment to moment their voices were audible in
the empty church, and the echo gave forth wonderful and complaining
sounds.

“God be merciful!” said Krysia.

“God be merciful!” repeated Ketling.

“Have mercy on us!”

“Have mercy on us!”

She prayed then in silence; but Ketling saw that weeping shook her
whole form. For a long time she could not calm herself; and then,
growing quiet, she continued to kneel without motion. At last she
rose and said, “Let us go.”

They went out again into that long corridor. Ketling hoped that on
the way he would receive some answer, and he looked into her eyes,
but in vain. She walked hurriedly, as if wishing to find herself as
soon as possible in that chamber in which Zagloba was waiting for
them. But when the door was some tens of steps distant, the knight
seized the edge of her robe.

“Panna Krysia!” exclaimed he, “by all that is holy--”

Then Krysia turned away, and grasping his hand so quickly that he
had not time to show the least resistance, she pressed it in the
twinkle of an eye to her lips. “I love you with my whole soul; but
I shall never be yours!” and before the astonished Ketling could
utter a word, she added, “Forget all that has happened.”

A moment later they were both in the chamber. The doorkeeper was
sleeping in one armchair, and Zagloba in the other. The entrance of
the young people roused them. Zagloba, however, opened his eye and
began to blink with it half consciously; but gradually memory of
the place and the persons returned to him.

“Ah, that is you!” said he, drawing down his girdle, “I dreamed
that the new king was elected, but that he was a Pole. Were you at
the balcony?”

“We were.”

“Did the spirit of Marya Ludovika appear to you, perchance?”

“It did!” answered Krysia, gloomily.




CHAPTER XV.


After they had left the castle, Ketling needed to collect his
thoughts and shake himself free from the astonishment into which
Krysia’s action had brought him. He took farewell of her and
Zagloba in front of the gate, and they went to their lodgings.
Basia and Pani Makovetski had returned already from the sick lady;
and Pan Michael’s sister greeted Zagloba with the following words,--

“I have a letter from my husband, who remains yet with Michael at
the stanitsa. They are both well, and promise to be here soon.
There is a letter to you from Michael, and to me only a postscript
in my husband’s letter. My husband writes also that the dispute
with the Jubris about one of Basia’s estates has ended happily.
Now the time of provincial diets is approaching. They say that in
those parts Pan Sobieski’s name has immense weight, and that the
local diet will vote as he wishes. Every man living is preparing
for the election; but our people will all be with the hetman. It is
warm there already, and rains are falling. With us in Verhutka the
buildings were burned. A servant dropped fire; and because there
was wind--”

“Where is Michael’s letter to me?” inquired Zagloba, interrupting
the torrent of news given out at one breath by the worthy lady.

“Here it is,” said she, giving him a letter. “Because there was
wind, and the people were at the fair--”

“How were the letters brought here?” asked Zagloba, again.

“They were taken to Ketling’s house, and a servant brought them
here. Because, as I say, there was wind--”

“Do you wish to listen, my benefactress?”

“Of course, I beg earnestly.”

Zagloba broke the seal and began to read, first in an undertone,
for himself, then aloud for all,--

    “I send this first letter to you; but God grant that there
    will not be another, for posts are uncertain in this
    region, and I shall soon present myself personally among
    you. It is pleasant here in the field, but still my heart
    draws me tremendously toward you, and there is no end to
    thoughts and memories, wherefore solitude is dearer to me
    in this place than company. The promised work has passed,
    for the hordes sit quietly, only smaller bands are rioting
    in the fields; these also we fell upon twice with such
    fortune that not a witness of their defeat got away.”

“Oh, they warmed them!” cried Basia, with delight. “There is
nothing higher than the calling of a soldier!”

    “Doroshenko’s rabble” (continued Zagloba) “would like
    to have an uproar with us, but they cannot in any way
    without the horde. The prisoners confess that a larger
    chambul will not move from any quarter, which I believe,
    for if there was to be anything like this it would have
    taken place already, since the grass has been green for
    a week past, and there is something with which to feed
    horses. In ravines bits of snow are still hiding here and
    there; but the open steppes are green, and a warm wind is
    blowing, from which the horses begin to shed their hair,
    and this is the surest sign of spring. I have sent already
    for leave, which may come any day, and then I shall start
    at once. Pan Adam succeeds me in keeping guard, at which
    there is so little labor that Makovetski and I have been
    fox-hunting whole days,--for simple amusement, as the fur
    is useless when spring is near. There are many bustards,
    and my servant shot a pelican. I embrace you with my whole
    heart; I kiss the hands of my sister, and those of Panna
    Krysia, to whose good-will I commit myself most earnestly,
    imploring God specially to let me find her unchanged, and
    to receive the same consolation. Give an obeisance from me
    to Panna Basia. Pan Adam has vented the anger roused by his
    rejection at Mokotov on the backs of ruffians, but there
    is still some in his mind, it is evident. He is not wholly
    relieved. I commit you to God and His most holy love.

    “P. S. I bought a lot of very elegant ermine from passing
    Armenians; I shall bring this as a gift to Panna Krysia,
    and for your haiduk there will be Turkish sweetmeats.”

“Let Pan Michael eat them himself; I am not a child,” said Basia,
whose cheeks flushed as if from sudden pain.

“Then you will not be glad to see him? Are you angry at him?” asked
Zagloba.

But Basia merely muttered something in low tones, and really
settled down in anger, thinking some of how lightly Pan Michael
was treating her, and a little about the bustard and that pelican,
which roused her curiosity specially.

Krysia sat there during the reading with closed eyes, turned from
the light; in truth, it was lucky that those present could not see
her face, for they would have known at once that something uncommon
was happening. That which took place in the church, and the letter
of Pan Volodyovski, were for her like two blows of a club. The
wonderful dream had fled; and from that moment the maiden stood
face to face with a reality as crushing as misfortune. She could
not collect her thoughts to wait, and indefinite, hazy feelings
were storming in her heart. Pan Michael, with his letter, with the
promise of his coming, and with a bundle of ermine, seemed to her
so flat that he was almost repulsive. On the other hand, Ketling
had never been so dear. Dear to her was the very thought of him,
dear his words, dear his face, dear his melancholy. And now she
must go from love, from homage, from him toward whom her heart
is struggling, her hands stretching forth, in endless sorrow and
suffering, to give her soul and her body to another, who for this
alone, that he is another, becomes well-nigh hateful to her.

“I cannot, I cannot!” cried Krysia, in her soul. And she felt that
which a captive feels whose hands men are binding; but she herself
had bound her own hands, for in her time she might have told Pan
Michael that she would be his sister, nothing more.

Now the kiss came to her memory,--that kiss received and
returned,--and shame, with contempt for her own self, seized her.
Was she in love with Pan Michael that day? No! In her heart there
was no love, and except sympathy there was nothing in her heart
at that time but curiosity and giddiness, masked with the show of
sisterly affection. Now she has discovered for the first time that
between kissing from great love and kissing from impulse of blood,
there is as much difference as between an angel and a devil. Anger
as well as contempt was rising in Krysia; then pride began to storm
in her and against Pan Michael. He too was at fault; why should
all the penance, contrition, and disappointment fall upon her? Why
should he too not taste the bitter bread? Has she not the right to
say when he returns, “I was mistaken; I mistook pity for love. You
also were mistaken; now leave me, as I have left you.”

Suddenly fear seized her by the hair,--fear before the vengeance
of the terrible man; fear not for herself, but for the head of the
loved one, whom vengeance would strike without fail. In imagination
she saw Ketling standing up to the struggle with that ominous
swordsman beyond swordsmen, and then falling as a flower falls cut
by a scythe; she sees his blood, his pale face, his eyes closed for
the ages, and her suffering goes beyond every measure. She rose
with all speed and went to her chamber to vanish from the eyes
of people, so as not to hear conversation concerning Pan Michael
and his approaching return. In her heart rose greater and greater
animosity against the little knight. But Remorse and Regret pursued
her, and did not leave her in time of prayer; they sat on her bed
when, overcome with weakness, she lay in it, and began to speak to
her.

“Where is he?” asked Regret. “He has not returned yet; he is
walking through the night and wringing his hands. Thou wouldst
incline the heavens for him, thou wouldst give him thy life’s
blood; but thou hast given him poison to drink, thou hast thrust a
knife through his heart.”

“Had it not been for thy giddiness, had it not been for thy wish
to lure every man whom thou meetest,” said Remorse, “all might
be different; but now despair alone remains to thee. It is thy
fault,--thy great fault! There is no help for thee; there is no
rescue for thee now,--nothing but shame and pain and weeping.”

“How he knelt at thy feet in the church!” said Regret, again. “It
is a wonder that thy heart did not burst when he looked into thy
eyes and begged of thee pity. It was just of thee to give pity to a
stranger, but to the loved one, the dearest, what? God bless him!
God solace him!”

“Were it not for thy giddiness, that dearest one might depart in
joy,” repeated Remorse; “thou mightest walk at his side, as his
chosen one, his wife--”

“And be with him forever,” added Regret.

“It is thy fault,” said Remorse.

“Weep, O Krysia,” cried Regret.

“Thou canst not wipe away that fault!” said Remorse, again.

“Do what thou pleasest, but console him,” repeated Regret.

“Volodyovski will slay him!” answered Remorse, at once.

Cold sweat covered Krysia, and she sat on the bed. Bright moonlight
fell into the room, which seemed somehow weird and terrible in
those white rays.

“What is that?” thought Krysia. “There Basia is sleeping. I see
her, for the moon is shining in her face; and I know not when
she came, when she undressed and lay down. And I have not slept
one moment; but my poor head is of no use, that is clear.” Thus
meditating, she lay down again; but Regret and Remorse sat on the
edge of her bed, exactly like two goddesses, who were diving in at
will through the rays of moonlight, or sweeping out again through
its silvery abysses.

“I shall not sleep to-night,” said Krysia to herself, and she began
to think about Ketling, and to suffer more and more.

Suddenly the sorrowful voice of Basia was heard in the stillness of
the night, “Krysia!”

“Are you not sleeping?”

“No for I dreamed that some Turk pierced Pan Michael with an arrow.
O Jesus! a deceiving dream. But a fever is just shaking me. Let us
say the Litany together, that God may avert misfortune.”

The thought flew through Krysia’s head like lightning, “God grant
some one to shoot him!” But she was astonished immediately at her
own wickedness; therefore, though it was necessary for her to get
superhuman power to pray at that particular moment for the return
of Pan Michael, still she answered,--

“Very well, Basia.”

Then both rose from their beds, and kneeling on their naked knees
on the floor, began to say the Litany. Their voices responded to
each other, now rising and now falling; you would have said that
the chamber was changed into the cell of a cloister in which two
white nuns were repeating their nightly prayers.




CHAPTER XVI.


Next morning Krysia was calmer; for among intricate and tangled
paths she had chosen for herself an immensely difficult, but not
a false one. Entering upon it, she saw at least whither she was
going. But, first of all, she determined to have an interview with
Ketling and speak with him for the last time, so as to guard him
from every mishap. This did not come to her easily, for Ketling
did not show himself for a number of consecutive days, and did not
return at night.

Krysia began to rise before daylight and walk to the neighboring
church of the Dominicans, with the hope that she would meet him
some morning and speak to him without witnesses. In fact, she met
him a few days later at the very door. When he saw her, he removed
his cap and bent his head in silence. He stood motionless; his face
was wearied by sleeplessness and suffering, his eyes sunk; on his
temples there were yellowish spots; the delicate color of his face
had become waxlike; he looked like a flower that is withering.
Krysia’s heart was rent at sight of him; and though every decisive
step cost her very much, for she was not bold by nature, she was
the first to extend the hand, and said,--

“May God comfort you and send you forgetfulness!”

Ketling took her hand, raised it to his forehead, then to his lips,
to which he pressed it long and with all his force; then he said
with a voice full of mortal sadness and of resignation, “There is
for me neither solace nor forgetfulness.”

There was a moment when Krysia needed all her self-control to
restrain herself from throwing her arms around his neck and
exclaiming, “I love thee above everything! take me.” She felt that
if weeping were to seize her she would do so; therefore she stood
a long time before him in silence, struggling with her tears. At
last she conquered herself and began to speak calmly, though very
quickly, for breath failed her:--

“It may bring you some relief if I say that I shall belong to no
one, I go behind the grating. Do not judge me harshly at any time,
for as it is I am unhappy. Promise me, give me your word, that you
will not mention your love for me to any one: that you will not
acknowledge it; that you will not disclose to friend or relative
what has happened. This is my last prayer. The time will come
when you will know why I do this; then at least you will have the
explanation. To-day I will tell you no more, for my sorrow is such
that I cannot. Promise me this,--it will comfort me; if you do not,
I may die.”

“I promise, and give my word,” answered Ketling.

“God reward you, and I thank you from my whole heart! Besides,
show a calm face in presence of people, so that no one may have
a suspicion. It is time for me to go. Your kindness is such that
words fail to describe it. Henceforth we shall not see each other
alone, only before people. Tell me further that you have no feeling
of offence against me; for to suffer is one thing and to be
offended another. You yield me to God, to no one else; keep this in
mind.”

Ketling wished to say something; but since he was suffering beyond
measure, only indefinite sounds like groans came from his mouth;
then he touched Krysia’s temples with his fingers and held them for
a while as a sign that he forgave her and blessed her. They parted
then; she went to the church, and he to the street again, so as not
to meet in the inn an acquaintance.

Krysia returned only in the afternoon; and when she came she found
a notable guest, Bishop Olshovski, the vice-chancellor. He had
come unexpectedly on a visit to Pan Zagloba, wishing, as he said
himself, to become acquainted with such a great cavalier, “whose
military pre-eminence was an example, and whose reason was a guide
to the knights of that whole lordly Commonwealth.” Zagloba was, in
truth, much astonished, but not less gratified, that such a great
honor had met him in presence of the ladies; he plumed himself
greatly, was flushed, perspired, and at the same time endeavored
to show Pani Makovetski that he was accustomed to such visits from
the greatest dignitaries in the country, and that he made nothing
of them. Krysia was presented to the prelate, and kissing his hands
with humility, sat near Basia, glad that no one could see the
traces of recent emotion on her face.

Meanwhile the vice-chancellor covered Zagloba so bountifully and
so easily with praises that he seemed to be drawing new supplies
of them continually from his violet sleeves embroidered with lace.
“Think not, your grace,” said he, “that I was drawn hither by
curiosity alone to know the first man in the knighthood; for though
admiration is a just homage to heroes, still men make pilgrimages
for their own profit also to the place where experience and quick
reason have taken their seats at the side of manfulness.”

“Experience,” said Zagloba, modestly, “especially in the military
art, comes only with age; and for that cause perhaps the late
Pan Konyetspolski, father of the banneret, asked me frequently
for counsel, after him Pan Nikolai Pototski, Prince Yeremi
Vishnyevetski, Pan Sapyeha, and Pan Charnyetski; but as to the
title ‘Ulysses,’ I have always protested against that from
considerations of modesty.”

“Still, it is so connected with your grace that at times no one
mentions your real name, but says, ‘Our Ulysses,’ and all divine
at once whom the orator means. Therefore, in these difficult and
eventful times, when more than one wavers in his thoughts and does
not know whither to turn, whom to uphold, I said to myself, ‘I
will go and hear convictions, free myself from doubt, enlighten my
mind with clear counsel.’ You will divine, your grace, that I wish
to speak of the coming election, in view of which every estimate
of candidates may lead to some good; but what must one be which
flows from the mouth of your grace? I have heard it repeated with
the greatest applause among the knighthood that you are opposed
to those foreigners who are pushing themselves on to our lordly
throne. In the veins of the Vazas, as you explained, there flowed
Yagellon blood,--hence they could not be considered as strangers;
but those foreigners, as you said, neither know our ancient Polish
customs nor will they respect our liberties, and hence absolute
rule may arise easily. I acknowledge to your grace that these are
deep words; but pardon me if I inquire whether you really uttered
them, or is it public opinion that from custom ascribes all
profound sentences to you in the first instance?”

“These ladies are witness,” answered Zagloba; “and though this
subject is not suited to their judgment, let them speak, since
Providence in its inscrutable decrees has given them the gift of
speech equally with us.”

The vice-chancellor looked involuntarily on Pani Makovetski, and
then on the two young ladies nestled up to each other. A moment of
silence followed. Suddenly the silvery voice of Basia was heard,--

“I did not hear anything!”

Then she was confused terribly and blushed to her very ears,
especially when Zagloba said at once, “Pardon her, your dignity.
She is young, therefore giddy. But as to candidates, I have said
more than once that our Polish liberty will weep by reason of these
foreigners.”

“I fear that myself,” said the prelate; “but even if we wished
some Pole, blood of our blood and bone of our bone, tell me, your
grace, to what side should we turn our hearts? Your grace’s very
thought of a Pole is great, and is spreading through the country
like a flame; for I hear that everywhere in the diets which are not
fettered by corruption one voice is to be heard, ‘A Pole, a Pole!’”

“Justly, justly!” interrupted Zagloba.

“Still,” continued the vice-chancellor, “it is easier to call for
a Pole than to find a fit person; therefore let your grace be not
astonished if I ask whom you had in mind.”

“Whom had I in mind?” repeated Zagloba, somewhat puzzled; and
pouting his lips, he wrinkled his brows. It was difficult for him
to give a sudden answer, for hitherto not only had he no one in
mind, but in general he had not those ideas at all which the keen
prelate had attributed to him. Besides, he knew this himself, and
understood that the vice-chancellor was inclining him to some side;
but he let himself be inclined purposely, for it flattered him
greatly. “I have insisted only in principle that we need a Pole,”
said he at last; “but to tell the truth, I have not named any man
thus far.”

“I have heard of the ambitious designs of Prince Boguslav
Radzivill,” muttered the prelate, as if to himself.

“While there is breath in my nostrils, while the last drop of blood
is in my breast,” cried Zagloba, with the force of deep conviction,
“nothing will come of that! I should not wish to live in a nation
so disgraced as to make a traitor and a Judas its king.”

“That is the voice not only of reason, but of civic virtue,”
muttered the vice-chancellor, again.

“Ha!” thought Zagloba, “if you wish to draw me, I will draw you.”

Then the vice-chancellor began anew: “When wilt thou sail in,
O battered ship of my country? What storms, what rocks are in
wait for thee? In truth, it will be evil if a foreigner becomes
thy steersman; but it must be so evidently, if among thy sons
there is no one better.” Here he stretched out his white hands,
ornamented with glittering rings, and inclining his head, said
with resignation, “Then Condé, or he of Lorraine, or the Prince of
Neuberg? There is no other outcome!”

“That is impossible! A Pole!” answered Zagloba.

“Who?” inquired the prelate.

Silence followed. Then the prelate began to speak again: “If there
were even one on whom all could agree! Where is there a man who
would touch the heart of the knighthood at once, so that no one
would dare to murmur against his election? There was one such, the
greatest, who had rendered most service,--your worthy friend, O
knight, who walked in glory as in sunlight. There was such a--”

“Prince Yeremi Vishnyevetski!” interrupted Zagloba.

“That is true. But he is in the grave.”

“His son lives,” replied Zagloba.

The vice-chancellor half closed his eyes, and sat some time in
silence; all at once he raised his head, looked at Zagloba, and
began to speak slowly: “I thank God for having inspired me with
the idea of knowing your grace. That is it! the son of the great
Yeremi is alive,--a prince young and full of hope, to whom the
Commonwealth has a debt to pay. Of his gigantic fortune nothing
remains but glory,--that is his only inheritance. Therefore in
the present times of corruption, when every man turns his eyes
only to where gold is attracting, who will mention his name, who
will have the courage to make him a candidate? You? True! But will
there be many like you? It is not wonderful that he whose life has
been passed in heroic struggles on all fields will not fear to
give homage to merit with his vote on the field of election; but
will others follow his example?” Here the vice-chancellor fell to
thinking, then raised his eyes and spoke on: “God is mightier than
all. Who knows His decisions, who knows? When I think how all the
knighthood believe and trust you, I see indeed with wonderment
that a certain hope enters my heart. Tell me sincerely, has the
impossible ever existed for you?”

“Never!” answered Zagloba, with conviction.

“Still, it is not proper to advance that candidacy too decidedly
at first. Let the name strike people’s ears, but let it not seem
too formidable to opponents; let them rather laugh at it, and
sneer, so that they may not raise too serious impediments. Perhaps,
too, God will grant it to succeed quickly, when the intrigues of
parties bring them to mutual destruction. Smooth the road for it
gradually, your grace, and grow not weary in labor; for this is
your candidate, worthy of your reason and experience. God bless you
in these plans!”

“Am I to suppose,” inquired Zagloba, “that your dignity has been
thinking also of Prince Michael?”

The vice-chancellor took from his sleeve a small book on which the
title “Censura Candidatorum” stood in large black letters, and
said, “Read, your grace; let this letter answer for me.”

Then the vice-chancellor began preparations for going; but Zagloba
detained him and said, “Permit me, your dignity, to say something
more. First of all, I thank God that the lesser seal is in hands
which can bend men like wax.”

“How is that?” asked the vice-chancellor, astonished.

“Secondly, I will tell your dignity in advance that the candidacy
of Prince Michael is greatly to my heart, for I knew his father,
and loved him and fought under him with my friends; they too will
be delighted in soul at the thought that they can show the son
that love which they had for the father. Therefore I seize at this
candidacy with both hands, and this day I will speak with Pan
Krytski,--a man of great family and my acquaintance, who is in high
consideration among the nobles, for it is difficult not to love
him. We will both do what is in our power; and God grant that we
shall effect something!”

“May the angels attend you!” said the prelate; “if you do that, we
have nothing more to say.”

“With the permission of your dignity I have to speak of one thing
more; namely, that your dignity should not think to yourself
thuswise: ‘I have put my own wishes into his mouth; I have talked
into him this idea that he has found out of his own wit the
candidacy of Prince Michael,--speaking briefly, I have twisted the
fool in my hand as if he were wax.’ Your dignity, I will advance
the cause of Prince Michael, because it is to my heart,--that is
what the case is; because, as I see, it is to the heart also of
your dignity,--that is what the case is! I will advance it for the
sake of his mother, for the sake of my friends; I will advance it
because of the confidence which I have in the head” (here Zagloba
inclined) “from which that Minerva sprang forth, but not because I
let myself be persuaded, like a little boy, that the invention is
mine; and in fine, not because I am a fool, but for the reason that
when a wise man tells me a wise thing, old Zagloba says, ‘Agreed!’”

Here the noble inclined once more. The vice-chancellor was confused
considerably at first; but seeing the good-humor of the noble and
that the affair was taking the turn so much desired, he laughed
from his whole soul, then seizing his head with both hands, he
began to repeat,--

“Ulysses! as God is dear to me, a genuine Ulysses! Lord brother,
whoso wishes to do a good thing must deal with men variously; but
with you I see it is requisite to strike the quick straightway. You
have pleased my heart immensely.”

“As Prince Michael has mine.”

“May God give you health! Ha! I am beaten, but I am glad. You must
have eaten many a starling in your youth. And this signet ring,--if
it will serve to commemorate our _colloquium_--”

“Let that ring remain in its own place,” said Zagloba.

“You will do this for me--”

“I cannot by any means. Perhaps another time--later on--after the
election.”

The vice-chancellor understood, and insisted no more; he went out,
however, with a radiant face.

Zagloba conducted him to the gate, and returning, muttered, “Ha!
I gave him a lesson! One rogue met another. But it is an honor.
Dignitaries will outrun one another in coming to these gates. I am
curious to know what the ladies think of this!”

The ladies were indeed full of admiration; and Zagloba grew to the
ceiling, especially in the eyes of Pan Michael’s sister, so that he
had barely shown himself when she exclaimed with great enthusiasm,
“You have surpassed Solomon in wisdom.”

And Zagloba was very glad. “Whom have I surpassed, do you say?
Wait, you will see hetmans, bishops, and senators here; I shall
have to escape from them or hide behind the curtains.”

Further conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Ketling.

“Ketling, do you want promotion?” cried Zagloba, still charmed with
his own significance.

“No!” answered the knight, in sadness; “for I must leave you again,
and for a long time.”

Zagloba looked at him more attentively. “How is it that you are so
cut down?”

“Just for this, that I am going away.”

“Whither?”

“I have received letters from Scotland, from old friends of my
father and myself. My affairs demand me there absolutely; perhaps
for a long time. I am grieved to part with all here--but I must.”

Zagloba, going into the middle of the room, looked at Pan Michael’s
sister, then at the young ladies, and asked, “Have you heard? In
the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!”




CHAPTER XVII.


Though Zagloba received the news of Ketling’s departure with
astonishment, still no suspicion came into his head; for it was
easy to admit that Charles II. had remembered the services which
the Ketlings had rendered the throne in time of disturbance,
and that he wished to show his gratitude to the last descendant
of the family. It would seem even most wonderful were he to act
otherwise. Besides, Ketling showed Zagloba certain letters from
beyond the sea, and convinced him decisively. In its way that
journey endangered all the old noble’s plans, and he was thinking
with alarm of the future. Judging by his letter, Volodyovski might
return any day.

“The winds have blown away in the steppes the remnant of his
grief,” thought Zagloba. “He will come back more daring than when
he departed; and because some devil is drawing him more powerfully
to Krysia, he is ready to propose to her straightway. And
then,--then Krysia will say yes (for how could she say no to such
a cavalier, and, besides, the brother of Pani Makovetski?), and my
poor, dearest haiduk will be on the ice.”

But Zagloba, with the persistence special to old people, determined
at all costs to marry Basia to the little knight. Neither the
arguments of Pan Yan, nor those which at intervals he used on
himself, had serious effect. At times he promised mentally, it is
true, not to interfere again in anything; but he returned afterward
involuntarily with greater persistence to the thought of uniting
this pair. He meditated for whole days how to effect this; he
formed plans, he framed stratagems. And he went so far that when
it seemed to him that he had hit upon the means, he cried out
straightway, as if the affair were over, “May God bless you!”

But now Zagloba saw before him almost the ruin of his wishes. There
remained nothing more to him but to abandon all his efforts and
leave the future to God’s will; for the shadow of hope that before
his departure Ketling would take some decisive step with reference
to Krysia could not remain long in Zagloba’s head. It was only from
sorrow and curiosity, therefore, that he determined to inquire of
the young knight touching the time of his going, as well as what he
intended to do before leaving the Commonwealth.

Having invited Ketling to a conversation, Zagloba said with a
greatly grieved face, “A difficult case! Each man knows best what
he ought to do, and I will not ask you to stay; but I should like
to know at least something about your return.”

“Can I tell what is waiting for me there, where I am going?”
answered Ketling,--“what questions and what adventures? I will
return sometime, if I can. I will stay there for good if I must.”

“You will find that your heart will draw you back to us.”

“God grant that my grave will be nowhere else but in the land which
gave me all that it could give!”

“Ah, you see in other countries a foreigner is a stepchild all his
life; but our mother opens her arms to you at once, and cherishes
you as her own son.”

“Truth, a great truth. Ei! if only I could-- For everything in the
old country may come to me, but happiness will not come.”

“Ah! I said to you, ‘Settle down; get married.’ You would not
listen to me. If you were married, even if you went away, you would
have to return, unless you wished to take your wife through the
raging waves; and I do not suppose that. I gave you advice. Well,
you wouldn’t take it; you wouldn’t take it.”

Here Zagloba looked attentively at Ketling’s face, wishing some
definite explanation from him, but Ketling was silent; he merely
hung his head and fixed his eyes on the floor.

“What is your answer to this?” asked Zagloba, after a while.

“I had no chance whatever of taking it,” answered the young knight,
slowly.

Zagloba began to walk through the room, then he stopped in front of
Ketling, joined his hands behind his back, and said, “But I tell
you that you had. If you had not, may I never from this day forward
bind this body of mine with this belt here! Krysia is a friend of
yours.”

“God grant that she remain one, though seas be between us!”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing more; nothing more.”

“Have you asked her?”

“Spare me. As it is, I am so sad because I am going.”

“Ketling, do you wish me to speak to her while there is time?”

Ketling considered that if Krysia wished so earnestly that their
feelings should remain secret, perhaps she might be glad if
an opportunity were offered of denying them openly, therefore
he answered, “I assure you that that is vain, and I am so far
convinced that I have done everything to drive that feeling from my
head; but if you are looking for a miracle, ask.”

“Ah, if you have driven her out of your head,” said Zagloba,
with a certain bitterness, “there is nothing indeed to be done.
Only permit me to remark that I looked on you as a man of more
constancy.”

Ketling rose, and stretching upward his two hands feverishly, said
with violence unusual to him, “What will it help me to wish for one
of those stars? I cannot fly up to it, neither can it come down to
me. Woe to people who sigh after the silver moon!”

Zagloba grew angry, and began to puff. For a time he could not even
speak, and only when he had mastered his anger did he answer with a
broken voice, “My dear, do not hold me a fool; if you have reasons
to give, give them to me, as to a man who lives on bread and meat,
not as to one who is mad,--for if I should now frame a fiction, and
tell you that this cap of mine here is the moon, and that I cannot
reach it with my hand, I should go around the city with a bare,
bald head, and the frost would bite my ears like a dog. I will not
wrestle with statements like that. But I know this: the maiden
lives three rooms distant from here; she eats; she drinks; when
she walks, she must put one foot before the other; in the frost
her nose grows red, and she feels hot in the heat; when a mosquito
bites her, she feels it; and as to the moon, she may resemble it in
this, that she has no beard. But in the way that you talk, it may
be said that a turnip is an astrologer. As to Krysia, if you have
not tried, if you have not asked her, it is your own fault; but
if you have ceased to love the girl, and now you are going away,
saying to yourself ‘moon,’ then you may nourish any weed with your
honesty as well as your wit,--that is the point of the question.”

To this Ketling answered, “It is not sweet, but bitter in my mouth
from the food which you are giving me. I go, for I must; I do
not ask, because I have nothing to ask about. But you judge me
unjustly,--God knows how unjustly!”

“Ketling! I know, of course, that you are a man of honor; but I
cannot understand those ways of yours. In my time a man went to a
maiden and spoke into her eyes with this rhyme, ‘If you wish me, we
will live together; if not, I will not buy you.’[15] Each one knew
what he had to do; whoever was halting, and not bold in speech,
sent a better man to talk than himself. I offered you my services,
and offer them yet. I will go; I will talk; I will bring back an
answer, and according to that, you will go or stay.”

“I must go! it cannot be otherwise, and will not.”

“You will return.”

“No! Do me a kindness, and speak no more of this. If you wish to
inquire for your own satisfaction, very well, but not in my name.”

“For God’s sake, have you asked her already?”

“Let us not speak of this. Do me the favor.”

“Well, let us talk of the weather. May the thunderbolt strike you,
and your ways! So you must go, and I must curse.”

“I take farewell of you.”

“Wait, wait! Anger will leave me this moment. My Ketling, wait, for
I had something to say to you. When do you go?”

“As soon as I can settle my affairs. I should like to wait in
Courland for the quarter’s rent; and the house in which we have
been living I would sell willingly if any one would buy it.”

“Let Makovetski buy it, or Michael. In God’s name! but you will not
go away without seeing Michael?”

“I should be glad in my soul to see him.”

“He may be here any moment. He may incline you to Krysia.”

Here Zagloba stopped, for a certain alarm seized him suddenly. “I
was serving Michael in good intent,” thought he, “but terribly
against his will; if discord is to rise between him and Ketling,
better let Ketling go away.” Here Zagloba rubbed his bald head with
his hand; at last he added, “One thing and another was said out
of pure good-will. I have so fallen in love with you that I would
be glad to detain you by all means; therefore I put Krysia before
you, like a bit of bacon. But that was only through good-will. What
is it to me, old man? In truth, that was only good-will,--nothing
more. I am not match-making; if I were, I would have made a match
for myself. Ketling, give me your face,[16] and be not angry.”

Ketling embraced Zagloba, who became really tender, and straightway
gave command to bring the decanter, saying, “We will drink one like
this every day on the occasion of your departure.”

And they drank. Then Ketling bade him good-by and went out.
Immediately the wine roused fancy in Zagloba; he began to meditate
about Basia, Krysia, Pan Michael, and Ketling, began to unite them
in couples, to bless them; at last he wished to see the young
ladies, and said, “Well, I will go and see those kids.”

The young ladies were sitting in the room beyond the entrance, and
sewing. Zagloba, after he had greeted them, walked through the
room, dragging his feet a little; for they did not serve him as
formerly, especially after wine. While walking, he looked at the
maidens, who were sitting closely, one near the other, so that the
bright head of Basia almost touched the dark one of Krysia. Basia
followed him with her eyes; but Krysia was sewing so diligently
that it was barely possible to catch the glitter of her needle with
the eye.

“H’m!” said Zagloba.

“H’m!” repeated Basia.

“Don’t mock me, for I am angry.”

“He’ll be sure to cut my head off!” cried Basia, feigning terror.

“Strike! strike! I’ll cut your tongue out,--that’s what I’ll do!”

Saying this, Zagloba approached the young ladies, and putting his
hands on his hips, asked without any preliminary, “Do you want
Ketling as husband?”

“Yes; five like him!” said Basia, quickly.

“Be quiet, fly! I am not talking to you. Krysia, the speech is to
you. Do you want Ketling as husband?”

Krysia had grown pale somewhat, though at first she thought that
Zagloba was asking Basia, not her; then she raised on the old noble
her beautiful dark-blue eyes. “No,” answered she, calmly.

“Well, ’pon my word! No! At least it is short. ’Pon my word!--’pon
my word! And why do you not want him?”

“I want no one.”

“Krysia, tell that to some one else,” put in Basia.

“What brought the married state into such contempt with you?”
continued Zagloba.

“Not contempt; I have a vocation for the convent,” answered Krysia.

There was in her voice so much seriousness and such sadness that
Basia and Zagloba did not admit even for a moment that she was
jesting; but such great astonishment seized both that they began to
look as if dazed, now on each other, now on Krysia.

“Well!” said Zagloba, breaking the silence first.

“I wish to enter a convent,” repeated Krysia, with sweetness.

Basia looked at her once and a second time, suddenly threw her arms
around her neck, pressed her rosy lips to her cheek, and began
to say quickly, “Oh, Krysia, I shall sob! Say quickly that you
are only talking to the wind; I shall sob, as God is in heaven, I
shall!”




CHAPTER XVIII.


After his interview with Zagloba, Ketling went to Pan Michael’s
sister, whom he informed that because of urgent affairs he must
remain in the city, and perhaps too before his final journey he
would go for some weeks to Courland; therefore he would not be able
in person to entertain her in his suburban house longer. But he
implored her to consider that house as her residence in the same
way as hitherto, and to occupy it with her husband and Pan Michael
during the coming election. Pani Makovetski consented, for in the
opposite event the house would become empty, and bring profit to no
one.

After that conversation Ketling vanished, and showed himself no
more either in the inn, or later in the neighborhood of Mokotov,
when Pan Michael’s sister returned to the suburbs with the young
ladies. Krysia alone felt that absence; Zagloba was occupied wholly
with the coming election; while Basia and Pani Makovetski had taken
the sudden decision of Krysia to heart so much that they could
think of nothing else.

Still, Pani Makovetski did not even try to dissuade Krysia; for
in those times opposition to such undertakings seemed to people
an injury and an offence to God. Zagloba alone, in spite of all
his piety, would have had the courage to protest, had it concerned
him in any way; but since it did not, he sat quietly, and he was
content in spirit that affairs had arranged themselves so that
Krysia retired from between Pan Michael and the haiduk. Now Zagloba
was convinced of the successful accomplishment of his most secret
desires, and gave himself with all freedom to the labors of the
election; he visited the nobles who had come to the capital, or he
spent the time in conversations with the vice-chancellor, with whom
he fell in love at last, becoming his trusted assistant. After each
such conversation he returned home a more zealous partisan of the
“Pole,” and a more determined enemy of foreigners. Accommodating
himself to the instructions of the vice-chancellor, he remained
quietly in that condition so far, but not a day passed that he did
not win some one for the secret candidate, and that happened which
usually happens in such cases,--he pushed himself forward so far
that that candidacy became the second object in his life, at the
side of the union of Basia and Pan Michael. Meanwhile they were
nearer and nearer the election.

Spring had already freed the waters from ice; breezes warm and
strong had begun to blow; under the breath of these breezes the
trees were sprinkled with buds, and flocks of swallows were
hovering around, to spring out at any moment, as simple people
think, from the ocean of winter into the bright sunlight. Guests
began to come to the election, with the swallows and other birds
of passage. First of all came merchants, to whom a rich harvest of
profit was indicated, in a place where more than half a million
of people were to assemble, counting magnates with their forces,
nobles, servants, and the army. Englishmen, Hollanders, Germans,
Russians, Tartars, Turks, Armenians, and even Persians came,
bringing stuffs, linen, damask, brocades, furs, jewels, perfumes,
and sweetmeats. Booths were erected on the streets and outside the
city, and in them was every kind of merchandise. Some “bazaars”
were placed even in suburban villages; for it was known that the
inns of the capital could not receive one tenth of the electors,
and that an enormous majority of them would be encamped outside the
walls, as was the case always during time of election. Finally, the
nobles began to assemble so numerously, in such throngs, that if
they had come in like numbers to the threatened boundaries of the
Commonwealth, the foot of any enemy would never have crossed them.

Reports went around that the election would be a stormy
one, for the whole country was divided between three chief
candidates,--Condé, the Princes of Neuberg and of Lorraine. It was
said that each party would endeavor to seat its own candidate,
even by force. Alarm seized hearts; spirits were inflamed with
partisan rancor. Some prophesied civil war; and these forebodings
found faith, in view of the gigantic military legions with which
the magnates had surrounded themselves. They arrived early, so as
to have time for intrigues of all kinds. When the Commonwealth was
in peril, when the enemy was putting the keen edge to its throat,
neither king nor hetman could bring more than a wretched handful of
troops against him; but now in spite of laws and enactments, the
Radzivills alone came with an army numbering between ten and twenty
thousand men. The Patses had behind them an almost equivalent
force; the powerful Pototskis were coming with no smaller strength;
other “kinglets” of Poland, Lithuania, and Russia were coming with
forces but slightly inferior. “When wilt thou sail in, O battered
ship of my country?” repeated the vice-chancellor, more and more
frequently; but he himself had selfish objects in his heart. The
magnates, with few exceptions, corrupted to the marrow of their
bones, were thinking only of themselves and the greatness of their
houses, and were ready at any moment to rouse the tempest of civil
war.

The throng of nobles increased daily; and it was evident that when,
after the Diet, the election itself would begin, they would surpass
even the greatest force of the magnates. But these throngs were
incompetent to bring the ship of the Commonwealth into calm waters
successfully, for their heads were sunk in darkness and ignorance,
and their hearts were for the greater part corrupted. The election
therefore gave promise of being prodigious, and no one foresaw
that it would end only shabbily, for except Zagloba, even those
who worked for the “Pole” could not foresee to what a degree the
stupidity of the nobles and the intrigues of the magnates would
aid them; not many had hope to carry through such a candidate as
Prince Michael. But Zagloba swam in that sea like a fish in water.
From the beginning of the Diet he dwelt in the city continually,
and was at Ketling’s house only when he yearned for his haiduk; but
as Basia had lost much joyfulness by reason of Krysia’s resolve,
Zagloba took her sometimes to the city to let her amuse herself and
rejoice her eyes with the sight of the shops.

They went out usually in the morning; and Zagloba brought her
back not infrequently late in the evening. On the road and in the
city itself the heart of the maiden was rejoiced at sight of the
merchandise, the strange people, the many-colored crowds, the
splendid troops. Then her eyes would gleam like two coals, her
head turn as if on a pivot; she could not gaze sufficiently, nor
look around enough, and overwhelmed the old man with questions
by the thousand. He answered gladly, for in this way he showed
his experience and learning. More than once a gallant company
of military surrounded the equipage in which they were riding;
the knighthood admired Basia’s beauty greatly, her quick wit and
resolution, and Zagloba always told them the story of the Tartar,
slain with duck-shot, so as to sink them completely in amazement
and delight.

A certain time Zagloba and Basia were coming home very late;
for the review of Pan Felix Pototski’s troops had detained them
all day. The night was clear and warm; white mists were hanging
over the fields. Zagloba, though always watchful, since in such
a concourse of serving-men and soldiers it was necessary to pay
careful attention not to strike upon outlaws, had fallen soundly
asleep; the driver was dozing also; Basia alone was not sleeping,
for through her head were moving thousands of thoughts and
pictures. Suddenly the tramp of a number of horses came to her
ears. Pulling Zagloba by the sleeve, she said,--

“Horsemen of some kind are pushing on after us.”

“What? How? Who?” asked the drowsy Zagloba.

“Horsemen of some kind are coming.”

“Oh! they will come up directly. The tramp of horses is to be
heard; perhaps some one is going in the same direction--”

“They are robbers, I am sure!”

Basia was sure, for the reason that in her soul she was eager for
adventures,--robbers and opportunities for her daring,--so that
when Zagloba, puffing and muttering, began to draw out from the
seat pistols, which he took with him always for “an occasion,” she
claimed one for herself.

“I shall not miss the first robber who approaches. Auntie shoots
wonderfully with a musket, but she cannot see in the night. I could
swear that those men are robbers! Oh, if they would only attack us!
Give me the pistol quickly!”

“Well,” answered Zagloba, “but you must promise not to fire before
I do, and till I say fire. If I give you a weapon, you will be
ready to shoot the noble that you see first, without asking, ‘Who
goes there?’ and then a trial will follow.”

“I will ask first, ‘Who goes there?’”

“But if drinking-men are passing, and hearing a woman’s voice, say
something impolite?”

“I will thunder at them out of the pistol! Isn’t that right?”

“Oh, man, to take such a water-burner to the city! I tell you that
you are not to fire without command.”

“I will inquire, ‘Who goes there?’ but so roughly that they will
not know me.”

“Let it be so, then. Ha! I hear them approaching already. You may
be sure that they are solid people, for scoundrels would attack us
unawares from the ditch.”

Since ruffians, however, really did infest the roads, and
adventures were heard of not infrequently, Zagloba commanded the
driver not to go among the trees which stood in darkness at the
turn of the road, but to halt in a well-lighted place. Meanwhile
the four horsemen had approached a number of yards. Then Basia,
assuming a bass voice, which to her seemed worthy of a dragoon,
inquired threateningly,--

“Who goes there?”

“Why have you stopped on the road?” asked one of the horsemen,
who thought evidently that they must have broken some part of the
carriage or the harness.

At this voice Basia dropped her pistol and said hurriedly to
Zagloba, “Indeed, that is uncle. Oh, for God’s sake!”

“What uncle?”

“Makovetski.”

“Hei there!” cried Zagloba; “and are you not Pan Makovetski with
Pan Volodyovski?”

“Pan Zagloba!” cried the little knight.

“Michael!”

Here Zagloba began to put his legs over the edge of the carriage
with great haste; but before he could get one of them over,
Volodyovski had sprung from his horse and was at the side of the
equipage. Recognizing Basia by the light of the moon, he seized her
by both hands and cried,--

“I greet you with all my heart! And where is Panna Krysia, and
sister? Are all in good health?”

“In good health, thank God! So you have come at last!” said Basia,
with a beating heart. “Is uncle here too? Oh, uncle!”

When she had said this, she seized by the neck Pan Makovetski,
who had just come to the carriage; and Zagloba opened his
arms meanwhile to Pan Michael. After long greetings came the
presentation of Pan Makovetski to Zagloba; then the two travellers
gave their horses to attendants and took their places in the
carriage. Makovetski and Zagloba occupied the seat of honor; Basia
and Pan Michael sat in front.

Brief questions and brief answers followed, as happens usually when
people meet after a long absence. Pan Makovetski inquired about his
wife; Pan Michael once more about the health of Panna Krysia; then
he wondered at Ketling’s approaching departure, but he had not time
to dwell on that, for he was forced at once to tell of what he had
done in the border stanitsa, how he had attacked the ravagers of
the horde, how he was homesick, but how wholesome it was to taste
his old life.

“It seemed to me,” said the little knight, “that the Lubni times
had not passed; that we were still together with Pan Yan and
Kushel and Vyershul; only when they brought me a pail of water
for washing, and gray-haired temples were seen in it, could a man
remember that he was not the same as in old times, though, on the
other hand, it came to my mind that while the will was the same the
man was the same.”

“You have struck the point!” replied Zagloba; “it is clear that
your wit has recovered on fresh grass, for hitherto you were not
so quick. Will is the main thing, and there is no better drug for
melancholy.”

“That is true,--is true,” added Pan Makovetski. “There is a legion
of well-sweeps in Michael’s stanitsa, for there is a lack of spring
water in the neighborhood. I tell you, sir, that when the soldiers
begin to make those sweeps squeak at daybreak, your grace would
wake up with such a will that you would thank God at once for this
alone, that you were living.”

“Ah, if I could only be there for even one day!” cried Basia.

“There is one way to go there,” said Zagloba,--“marry the captain
of the guard.”

“Pan Adam will be captain sooner or later,” put in the little
knight.

“Indeed!” cried Basia, in anger; “I have not asked you to bring me
Pan Adam instead of a present.”

“I have brought something else, nice sweetmeats. They will be sweet
for Panna Basia, and it is bitter there for that poor fellow.”

“Then you should have given him the sweets; let him eat them while
his mustaches are coming out.”

“Imagine to yourself,” said Zagloba to Pan Makovetski, “these
two are always in that way. Luckily the proverb says, ‘Those who
wrangle, end in love.’”

Basia made no reply; but Pan Michael, as if waiting for an answer,
looked at her small face shone upon by the bright light. It seemed
to him so shapely that he thought in spite of himself, “But that
rogue is so pretty that she might destroy one’s eyes.”

Evidently something else must have come to his mind at once, for he
turned to the driver and said, “Touch up the horses there with a
whip, and drive faster.”

The carriage rolled on quickly after those words, so quickly that
the travellers sat in silence for some time; and only when they
came upon the sand did Pan Michael speak again: “But the departure
of Ketling surprises me. And that it should happen to him, too,
just before my coming and before the election.”

“The English think as much of our election as they do of your
coming,” answered Zagloba. “Ketling himself is cut from his feet
because he must leave us.”

Basia had just on her tongue, “Especially Krysia,” but something
reminded her not to mention this matter nor the recent resolution
of Krysia. With the instinct of a woman she divined that the one
and the other might touch Pan Michael at the outset; as to pain,
something pained her, therefore in spite of all her impulsiveness
she held silence.

“Of Krysia’s intentions he will know anyhow,” thought she; “but
evidently it is better not to speak of them now, since Pan Zagloba
has not mentioned them with a word.”

Pan Michael turned again to the driver, “But drive faster!”

“We left our horses and things at Praga,” said Pan Makovetski to
Zagloba, “and set out with two men, though it was nightfall, for
Michael and I were in a terrible hurry.”

“I believe it,” answered Zagloba. “Do you see what throngs have
come to the capital? Outside the gates are camps and markets, so
that it is difficult to pass. People tell also wonderful things of
the coming election, which I will repeat at a proper time in the
house to you.”

Here they began to converse about politics. Zagloba was trying to
discover adroitly Makovetski’s opinions; at last he turned to Pan
Michael and asked without ceremony, “And for whom will you give
your vote, Michael?”

But Pan Michael, instead of an answer, started as if roused from
sleep, and said, “I am curious to know if they are sleeping, and if
we shall see them to-day?”

“They are surely sleeping,” answered Basia, with a sweet and as it
were drowsy voice. “But they will wake and come surely to greet you
and uncle.”

“Do you think so?” asked the little knight, with joy; and again he
looked at Basia, and again thought involuntarily, “But that rogue
is charming in this moonlight.”

They were near Ketling’s house now, and arrived in a short time.
Pani Makovetski and Krysia were asleep; a few of the servants were
up, waiting with supper for Basia and Pan Zagloba. All at once
there was no small movement in the house; Zagloba gave command to
wake more servants to prepare warm food for the guests.

Pan Makovetski wished to go straightway to his wife; but she had
heard the unusual noise, and guessing who had come, ran down a
moment later with her robe thrown around her, panting, with tears
of joy in her eyes, and lips full of smiles; greetings began,
embraces and conversation, interrupted by exclamations.

Pan Michael was looking continually at the door, through which
Basia had vanished, and in which he hoped any moment to see Krysia,
the beloved, radiant with quiet joy, bright, with gleaming eyes,
and hair twisted up in a hurry; meanwhile, the Dantzig clock
standing in the dining-room ticked and ticked, an hour passed,
supper was brought, and the maiden beloved and dear to Pan Michael
did not appear in the room.

At last Basia came in, but alone, serious somehow, and gloomy; she
approached the table, and taking a light in her hand, turned to Pan
Makovetski: “Krysia is somewhat unwell, and will not come; but she
begs uncle to come, even near the door, so that she may greet him.”

Pan Makovetski rose at once and went out, followed by Basia.

The little knight became terribly gloomy and said, “I did not think
that I should fail to see Panna Krysia to-night. Is she really ill?”

“Ei! she is well,” answered his sister; “but people are nothing to
her now.”

“Why is that?”

“Then has his grace, Pan Zagloba, not spoken of her intention?”

“Of what intention, by the wounds of God?”

“She is going to a convent.”

Pan Michael began to blink like a man who has not heard all that is
said to him; then he changed in the face, stood up, sat down again.
In one moment sweat covered his face with drops; then he began to
wipe it with his palms. In the room there was deep silence.

“Michael!” said his sister.

But he looked confusedly now on her, now on Zagloba, and said at
last in a terrible voice, “Is there some curse hanging over me?”

“Have God in your heart!” cried Zagloba.




CHAPTER XIX.


Zagloba and Pani Makovetski divined by that exclamation the secret
of the little knight’s heart; and when he sprang up suddenly
and left the room, they looked at each other with amazement and
disquiet, till at last the lady said, “For God’s sake go after him!
persuade him; comfort him; if not, I will go myself.”

“Do not do that,” said Zagloba. “There is no need of us there,
but Krysia is needed; if he cannot see her, it is better to leave
him alone, for untimely comforting leads people to still greater
despair.”

“I see now, as on my palm, that he was inclined to Krysia. See, I
knew that he liked her greatly and sought her company; but that he
was so lost in her never came to my head.”

“It must be that he returned with a proposition ready, in which he
saw his own happiness; meanwhile a thunderbolt, as it were, fell.”

“Why did he speak of this to no one, neither to me, nor to you, nor
to Krysia herself? Maybe the girl would not have made her vow.”

“It is a wonderful thing,” said Zagloba; “besides, he confides in
me, and trusts my head more than his own; and not merely has he not
acknowledged this affection to me, but even said once that it was
friendship, nothing more.”

“He was always secretive.”

“Then though you are his sister, you don’t know him. His heart is
like the eyes of a sole, on top. I have never met a more outspoken
man; but I admit that he has acted differently this time. Are you
sure that he said nothing to Krysia?”

“God of power! Krysia is mistress of her own will, for my husband
as guardian has said to her, ‘If the man is worthy and of honorable
blood, you may overlook his property.’ If Michael had spoken to her
before his departure, she would have answered yes or no, and he
would have known what to look for.”

“True, because this has struck him unexpectedly. Now give your
woman’s wit to this business.”

“What is wit here? Help is needed.”

“Let him take Basia.”

“But if, as is evident, he prefers that one--Ha! if this had only
come into my head.”

“It is a pity that it did not.”

“How could it when it did not enter the head of such a Solomon as
you?”

“And how do you know that?”

“You advised Ketling.”

“I? God is my witness, I advised no man. I said that he was
inclined to her, and it was true; I said that he was a worthy
cavalier, for that was and is true; but I leave match-making to
women. My lady, as things are, half the Commonwealth is resting on
my head. Have I even time to think of anything but public affairs?
Often I have not a minute to put a spoonful of food in my mouth.”

“Advise us this time, for God’s mercy! All around I hear only this,
that there is no head beyond yours.”

“People are talking of this head of mine without ceasing; they
might rest awhile. As to counsels, there are two: either let
Michael take Basia, or let Krysia change her intention; an
intention is not a vow.”

Now Pan Makovetski came in; his wife told him everything
straightway. The noble was greatly grieved, for he loved Pan
Michael uncommonly and valued him; but for the time he could think
out nothing.

“If Krysia will be obstinate,” said he, rubbing his forehead, “how
can you use even arguments in such an affair?”

“Krysia will be obstinate!” said Pani Makovetski. “Krysia has
always been that way.”

“What was in Michael’s head that he did not make sure before
departing?” asked Pan Makovetski. “As he left matters, something
worse might have happened; another might have won the girl’s heart
in his absence.”

“In that case, she would not have chosen the cloister at once,”
said Pani Makovetski. “However, she is free.”

“True!” answered Makovetski.

But already it was dawning in Zagloba’s head. If the secret of
Krysia and Pan Michael had been known to him, all would have been
clear to him at once; but without that knowledge it was really
hard to understand anything. Still, the quick wit of the man began
to break through the mist, and to divine the real reason and
intention of Krysia and the despair of Pan Michael. After a while
he felt sure that Ketling was involved in what had happened. His
supposition lacked only certainty; he determined, therefore, to go
to Michael and examine him more closely. On the road alarm seized
him, for he thought thus to himself,--

“There is much of my work in this. I wanted to quaff mead at the
wedding of Basia and Michael; but I am not sure that instead of
mead, I have not provided sour beer, for now Michael will return to
his former decision, and imitating Krysia, will put on the habit.”

Here a chill came on Zagloba; so he hastened his steps, and in a
moment was in Pan Michael’s room. The little knight was pacing up
and down like a wild beast in a cage. His forehead was terribly
wrinkled, his eyes glassy; he was suffering dreadfully. Seeing
Zagloba, he stopped on a sudden before him, and placing his hands
on his breast, cried,--

“Tell me the meaning of all this!”

“Michael!” said Zagloba, “consider how many girls enter convents
each year; it is a common thing. Some go in spite of their parents,
trusting that the Lord Jesus will be on their side; but what wonder
in this case, when the girl is free?”

“There is no longer any secret!” cried Pan Michael. “She is not
free, for she promised me her love and hand before I left here.”

“Ha!” said Zagloba; “I did not know that.”

“It is true,” repeated the little knight.

“Maybe she will listen to persuasion.”

“She cares for me no longer; she would not see me,” cried Pan
Michael, with deep sorrow. “I hastened hither day and night, and
she does not even want to see me. What have I done? What sins are
weighing on me that the anger of God pursues me; that the wind
drives me like a withered leaf? One is dead; another is going to
the cloister. God Himself took both from me; it is clear that I am
accursed. There is mercy for every man, there is love for every
man, except me alone.”

Zagloba trembled in his soul, lest the little knight, carried away
by sorrow, might begin to blaspheme again, as once he blasphemed
after the death of Anusia; therefore, to turn his mind in another
direction, he called out, “Michael, do not doubt that there is
mercy upon you also; and besides, you cannot know what is waiting
for you to-morrow. Perhaps that same Krysia, remembering your
loneliness, will change her intention and keep her word to you.
Secondly, listen to me, Michael. Is not this a consolation that God
Himself, our Merciful Father, takes those doves from you, and not a
man walking upon the earth? Tell me yourself if this is not better?”

In answer the little knight’s mustaches began to tremble terribly;
the noise of gritting came from his teeth, and he cried with a
suppressed and broken voice, “If it were a living man! Ha! Should
such a man be found, I would-- Vengeance would remain.”

“But as it is, prayer remains,” said Zagloba. “Hear me, old friend;
no man will give you better counsel. Maybe God Himself will change
everything yet for the better. I myself--you know--wished another
for you; but seeing your pain, I suffer together with you, and
together with you will pray to God to comfort you, and incline the
heart of that harsh lady to you again.”

When he had said this, Zagloba began to wipe away tears; they were
tears of sincere friendship and sorrow. Had it been in the power of
the old man, he would have undone at that moment everything that he
had done to set Krysia aside, and would have been the first to cast
her into Pan Michael’s arms.

“Listen,” said he, after a while; “speak once more with Krysia;
take your lament to her, your unendurable pain, and may God bless
you! The heart in her must be of stone if she does not take pity on
you; but I hope that she will. The habit is a praiseworthy thing,
but not when made of injustice to others. Tell her that. You will
see-- Ei, Michael, to-day you are weeping, and to-morrow perhaps
we shall be drinking at the betrothal. I am sure that will be the
outcome. The young lady grew lonely, and therefore the habit came
to her head. She will go to a cloister, but to one in which you
will be ringing for the christening. Perhaps too she is affected
a little with hypochondria, and mentioned the habit only to throw
dust in our eyes. In every case, you have not heard of the cloister
from her own lips, and if God grants, you will not. Ha, I have
it! You agreed on a secret; she did not wish to betray it, and is
throwing a blind in our eyes. As true as life, nothing else but
woman’s cunning.”

Zagloba’s words acted like balsam on the suffering heart of Pan
Michael: hope entered him again; his eyes were filled with tears.
For a long time he could not speak; but when he had restrained his
tears he threw himself into the arms of his friend and said, “But
will it be as you say?”

“I would bend the heavens for you. It will be as I say! Do you
remember that I have ever been a false prophet? Do you not trust in
my experience and wit?”

“You cannot even imagine how I love that lady. Not that I have
forgotten the beloved dead one; I pray for her every day. But to
this one my heart has grown fixed like fungus to a tree; she is my
love. What have I thought of her away off there in the grasses,
morning and evening and midday! At last I began to talk to myself,
since I had no confidant. As God is dear to me, when I had to chase
after the horde in the reeds, I was thinking of her when rushing at
full speed.”

“I believe it. From weeping for a certain maiden in my youth one
of my eyes flowed out, and what of it did not flow out was covered
with a cataract.”

“Do not wonder; I came here, the breath barely in my body; the
first word I hear,--the cloister. But still I have trust in
persuasion and in her heart and her word. How did you state it? ‘A
habit is good’--but made of what?”

“But not when made of injustice to others.”

“Splendidly said! How is it that I have never been able to make
maxims? In the stanitsa it would have been a ready amusement. Alarm
sits in me continually, but you have given me consolation. I agreed
with her, it is true, that the affair should remain a secret;
therefore it is likely that the maiden might speak of the habit
only for appearance’ sake. You brought forward another splendid
argument, but I cannot remember it. You have given me great
consolation.”

“Then come to me, or give command to bring the decanter to this
place. It is good after the journey.”

They went, and sat drinking till late at night.

Next day Pan Michael arrayed his body in fine garments and his
face in seriousness, armed himself with all the arguments which
came to his own head, and with those which Zagloba had given him;
thus equipped, he went to the dining-room, where all met usually
at meal-time. Of the whole company only Krysia was absent, but she
did not let people wait for her long; barely had the little knight
swallowed two spoonfuls of soup when through the open door the
rustle of a robe was heard, and the maiden came in.

She entered very quickly, rather rushed in. Her cheeks were
burning; her lids were dropped; in her face were mingled fear and
constraint. Approaching Pan Michael, she gave him both hands, but
did not raise her eyes at all, and when he began to kiss those
hands with eagerness, she grew very pale; besides, she did not
find one word for greeting. But his heart filled with love, alarm,
and rapture at sight of her face, delicate and changeful as a
wonder-working image, at sight of that form shapely and beautiful,
from which the warmth of recent sleep was still beating; he was
moved even by that confusion and that fear depicted in her face.

“Dearest flower!” thought he, in his soul, “why do you fear? I
would give even my life and blood for you.” But he did not say this
aloud, he only pressed his pointed mustaches so long to her hands
that red traces were left on them. Basia, looking at all this,
gathered over her forehead her yellow forelock of purpose, so that
no one might notice her emotion; but no one gave attention to her
at that time; all were looking at the pair, and a vexatious silence
followed.

Pan Michael interrupted it first. “The night passed for me in grief
and disquiet,” said he; “for yesterday I saw all except you, and
such terrible tidings were told of you that I was nearer to weeping
than to sleep.”

Krysia, hearing such outspoken words, grew still paler, so that
for a while Pan Michael thought that she would faint, and said
hurriedly, “We must talk of this matter; but now I will ask no
more, so that you may grow calm and recover. I am no barbarian, nor
am I a wolf, and God sees that I have good-will toward you.”

“Thank you!” whispered Krysia.

Zagloba, Pan Makovetski, and his wife began to exchange glances, as
if urging one another to begin the usual conversation; but for a
long time no one was able to venture a word; at last Zagloba began.
“We must go to the city to-day,” said he, turning to the newly
arrived. “It is boiling there before the election, as in a pot, for
every man is urging his own candidate. On the road, I will tell you
to whom, in my opinion, we should give our votes.”

No one answered, therefore Zagloba cast around an owlish eye; at
last he turned to Basia, “Well, Maybug, will you go with us?”

“I will go even to Russia!” answered Basia, abruptly.

And silence followed again. The whole meal passed in similar
attempts to begin a conversation that would not begin. At last the
company rose. Then Pan Michael approached Krysia at once and said,--

“I must speak with you alone.”

He gave her his arm and conducted her to the adjoining room, to
that same apartment which was the witness of their first kiss.
Seating Krysia on the sofa, he took his place near her, and began
to stroke her hair as he would have stroked the hair of a child.

“Krysia!” said he, at last, with a mild voice. “Has your confusion
passed? Can you answer me calmly and with presence of mind?”

Her confusion had passed, and besides, she was moved by his
kindness; therefore she raised for a moment her eyes on him for the
first time since his return. “I can,” said she, in a low voice.

“Is it true that you have devoted yourself to the cloister?”

Krysia put her hands together and began to whisper imploringly, “Do
not take this ill of me, do not curse me; but it is true.”

“Krysia!” said the knight, “is it right to trample on the happiness
of people, as you are trampling? Where is your word, where is our
agreement? I cannot war with God, but I will tell you, to begin
with, what Pan Zagloba told me yesterday,--that the habit should
not be made of injustice to others. You will not increase the glory
of God by injustice to me. God reigns over the whole world; His are
all nations, His the lands and the sea and the rivers, the birds of
the air and the beasts of the forests, the sun and the stars. He
has all, whatsoever may come to the mind of man, and still more;
but I have only you, beloved and dear; you are my happiness, my
every possession. And can you suppose that the Lord God needs that
possession? He, with such wealth, to tear away his only treasure
from a poor soldier? Can you suppose that He will be rejoiced, and
not offended? See what you are giving Him,--yourself. But you are
mine, for you promised yourself to me; therefore you are giving Him
that which belongs to another, that which is not your own: you are
giving Him my weeping, my pain, my death. Have you a right to do
so? Weigh this in your heart and in your mind; finally ask your own
conscience. If I had offended you, if I had contemned you in love,
if I had forgotten you, if I had committed crimes or offences--ah,
I will not speak; I will not speak. But I went to the horde, to
watch, to attack ravagers, to serve the country with my blood, with
my health, with my time; and I loved you, I thought of you whole
days and nights, and as a deer longs for waters, as a bird for the
air, as a child for its mother, as a parent for its child, was I
longing for you. And for all this what is the greeting, what the
reward, that you have prepared for me? Krysia dearest, my friend,
my chosen love, tell me whence is all this? Give me your reasons
as sincerely, as openly, as I bring before you my reasons and my
rights; keep faith with me; do not leave me alone with misfortune.
You gave me this right yourself; do not make me an outlaw.”

The unfortunate Pan Michael did not know that there is a right
higher and older than all other human rights, in virtue of which
the heart must and does follow love only; but the heart which
ceases to love commits thereby the deepest perfidy, though often
with as much innocence as the lamp quenches in which fire has
burned out the oil. Not knowing this. Pan Michael embraced Krysia’s
knees, implored, and begged; but she answered him with floods of
tears only because she could not answer with her heart.

“Krysia,” said the knight, at last, while rising, “in your tears
my happiness may drown; and I do not implore you for that, but for
rescue.”

“Do not ask me for a reason,” answered Krysia, sobbing; “do not ask
for a cause, since it must be this way, and cannot be otherwise. I
am not worthy of such a man as you, and I have never been worthy.
I know that I am doing you an injustice, and that pains me so
terribly that, see! I cannot help myself. I know that this is
an injustice. O God of greatness, my heart is breaking! Forgive
me; do not leave me in anger! Pardon me; do not curse me!” When
she had said this, Krysia threw herself on her knees before Pan
Michael. “I know that I am doing you a wrong, but I implore of you
condescension and pardon.”

Here the dark head of Krysia bent to the floor. Pan Michael raised
in one moment the poor weeping maiden, and placed her again on the
sofa; but he began himself to pace up and down in the room, like
one dazed. At times he stopped suddenly and pressed his fists to
his temples; then again he walked; at last he stood before Krysia.

“Leave yourself time, and me some hope,” said he. “Think that I
too am not of stone. Why press red-hot iron against me without the
least pity? Even though I knew not my own endurance, still when the
skin hisses, pain pierces me. I cannot tell you how I suffer,--as
God lives, I cannot. I am a simple man; my years have passed in
war. Oh, for God’s sake! O dear Jesus! In this same room our love
began. Krysia, Krysia! I thought that you would be mine for life;
and now there is nothing, nothing! What has taken place in you? Who
has changed your heart? Krysia, I am just the same. And do you not
know that for me this is a worse blow than for another, for I have
already lost one love? O Jesus, what shall I tell her to move her
heart? A man only torments himself, that is all. But leave me even
hope! Do not take everything away at one time.”

Krysia made no answer; but sobbing shook her more and more; the
little knight stood before her, restraining at first his sorrow,
and terrible anger. And only when he had broken that in himself, he
said,--

“Leave me even hope! Do you hear me?”

“I cannot! I cannot!” answered Krysia.

Pan Michael went to the window and pressed his head against the
cold glass. He stood a long time without motion; at last he turned,
and advancing a couple of steps toward Krysia, he said in a very
low voice,--

“Farewell! There is nothing for me here. Oh that it may be as
pleasant for you as it is grievous for me! Know this, that I
forgive you with my lips, and as God will grant, I will forgive you
with my heart as well. But have more mercy on people’s suffering,
and a second time promise not. It cannot be said that I take
happiness with me from these thresholds! Farewell!”

When Pan Michael had said this, his mustaches quivered; he bowed,
and went out. In the next room were Makovetski and his wife and
Zagloba; they sprang up at once as if to inquire, but he only waved
his hand. “All to no use!” said he. “Leave me in peace!”

From that room a narrow corridor led to his own chamber; in that
corridor, at the staircase leading to the young ladies’ rooms,
Basia stopped the way to the little knight. “May God console you
and change Krysia’s heart!” cried she, with a voice trembling from
tears.

He went past without even looking at her, or saying a word.
Suddenly wild anger bore him away; bitterness rose in his breast;
he turned, therefore, and stood before the innocent Basia with a
face changed and full of derision. “Promise your hand to Ketling,”
said he, hoarsely, “then cease to love him, trample on his heart,
rend it, and go to the cloister!”

“Pan Michael!” cried Basia, in amazement.

“Enjoy yourself, taste kisses, and then go to repent! Would to God
that you both were killed!”

That was too much for Basia. God alone knew how much she had
wrestled with herself for this wish which she had given Pan
Michael,--that God might change Krysia’s heart,--and in return an
unjust condemnation had met her, derision, insult, just at the
moment in which she would have given her blood to comfort the
thankless man. Therefore her soul stormed up in her as quickly as
a flame; her cheeks burned; her nostrils dilated; and without an
instant’s thought, she cried, shaking her yellow hair,--

“Know, sir, that _I_ am not the one who is going to the cloister
for Ketling!”

When she had said this, she sprang on the stairs and vanished from
before the eyes of the knight. He stood there like a stone pillar;
after a while he began to rub his eyes like a man who is waking
from sleep.

Then he was thirsting for blood; he seized his sabre, and cried
with a terrible voice, “Woe to the traitor!”

A quarter of an hour later Pan Michael was rushing toward Warsaw so
swiftly that the wind was howling in his ears, and lumps of earth
were flying in a shower from the hoofs of his horse.




CHAPTER XX.


Pan Makovetski, with his wife and Zagloba, saw Pan Michael riding
away, and alarm seized all hearts; therefore they asked one another
with their eyes, “What has happened; where is he going?”

“Great God!” cried Pani Makovetski; “he will go to the Wilderness,
and we shall never see him again in life!”

“Or to the cloister, like that crazy woman,” said Zagloba, in
despair.

“Counsel is necessary here,” said Makovetski.

With that the door opened and Basia burst into the room like a
whirlwind, excited, pale, with fingers in both her eyes; stamping
in the middle of the floor, like a little child, she began to
scream, “Rescue! save! Pan Michael has gone to kill Ketling! Whoso
believes in God, let him fly to stop him! Rescue! rescue!”

“What is the matter, girl?” cried Zagloba, seizing her hands.

“Rescue! Pan Michael will kill Ketling! Through me blood will be
shed, and Krysia will die, all through me!”

“Speak!” cried Zagloba, shaking her. “How do you know? Why is it
through you?”

“Because I told him in anger that they love each other; that Krysia
is going behind the grating for Ketling’s sake. Whoso believes in
God, stop them! Go quickly; go all of you! Let us all go!”

Zagloba, not wont to lose time in such cases, rushed to the yard
and gave command to bring the carriage out at once. Pani Makovetski
wished to ask Basia about the astonishing news, for up to that
moment she had not suspected the love between Krysia and Ketling;
but Basia rushed after Zagloba to look to the harnessing of the
horses. She helped to lead out the beasts and attach them to the
carriage; at last, though bareheaded, she mounted the driver’s seat
before the entrance, where two men were waiting and already dressed
for the road.

“Come down!” said Zagloba to her.

“I will not come down! Take your seats; you must take your seats;
if not, I will go alone!” So saying, she took the reins, and they,
seeing that the stubbornness of the girl might cause a considerable
delay, ceased to ask her to come down.

Meanwhile the servant ran up with a whip: and Pani Makovetski
succeeded in bringing out a shuba and cap to Basia, for the day
was cold. Then they moved on. Basia remained on the driver’s seat.
Zagloba, wishing to speak with her, asked her to sit on the front
seat; but she was unwilling, it may be through fear of being
scolded. Zagloba therefore had to inquire from a distance, and she
answered without turning her head.

“How do you know,” asked he, “that which you told your uncle about
those two?”

“I know all.”

“Did Krysia tell you?”

“Krysia told me nothing.”

“Then maybe the Scot did?”

“No, but I know; and that is why he is going to England. He fooled
everybody but me.”

“A wonderful thing!” said Zagloba.

“This is your work,” said Basia; “you should not have pushed them
against each other.”

“Sit there in quiet, and do not thrust yourself into what does
not belong to you,” answered Zagloba, who was struck to the quick
because this reproach was made in presence of Makovetski. Therefore
he added after a while, “I push anybody! I advise! Look at that! I
like such suppositions.”

“Ah, ha! do you think you did not?” retorted the maiden.

They went forward in silence. Still, Zagloba could not free himself
from the thought that Basia was right, and that he was in great
part the cause of all that had happened. That thought grieved him
not a little; and since the carriage jolted unmercifully, the
old noble fell into the worst humor and did not spare himself
reproaches.

“It would be the proper thing,” thought he, “for Michael and
Ketling to cut off my ears in company. To make a man marry against
his will is the same as to command him to ride with his face to
a horse’s tail. That fly is right! If those men have a duel,
Ketling’s blood will be on me. What kind of business have I begun
in my old age! Tfu, to the Devil! Besides, they almost fooled me,
for I barely guessed why Ketling was going beyond the sea--and that
daw to the cloister; meanwhile the haiduk had long before found
out everything, as it seems.” Here Zagloba meditated a little, and
after a while muttered, “A rogue, not a maiden! Michael borrowed
eyes from a crawfish to put aside such as she for that doll!”

Meanwhile they had arrived at the city; but there their troubles
began really. None of them knew where Ketling was lodging, or where
Pan Michael might go; to look for either was like looking for a
particular poppy-seed in a bushel of poppy-seeds. They went first
to the grand hetman’s. People told them there that Ketling was to
start that morning on a journey beyond the sea. Pan Michael had
come, inquired about the Scot, but whither the little knight had
gone, no one knew. It was supposed that he might have gone to the
squadron stationed in the field behind the city.

Zagloba commanded to return to the camp; but there it was
impossible to find an informant. They went to every inn on Dluga
Street; they went to Praga; all was in vain. Meanwhile night fell;
and since an inn was not to be thought of, they were forced to go
home. They went back in tribulation. Basia cried some; the pious
Makovetski repeated a prayer; Zagloba was really alarmed. He tried,
however, to cheer himself and the company.

“Ha!” said he, “we are distressed, and perhaps Michael is already
at home.”

“Or killed!” said Basia. And she began to wail there in the
carriage, repeating, “Cut out my tongue! It was my fault, my fault!
Oh, I shall go mad!”

“Quiet there, girl! the fault is not yours,” said Zagloba; “and
know this,--if any man is killed, it is not Michael.”

“But I am sorry for the other. We have paid him handsomely for his
hospitality; there is nothing to be said on that point. O God, O
God!”

“That is the truth!” added Pan Makovetski.

“Let that rest, for God’s sake! Ketling is surely nearer to Prussia
than to Warsaw by this time. You heard that he is going away; I
have hope in God too, that should he meet Volodyovski they will
remember old friendship, service rendered together. They rode
stirrup to stirrup; they slept on one saddle; they went together on
scouting expeditions; they dipped their hands in one blood. In the
whole army their friendship was so famous that Ketling, by reason
of his beauty, was called Volodyovski’s wife. It is impossible that
this should not come to their minds when they see each other.”

“Still, it is this way sometimes,” said the discreet Makovetski,
“that just the warmest friendship turns to the fiercest animosity.
So it was in our place when Pan Deyma killed Pan Ubysh, with whom
he had lived twenty years in the greatest agreement. I can describe
to you that unhappy event in detail.”

“If my mind were more at ease, I would listen to you as gladly as
I do to her grace, my benefactress, your grace’s spouse, who has
the habit also of giving details, not excepting genealogies; but
what you say of friendship and animosity has stuck in my head. God
forbid! God forbid that it should come true this time!”

“One was Pan Deyma, the other Pan Ubysh. Both worthy men and
fellow-soldiers--”

“Oi, oi, oi!” said Zagloba, gloomily. “We trust in the mercy of God
that it will not come true this time; but if it does, Ketling will
be the corpse.”

“Misfortune!” said Makovetski, after a moment of silence. “Yes,
yes! Deyma and Ubysh. I remember it as if to-day. And it was a
question also of a woman.”

“Eternally those women! The first daw that comes will brew such
beer for you that whoever drinks will not digest it,” muttered
Zagloba.

“Don’t attack Krysia, sir!” cried Basia, suddenly.

“Oh, if Pan Michael had only fallen in love with you, none of this
would have happened!”

Thus conversing, they reached the house. Their hearts beat on
seeing lights in the windows, for they thought that Pan Michael had
returned, perhaps. But Pani Makovetski alone received them; she was
alarmed and greatly concerned. On learning that all their searching
had resulted in nothing, she covered herself with bitter tears and
began to complain that she should never see her brother again.
Basia seconded her at once in these lamentations. Zagloba too was
unable to master his grief.

“I will go again to-morrow before daylight, but alone,” said he; “I
may be able to learn something.”

“We can search better in company,” put in Makovetski.

“No; let your grace remain with the ladies. If Ketling is alive, I
will let you know.”

“For God’s sake! We are living in the house of that man!” said
Makovetski. “We must find an inn somehow to-morrow, or even pitch
tents in the field, only not to live longer here.”

“Wait for news from me, or we shall lose each other,” said Zagloba.
“If Ketling is killed--”

“Speak more quietly, by Christ’s wounds!” said Pani Makovetski,
“for the servants will hear and tell Krysia; she is barely alive as
it is.”

“I will go to her,” said Basia.

And she sprang upstairs. Those below remained in anxiety and fear.
No one slept in the whole house. The thought that maybe Ketling was
already a corpse filled their hearts with terror. In addition, the
night became close, dark; thunder began to roar and roll through
the heavens; and later bright lightning rent the sky each moment.
About midnight the first storm of the spring began to rage over the
earth. Even the servants woke.

Krysia and Basia went from their chamber to the dining-room. There
the whole company prayed and sat in silence, repeating in chorus,
after each clap of thunder, “And the Word was made flesh!” In
the whistling of the whirlwind was heard at times, as it were, a
certain horse-tramp, and then fear and terror raised the hair on
the heads of Basia, Pani Makovetski, and the two men; for it seemed
to them that at any moment the door might open, and Pan Michael
enter, stained with Ketling’s blood. The usually mild Pan Michael,
for the first time in his life, oppressed people’s hearts like a
stone, so that the very thought of him filled them with dread.

However, the night passed without news of the little knight. At
daylight, when the storm had abated in a measure, Zagloba set out a
second time for the city. That whole day was a day of still greater
alarm. Basia sat till evening in the window in front of the gate,
looking at the road along which Pan Zagloba might return.

Meanwhile the servants, at command of Pan Makovetski, were packing
the trunks slowly for the road. Krysia was occupied in directing
this work, for thus she was able to hold herself at a distance
from the others. For though Pani Makovetski did not mention Pan
Michael in the young lady’s presence even by one word, still that
very silence convinced Krysia that Pan Michael’s love for her,
their former secret engagement, and her recent refusal had been
discovered; and in view of this, it was difficult to suppose that
those people, the nearest to Pan Michael, were not offended and
grieved. Poor Krysia felt that it must be so, that it was so,--that
those hearts, hitherto loving, had withdrawn from her; therefore
she wished to suffer by herself.

Toward evening the trunks were ready, so that it was possible to
move that very day; but Pan Makovetski was waiting yet for news
from Zagloba. Supper was brought; no one cared to eat it; and the
evening began to drag along heavily, insupportably, and as silent
as if all were listening to what the clock was whispering.

“Let us go to the drawing-room,” said Pan Makovetski, at last. “It
is impossible to stay here.”

They went and sat down; but before any one had been able to speak
the first word, the dogs were heard under the window.

“Some one is coming!” cried Basia.

“The dogs are barking as if at people of the house,” said Pani
Makovetski.

“Quiet!” said her husband. “There is a rattling of wheels!”

“Quiet!” repeated Basia. “Yes; it comes nearer every moment. That
is Pan Zagloba.”

Basia and Pan Makovetski sprang up and ran out. Pani Makovetski’s
heart began to throb; but she remained with Krysia, so as not to
show by great haste that Pan Zagloba was bringing news of exceeding
importance. Meanwhile the sound of wheels was heard right under
the window, and then stopped on a sudden. Voices were heard at
the entrance, and after a while Basia rushed into the room like
a hurricane, and with a face as changed as if she had seen an
apparition.

“Basia, who is that? Who is that?” asked Pani Makovetski, with
astonishment.

But before Basia could regain her breath and give answer, the door
opened; through it entered first Pan Makovetski, then Pan Michael,
and last Ketling.




CHAPTER XXI.


Ketling was so changed that he was barely able to make a low
obeisance to the ladies; then he stood motionless, with his hat at
his breast, with his eyes closed, like a wonder-working image. Pan
Michael embraced his sister on the way, and approached Krysia. The
maiden’s face was as white as linen, so that the light down on her
lip seemed darker than usual; her breast rose and fell violently.
But Pan Michael took her hand mildly and pressed it to his lips;
then his mustaches quivered for a time, as if he were collecting
his thoughts; at last he spoke with great sadness, but with great
calmness,--

“My gracious lady, or better, my beloved Krysia! Hear me without
alarm, for I am not some Scythian or Tartar, or a wild beast, but
a friend, who, though not very happy himself, still desires your
happiness. It has come out that you and Ketling love each other;
Panna Basia in just anger threw it in my eyes. I do not deny that
I rushed out of this house in a rage and flew to seek vengeance
on Ketling. Whoso loses his all is more easily borne away by
vengeance; and I, as God is dear to me, loved you terribly and not
merely as a man never married loves a maiden. For if I had been
married and the Lord God had given me an only son or a daughter,
and had taken them afterward, I should not have mourned over them,
I think, as I mourned over you.”

Here Pan Michael’s voice failed for a moment, but he recovered
quickly; and after his mustache had quivered a number of times, he
continued, “Sorrow is sorrow; but there is no help. That Ketling
fell in love with you is not a wonder. Who would not fall in love
with you? And that you fell in love with him, that is my fate;
there is no reason either to wonder at that, for what comparison
is there between Ketling and me? In the field he will say himself
that I am not the worse man; but that is another matter. The Lord
God gave beauty to one, withheld it from the other, but rewarded
him with reflection. So when the wind on the road blew around me,
and my first rage had passed, conscience said straightway, Why
punish them? Why shed the blood of a friend? They fell in love,
that was God’s will. The oldest people say that against the heart
the command of a hetman is nothing. It was the will of God that
they fell in love; but that they did not betray, is their honesty.
If Ketling even had known of your promise to me, maybe I should
have called to him, ‘Quench!’ but he did not know of it. What was
his fault? Nothing. And your fault? Nothing. He wished to depart;
you wished to go to God. My fate is to blame, my fate only; for
the finger of God is to be seen now in this, that I remain in
loneliness. But I have conquered myself; I have conquered!”

Pan Michael stopped again and began to breathe quickly, like a man
who, after long diving in water, has come out to the air; then he
took Krysia’s hand. “So to love,” said he, “as to wish all for
one’s self, is not an exploit. ‘The hearts are breaking in all
three of us,’ thought I; ‘better let one suffer and give relief
to the other two.’ Krysia, God give you happiness with Ketling!
Amen. God give you, Krysia, happiness with Ketling! It pains me a
little, but that is nothing--God give you--that is nothing--I have
conquered myself!”

The soldier said, “that is nothing,” but his teeth gritted, and his
breath began to hiss through them. From the other end of the room,
the sobbing of Basia was heard.

“Ketling, come here, brother!” cried Volodyovski.

Ketling approached, knelt down, opened his arms, and in silence,
with the greatest respect and love, embraced Krysia’s knees.

But Pan Michael continued in a broken voice, “Press his head. He
has had his suffering too, poor fellow. God bless you and him!
You will not go to the cloister. I prefer that you should bless
me rather than have reason to curse me. The Lord God is above me,
though it is hard for me now.”

Basia, not able to endure longer, rushed out of the room, seeing
which, Pan Michael turned to Makovetski and his sister. “Go to the
other chamber,” said he, “and leave them; I too will go somewhere,
for I will kneel down and commend myself to the Lord Jesus.” And he
went out.

Halfway down the corridor he met Basia, at the staircase, on the
very same place where, borne away by anger, she had divulged the
secret of Krysia and Ketling, But this time Basia stood leaning
against the wall, choking from sobs.

At sight of this Pan Michael was touched at his own fate; he had
restrained himself up to that moment as best he was able, but then
the bonds of sorrow gave way, and tears burst from his eyes in a
torrent. “Why do you weep?” cried he, pitifully.

Basia raised her head, thrusting, like a child, now one and now the
other fist into her eyes, choking and gulping at the air with open
mouth, and answered with sobbing, “I am so sorry! Oh, for God’s
sake! O Jesus! Pan Michael is so honest, so worthy! Oh, for God’s
sake!”

Pan Michael seized her hands and began kissing them from gratitude.
“God reward you! God reward you for your heart!” said he. “Quiet;
do not weep.”

But Basia sobbed the more, almost to choking. Every vein in her
was quivering from sorrow; she began to gulp for air more and more
quickly; at last, stamping from excitement, she cried so loudly
that it was heard through the whole corridor, “Krysia is a fool!
I would rather have one Pan Michael than ten Ketlings! I love Pan
Michael with all my strength,--better than auntie, better than
uncle, better than Krysia!”

“For God’s sake! Basia!” cried the knight. And wishing to restrain
her emotion, he seized her in his embrace, and she nestled up
to his breast with all her strength, so that he felt her heart
throbbing like a wearied bird; then he embraced her still more
firmly, and they remained so.

Silence followed.

“Basia, do you wish me?” asked the little knight.

“I do, I do, I do!” answered Basia.

At this answer transport seized him in turn; he pressed his lips to
her rosy lips, and again they remained so.

Meanwhile a carriage rattled up to the house, and Zagloba
rushed into the ante-room, then to the dining-room, in which
Pan Makovetski was sitting with his wife. “There is no sign of
Michael!” cried he, in one breath; “I looked everywhere. Pan
Krytski said that he saw him with Ketling. Surely they have fought!”

“Michael is here,” answered Pani Makovetski; “he brought Ketling
and gave him Krysia.”

The pillar of salt into which Lot’s wife was turned had surely a
less astonished face than Zagloba at that moment. Silence continued
for a while; then the old noble rubbed his eyes and asked, “What?”

“Krysia and Ketling are sitting in there together, and Michael has
gone to pray,” said Makovetski.

Zagloba entered the next room without a moment’s hesitation; and
though he knew of all, he was astonished a second time, seeing
Ketling and Krysia sitting forehead to forehead. They sprang up,
greatly confused, and had not a word to say, especially as the
Makovetskis came in after Zagloba.

“A lifetime would not suffice to thank Michael,” said Ketling, at
last. “Our happiness is his work.”

“God give you happiness!” said Makovetski. “We will not oppose
Michael.”

Krysia dropped into the embraces of Pani Makovetski, and the
two began to cry. Zagloba was as if stunned. Ketling bowed to
Makovetski’s knees as to those of a father; and either from the
onrush of thoughts, or from confusion, Makovetski said, “But Pan
Deyma killed Pan Ubysh. Thank Michael, not me!” After a while he
asked, “Wife, what was the name of that lady?”

But she had no time for an answer, for at that moment Basia rushed
in, panting more than usual, more rosy than usual, with her
forelock falling down over her eyes more than usual; she ran up
to Ketling and Krysia, and thrusting her finger now into the eye
of one, and now into the eye of the other, said, “Oh, sigh, love,
marry! You think that Pan Michael will be alone in the world? Not
a bit of it; I shall be with him, for I love him, and I have told
him so. I was the first to tell him, and he asked if I wanted
him, and I told him that I would rather have him than ten others;
for I love him, and I’ll be the best wife, and I will never leave
him! I’ll go to the war with him! I’ve loved him this long time,
though I did not tell him, for he is the best and the worthiest,
the beloved-- And now marry for yourselves, and I will take Pan
Michael, to-morrow, if need be--for--”

Here breath failed Basia.

All looked at her, not understanding whether she had gone mad or
was telling the truth; then they looked at one another, and with
that Pan Michael appeared in the door behind Basia.

“Michael,” asked Makovetski, when presence of mind had restored his
voice to him, “is what we hear true?”

“God has wrought a miracle,” answered the little knight, with
great seriousness, “and here is my comfort, my love, my greatest
treasure.”

After these words Basia sprang to him again like a deer.

Now the mask of astonishment fell from Zagloba’s face, and his
white beard began to quiver; he opened his arms widely and said,
“God knows I shall sob! Haiduk and Michael, come hither!”




CHAPTER XXII.


He loved her immensely; and she loved him in the same way. They
were happy together, but had no children, though it was the fourth
year of their marriage. Their lands were managed with great
diligence. Pan Michael bought with his own and Basia’s money a
number of villages near Kamenyets; for these he paid a small
price, since timid people in terror of Turkish invasion were glad
to sell land in those regions. On his estates he introduced order
and military discipline; he took the restless population in hand,
rebuilt burned villages, established “fortalices,”--that is,
fortified houses,--in which he placed temporary garrisons; in one
word, as formerly he had defended the country with success, so now
he worked his lands with good profit, never letting the sword out
of his hand.

The glory of his name was the best defence of his property. With
some of the murzas he poured water on his sword and concluded
brotherhood; others he subdued. Bands of disorderly Cossacks,
scattered detachments of the horde, robbers from the steppes,
highwaymen from the plains of Bessarabia, trembled at thought of
the “Little Falcon;” therefore his herds of horses and flocks
of sheep, his buffaloes and camels, lived without danger on the
steppes. The enemy even respected his neighbors. His substance
increased through the aid of his active wife. He was surrounded by
the honor and affection of people. His native land had adorned him
with office; the hetman loved him; the Pasha of Hotin clicked with
his tongue in wonder at him; in the distant Crimea, in Bagchesarai,
his name was repeated with honor. His land, war, and love were the
three elements of his life.

The hot summer of 1671 found Pan Michael in Sokol, in Basia’s
paternal villages. That Sokol was the pearl of their estates. They
entertained there ceremoniously and merrily Pan Zagloba, who,
disregarding the toils of a journey unusual at his age, came to
visit them, fulfilling his solemn promise given at their wedding.
But the noisy feasts and the joy of the hosts at seeing a dear
guest was soon interrupted by an order from the hetman directing
Pan Michael to take command at Hreptyoff, to watch the Moldavian
boundary, to listen to voices from the side of the desert, protect
the place, intercept Tartar parties, and clear the region of
robbers.

The little knight, as a soldier ever willing in the service of the
Commonwealth, gave orders at once to his servants to drive the
herds from the meadows, lade the camels, and be ready themselves
in arms. Still, his heart was rent at thought of parting with his
wife, for he loved her with the love of a husband and a father, and
was hardly able to breathe without her; but he had no wish to take
her to the wild and lonely deserts of Ushytsa and expose her to
various perils. She, however, insisted on going with him.

“Think,” said she, “whether it will be more dangerous for me to
stay here than to live with you under the protection of troops. I
do not wish another roof than your tent, since I married you to
share fatigue, toil, and danger with you. Here alarm would gnaw me
to death; but there, with such a soldier, I shall feel safer than
the queen in Warsaw. Should it be needful to take the field with
you, I shall take it. If you go alone, I shall not know sleep in
this place; I shall not put food to my mouth; and finally, I shall
not hold out, but fly as I am to Hreptyoff; and if you will not let
me in, I will spend the night at the gate, and beg and cry till you
take pity.”

Pan Michael, seeing such affection, seized his wife by the arms
and began to cover her rosy face with kisses, and she gave like
for like. “I should not hesitate,” said he, at last, “were it a
question of standing on guard simply and attacking detachments of
the horde. Really, there will be men enough, because one of the
squadrons of the starosta of Podolia will go with me, and one of
the chamberlain’s squadrons; besides these, Motovidlo will come
with Cossacks and the dragoons of Linkhauz. There will be about six
hundred soldiers, and with camp-followers up to a thousand. But
I fear this, which the braggarts at the Diet in Warsaw will not
believe, but which we on the borders expect every hour,--namely, a
great war with the whole power of Turkey. This Pan Myslishevski has
confirmed, and the Pasha of Hotin repeats it every day; the hetman
believes that the Sultan will not leave Doroshenko without succor,
but will declare war against the Commonwealth; and then what should
I do with you, my dearest flower, my reward from God’s hand?”

“What happens to you will happen to me, I wish no other fate than
the fate which comes to you.”

Here Zagloba broke his silence, and turning to Basia, said, “If
the Turks capture you, whether you wish it or not, your fate will
be different from Michael’s. Ha! After the Cossacks, the Swedes,
the Northerners, and the Brandenburg kennel--the Turk! I said
to Olshovski, the vice-chancellor, ‘Do not bring Doroshenko to
despair, for only from necessity did he turn to the Turk.’ Well,
and what? They would not listen to me. They sent Hanenko against
Doroshenko, and now Doroshenko, willing or unwilling, must crawl
into the throat of the Turk, and, besides, lead him against us. You
remember, Michael, that I forewarned Olshovski in your presence.”

“You must have forewarned him some other time, for I do not
remember that it was in my presence,” said the little knight, “But
what you say of Doroshenko is holy truth, for the hetman holds
the same views; they say even that he has letters from Doroshenko
written in that sense precisely. But as matters are, so they are;
it is enough that it is too late now to negotiate. You have quick
wit, however, and I should like to hear your opinion. Am I to take
Basia to Hreptyoff, or is it better to leave her here? I must add
too that the place is a terrible desert. It was always a wretched
spot, but during twenty years so many Cossack parties and so many
chambuls have passed through it, that I know not whether I shall
find two beams fastened together. There is a world of ravines
there, grown over with thickets, hiding-places, deep caves, and
every kind of secret den in which robbers hide themselves by
hundreds, not to mention those who come from Wallachia.”

“Robbers, in view of such a force, are a trifle,” said Zagloba.
“Chambuls too are a trifle; for if strong ones march up, there will
be a noise about them; and if they are small, you will rub them
out.”

“Well, now!” cried Basia; “is not the whole matter a trifle?
Robbers are a trifle; chambuls are a trifle. With such a force
Michael will defend me from all the power of the Crimea.”

“Do not interrupt me in deliberation,” said Zagloba; “if you do,
I’ll decide against you.”

Basia put both palms on her mouth quickly, and dropped her head
on her shoulder, feigning to fear Zagloba terribly, and though he
knew that the dear woman was jesting, still her action pleased him;
therefore he put his old hand on her bright head and said, “Have no
fear; I will comfort you in this matter.”

Basia kissed his hand straightway, for in truth much depended on
his advice, which was so infallible that no one was ever led astray
by it; he thrust both hands behind his belt, and glancing quickly
with his seeing eye now on one, now on the other, said suddenly,
“But there is no posterity here, none at all; how is that?” Here he
thrust out his under-lip.

“The will of God, nothing more,” said Pan Michael, dropping his
eyes.

“The will of God, nothing more,” said Basia, dropping her eyes.

“And do you wish for posterity?”

To this the little knight answered: “I will tell you sincerely, I
do not know what I would give for children, but sometimes I think
the wish vain. As it is, the Lord Jesus has sent happiness, giving
me this kitten,--or as you call her, this haiduk,--and besides has
blessed me with fame and with substance. I do not dare to trouble
Him for greater blessings. You see it has come to my head more than
once that if all people had their wishes accomplished, there would
be no difference between this earthly Commonwealth and the heavenly
one, which alone can give perfect happiness. So I think to myself
that if I do not wait here for one or two sons, they will not miss
me up there, and will serve and win glory in the old fashion under
the heavenly hetman, the holy archangel Michael, in expeditions
against the foulness of hell, and will attain to high office.”

Here, moved at his own words and at that thought, the pious
Christian knight raised his eyes to heaven; but Zagloba listened to
him with indifference, and did not cease to mutter sternly. At last
he said,--

“See that you do not blaspheme. Your boast that you divine the
intentions of Providence so well may be a sin for which you will
hop around as peas do on a hot pan. The Lord God has a wider sleeve
than the bishop of Cracow, but He does not like to have any one
look in to see what He has prepared there for small people, and
He does what He likes; but do you see to that which concerns you,
and if you wish for posterity, keep your wife with you, instead of
leaving her.”

When Basia heard this, she sprang with delight to the middle of the
room, and clapping her hands, began to repeat, “Well, now! we’ll
keep together. I guessed at once that your grace would come to my
side; I guessed it at once. We’ll go to Hreptyoff, Michael. Even
once you’ll take me against the Tartars,--one little time, my dear,
my golden!”

“There she is for you! Now she wants to go to an attack!” cried the
little knight.

“For with you I should not fear the whole horde.”

“_Silentium!_” said Zagloba, turning his delighted eyes, or rather
his delighted eye, on Basia, whom he loved immensely. “I hope too
that Hreptyoff, which, by the way, is not so far from here, is not
the last stanitsa before the Wilderness.”

“No; there will be commands farther on, in Mohiloff and Yampol; and
the last is to be in Rashkoff,” answered Pan Michael.

“In Rashkoff? We know Rashkoff. It was from that place that we
brought Helena, Pan Yan’s wife; and you remember that ravine in
Valadynka, Michael. You remember how I cut down that monster, or
devil, Cheremis, who was guarding her. But since the last garrison
will be in Rashkoff, if the Crimea moves, or the whole Turkish
power, they will know quickly in Rashkoff, and will give timely
notice to Hreptyoff; there is no great danger then, for the place
cannot be surprised. I say this seriously; and you know, besides,
that I would rather lay down my old head than expose her to any
risk. Take her. It will be better for you both. But Basia must
promise that in case of a great war she will let herself be taken
even to Warsaw, for there would be terrible campaigns and fierce
battles, besieging of camps, perhaps hunger, as at Zbaraj; in such
straits it is hard for a man to save his life, but what could a
woman do?”

“I should be glad to fall at Michael’s side,” said Basia; “but
still I have reason, and know that when a thing is not possible, it
is not possible. Finally, it is Michael’s will, and not mine. This
year he went on an expedition under Pan Sobieski. Did I insist on
going with him? No. Well, if I am not prevented now from going to
Hreptyoff with Michael, in case a great war comes, send me wherever
you like.”

“His grace, Pan Zagloba, will take you to Podlyasye to Pan Yan’s
wife,” said the little knight; “there indeed the Turk will not
reach you.”

“Pan Zagloba! Pan Zagloba!” answered the old noble, mocking him.
“Am I a captain of home guards? Do not intrust your wives to Pan
Zagloba, thinking that he is old, for he may turn out altogether
different. Secondly, do you think that in case of war with the
Turk, I shall go behind the stove in Podlyasye, and watch the roast
meat lest it burn? I may be good for something else. I mount my
horse from a bench, I confess; but when once in the saddle, I will
gallop on the enemy as well as any young man. Neither sand nor
sawdust is sprinkling out of me yet, glory be to God! I shall not
go on a raid against Tartars, nor watch in the Wilderness, for I am
not a scout; but in a general attack keep near me, if you can, and
you will see splendid things.”

“Do you wish to take the field again?”

“Do you not think that I wish to seal a famous life with a glorious
death, after so many years of service? And what better could happen
to me? Did you know Pan Dzevyantkevich? He, it is true, did not
seem more than a hundred and forty years old, but he was a hundred
and forty-two, and was still in service.”

“He was not so old.”

“He was. May I never move from this bench if he wasn’t! I am going
to a great war, and that’s the end of it! But now I am going with
you to Hreptyoff, for I love Basia.”

Basia sprang up with radiant face and began to hug Zagloba, and he
raised his head higher and higher, repeating, “Tighter, tighter!”

Pan Michael pondered over everything for a time yet and said at
last: “It is impossible for us all to go together, since the place
is a pure wilderness, and we should not find a bit of roof over our
heads. I will go first, choose a place for a square, build a good
enclosure with houses for the soldiers, and sheds for the officers’
horses, which, being of finer stock, might suffer from change of
climate; I will dig wells, open the roads, and clear the ravines
from robber ruffians. That done, I’ll send you a proper escort, and
you will come. You will wait, perhaps, three weeks here.”

Basia wished to protest; but Zagloba, seeing the justice of Pan
Michael’s words, said, “What is wise, is wise! Basia, we will stay
here together and keep house, and our affair will not be a bad one.
We must also make ready good supplies in some fashion, for, of
course, you do not know that meads and wines never keep so well as
in caves.”




CHAPTER XXIII.


Volodyovski kept his word; in three weeks he finished the buildings
and sent a notable escort,--one hundred Lithuanian Tartars from
the squadron of Pan Lantskoronski and one hundred of Linkhauz’s
dragoons, who were led by Pan Snitko, of the escutcheon Hidden
Moon. The Tartars were led by Capt. Azya Mellehovich, who was
descended from Lithuanian Tartars,--a very young man, for he had
barely reached twenty and some years. He brought a letter which the
little knight had written, as follows, to his wife:--

    “Baska, beloved of my heart! You may come now, for without
    you it is as if without bread; and if I do not wither away
    before you are here, I shall kiss your rosy face off. I am
    not stingy in sending men and experienced officers; but
    give priority in all to Pan Snitko, and admit him to our
    society, for he is _bene natus_ (well-born), an inheritor
    of land, and an officer. As to Mellehovich, he is a good
    soldier, but God knows who he is. He could not become an
    officer in any squadron but the Tartar, for it would be
    easier elsewhere for any man to fling low birth at him. I
    embrace you with all my strength; I kiss your hands and
    feet. I have built a fortalice with one hundred circular
    openings. We have immense chimneys. For you and me there
    are several rooms in a house apart. There is an odor of
    rosin everywhere, and such legions of crickets that when
    they begin to chirp in the evening the dogs start up from
    sleep. If we had a little pea-straw, they might be got
    rid of quickly; perhaps you will have some placed in the
    wagons. There was no glass to be had, so we put membrane
    in the windows; but Pan Byaloglovski has a glazier in his
    command among the dragoons. You can get glass in Kamenyets
    from the Armenians; but, for God’s sake! let it be handled
    with care to avoid breaking. I have had your room fitted
    with rugs, and it has a respectable look. I have had the
    robbers whom we caught in the ravines hanged, nineteen
    of them; and before you come, the number will reach half
    three-score. Pan Snitko will tell you how we live. I
    commend you to God and the Most Holy Lady, my dear soul.”

Basia, after reading the letter, gave it to Zagloba, who, when
he had glanced over it, began at once to show more consideration
to Pan Snitko,--not so great, however, that the other should not
feel that he was speaking to a most renowned warrior and a great
personage, who admitted him to confidence only through kindness.
Moreover, Pan Snitko was a good-natured soldier, joyous and most
accurate in service, for his life had passed in the ranks. He
honored Volodyovski greatly, and in view of Zagloba’s fame he felt
small, and had no thought of exalting himself.

Mellehovich was not present at the reading of the letter, for when
he had delivered it, he went out at once, as if to look after his
men, but really from fear that they might command him to go to the
servants’ quarters.

Zagloba, however, had time to examine him; and having the words
of Pan Michael fresh in his head, he said to Snitko, “We are glad
to see you. I pray you, Pan Snitko, I know the escutcheon Hidden
Moon,--a worthy escutcheon. But this Tartar, what is his name?”

“Mellehovich.”

“But this Mellehovich looks somehow like a wolf. Michael writes
that he is a man of uncertain origin, which is a wonder, for all
our Tartars are nobles, though Mohammedans. In Lithuania I saw
whole villages inhabited by them. There people call them Lipki;
but those here are known as Cheremis. They have long served the
Commonwealth faithfully in return for their bread; but during the
time of the peasant incursion many of them went over to Hmelnitski,
and now I hear that they are beginning to communicate with the
horde. That Mellehovich looks like a wolf. Has Pan Volodyovski
known him long?”

“Since the last expedition,” said Pan Snitko, putting his feet
under the table, “when we were acting with Pan Sobieski against
Doroshenko and the horde; they went through the Ukraine.”

“Since the last expedition! I could not take part in that, for
Sobieski confided other functions to me, though later on he was
lonely without me. But your escutcheon is the Hidden Moon! From
what place is Mellehovich?”

“He says that he is a Lithuanian Tartar; but it is a wonder to me
that none of the Lithuanian Tartars knew him before, though he
serves in their squadron. From this come stories of his uncertain
origin, which his lofty manners have not been able to prevent.
But he is a good soldier, though sullen. At Bratslav and Kalnik
he rendered great service, for which the hetman made him captain,
though he was the youngest man in the squadron. The Tartars love
him greatly, but he has no consideration among us, and why? Because
he is very sullen, and, as you say, has the look of a wolf.”

“If he is a great soldier and has shed blood,” said Basia, “it is
proper to admit him to our society, which my husband in his letter
does not forbid.” Here she turned to Pan Snitko: “Does your grace
permit it?”

“I am the servant of my benefactress,” said Snitko.

Basia vanished through the door; and Zagloba, drawing a deep
breath, asked Pan Snitko, “Well, and how does the colonel’s wife
please you?”

The old soldier, instead of an answer, put his fists to his eyes,
and bending in the chair, repeated, “Ai! ai! ai!” Then he stared,
covered his mouth with his broad palm, and was silent, as if
ashamed of his own enthusiasm.

“Sweet cakes, isn’t she?” asked Zagloba.

Meanwhile “sweet cakes” appeared in the door, conducting
Mellehovich, who was as frightened as a wild bird, and saying to
him, “From my husband’s letter and from Pan Snitko we have heard
so much of your manful deeds that we are glad to know you more
intimately. We ask you to our society, and the table will be laid
presently.”

“I pray you to come nearer,” said Zagloba.

The sullen but handsome face of the young Tartar did not brighten
altogether, but it was evident that he was thankful for the good
reception, and because he was not commanded to remain in the
servants’ quarters. Basia endeavored of purpose to be kind to him,
for with a woman’s heart she guessed easily that he was suspicious
and proud, that the chagrin which beyond doubt he had to bear often
by reason of his uncertain descent pained him acutely. Not making,
therefore, between him and Snitko any difference save that enjoined
by Snitko’s riper age, she inquired of the young captain touching
those services owing to which he had received promotion at Kalnik.
Zagloba, divining Basia’s wish, spoke to him also frequently
enough; and he, though at first rather distant in bearing, gave
fitting answers, and his manners not only did not betray a vulgar
man, but were even astonishing through a certain courtliness.

“That cannot be peasant blood, for not such would the spirit be,”
thought Zagloba to himself. Then he inquired aloud, “In what parts
does your father live?”

“In Lithuania,” replied Mellehovich, blushing.

“Lithuania is a large country. That is the same as if you had said
in the Commonwealth.”

“It is not in the Commonwealth now, for those regions have fallen
away. My father has an estate near Smolensk.”

“I had considerable possessions there too, which came to me from
childless relatives; but I chose to leave them and side with the
Commonwealth.”

“I act in the same way,” said Mellehovich.

“You act honorably,” put in Basia.

But Snitko, listening to the conversation, shrugged his shoulders
slightly, as if to say, “God knows who you are, and whence you
came.”

Zagloba, noticing this, turned again to Mellehovich, “Do you
confess Christ, or do you live,--and I speak without offence,--live
in vileness?”

“I have received the Christian faith, for which reason I had to
leave my father.”

“If you have left him for that reason, the Lord God will not leave
you; and the first proof of His kindness is that you can drink
wine, which you could not do if you had remained in error.”

Snitko smiled; but questions touching his person and descent were
clearly not to the taste of Mellehovich, for he grew reserved
again. Zagloba, however, paid little attention to this, especially
since the young Tartar did not please him much, for at times he
reminded him, not by his face, it is true, but by his movements and
glance, of Bogun, the famed Cossack leader.

Meanwhile dinner was served. The rest of the day was occupied in
final preparations for the road. They started at daybreak, or
rather when it was still night, so as to arrive at Hreptyoff in one
day.

Nearly twenty wagons were collected, for Basia had determined to
supply the larders of Hreptyoff bountifully; and behind the wagons
followed camels and horses heavily laden, bending under the weight
of meal and dried meat; behind the caravan moved a number of tens
of oxen of the steppe and a flock of sheep. The march was opened
by Mellehovich with his Tartars; the dragoons rode near a covered
carriage in which sat Basia with Pan Zagloba. She wished greatly to
ride a trained palfrey; but the old noble begged her not to do so,
at least during the beginning and end of the journey.

“If you were to sit quietly,” said he, “I should not object; but
you would begin right away to make your horse prance and show
himself, and that is not proper to the dignity of the commander’s
wife.”

Basia was happy and joyous as a bird. From the time of her marriage
she had two great desires in life: one was to give Michael a son;
the other to live with the little knight, even for one year, at
some stanitsa near the Wilderness, and there, on the edge of
the desert, to lead a soldier’s life, to pass through war and
adventures, to take part in expeditions, to see with her own eyes
those steppes, to pass through those dangers of which she had heard
so much from her youngest years. She dreamed of this when still
a girl; and behold, those dreams were now to become reality, and
moreover, at the side of a man whom she loved and who was the most
famous partisan in the Commonwealth, of whom it was said that he
could dig an enemy from under the earth.

Hence the young woman felt wings on her shoulders, and such a
great joy in her breast that at moments the desire seized her to
shout and jump; but the thought of decorum restrained her, for she
had promised herself to be dignified and to win intense love from
the soldiers. She confided these thoughts to Zagloba, who smiled
approvingly and said,--

“You will be an eye in his head, and a great wonder, that is
certain. A woman in a stanitsa is a marvel.”

“And in need I will give them an example.”

“Of what?”

“Of daring. I fear only one thing,--that beyond Hreptyoff there
will be other commands in Mohiloff and Rashkoff, on to Yampol, and
that we shall not see Tartars even for medicine.”

“And I fear only this,--of course not for myself, but for
you,--that we shall see them too often. Do you think that the
chambuls are bound strictly to come through Rashkoff and Mohiloff?
They can come directly from the East, from the steppes, or by
the Moldavian side of the Dniester, and enter the boundaries of
the Commonwealth wherever they wish, even in the hills beyond
Hreptyoff, unless it is reported widely that I am living in
Hreptyoff; then they will keep aside, for they know me of old.”

“But don’t they know Michael, or won’t they avoid him?”

“They will avoid him unless they come with great power, which may
happen. But he will go to look for them himself.”

“I am sure of that. But is it a real desert in Hreptyoff? The place
is not so far away!”

“It could not be more real. That region was never thickly settled,
even in time of my youth. I went from farm to farm, from village
to village, from town to town. I knew everything, was everywhere.
I remember when Ushytsa was what is called a fortified town. Pan
Konyetspolski, the father, made me starosta there; but after that
came the invasion of the ruffians, and all went to ruin. When we
went there for Princess Helena, it was a desert; and after that
chambuls passed through it twenty times. Pan Sobieski has snatched
it again from the Cossacks and the Tartars, as a morsel from the
mouth of a dog. There are only a few people there now, but robbers
are living in the ravines.”

Here Zagloba began to look at the neighborhood and nod his head,
remembering old times. “My God!” said he, “when we were going for
Helena, it seemed to me that old age was behind my girdle; and now
I think that I was young then, for nearly twenty-four years have
passed. Michael was a milksop at that time, and had not many more
hairs on his lip than I have on my fist. And this region stands in
my memory as if the time were yesterday. Only these groves and pine
woods have grown in places deserted by tillers of the land.”

In fact, just beyond Kitaigrod they entered dense pine woods with
which at that time the region was covered for the greater part.
Here and there, however, especially around Studyenitsa, were open
fields; and then they saw the Dniester and a country stretching
forward from that side of the river to the heights, touching the
horizon on the Moldavian side. Deep ravines, the abodes of wild
beasts and wild men, intercepted their road; these ravines were at
times narrow and precipitous, at times wider, with sides gently
sloping and covered with thick brush. Mellehovich’s Tartars sank
into them carefully; and when the rear of the convoy was on the
lofty brink, the van was already, as it were, under the earth.
It came frequently to Basia and Zagloba to leave the carriage;
for though Pan Michael had cleared the road in some sort, these
passages were dangerous. At the bottom of the ravine springs
were flowing, or swift rivulets were rushing, which in spring
were swollen with water from the snow of the steppes. Though the
sun still warmed the pine woods and steppes powerfully, a harsh
cold was hidden in those stone gorges, and seized travellers on
a sudden. Pine-trees covered the rocky sides and towered on the
banks, gloomy and dark, as if desiring to screen that sunken
interior from the golden rays of the sun; but in places the edges
were broken, trees thrown in wild disorder upon one another,
branches twisted and broken into heaps, entirely dried or covered
with red leaves and spines.

“What has happened to this forest?” asked Basia of Zagloba.

“In places there may be old fellings made by the former inhabitants
against the horde, or by the ruffians against our troops; again in
places the Moldavian whirlwinds rush through the woods; in these
whirlwinds, as old people say, vampires, or real devils, fight
battles.”

“But has your grace ever seen devils fighting?”

“As to seeing, I have not seen them; but I have heard how devils
cry to each other for amusement, ‘U-há! U-há!’ Ask Michael; he has
heard them.”

Basia, though daring, feared evil spirits somewhat, therefore she
began to make the sign of the cross at once. “A terrible place!”
said she.

And really in some ravines it was terrible; for it was not only
dark, but forbidding. The wind was not blowing; the leaves and
branches of trees made no rustle; there was heard only the tramp
and snorting of horses, the squeak of wagons, and cries uttered
by drivers in the most dangerous places. At times too, the
Tartars or dragoons began to sing; but the desert itself was not
enlivened with one sound of man or beast. If the ravines made a
gloomy impression, the upper country, even where the pine woods
extended, was unfolded joyously before the eyes of the caravan.
The weather was autumnal, calm. The sun moved along the plain of
heaven, unspotted by a cloud, pouring bountiful rays on the rocks,
on the fields and the forest. In that gleam the pine-trees seemed
ruddy and golden; and the spider-webs attached to the branches
of trees, to the reeds and the grass, shone brightly, as if they
were woven from sunbeams. October had come to the middle of its
days; therefore, many birds, especially those sensitive to cold,
had begun to pass from the Commonwealth to the Black Sea; in the
heavens were to be seen rows of storks flying with piercing cries,
geese, and flocks of teal.

Here and there floated high in the blue, on outspread wings,
eagles, terrible to inhabitants of the air; here and there falcons,
eager for prey, were describing circles slowly. But there were not
lacking, especially in the open fields, those birds also which
keep to the earth, and hide gladly in tall grass. Every little
while flocks of rust-colored partridges flew noisily from under the
steeds of the Tartars; a number of times also Basia saw, though
from a distance, bustards standing on watch, at sight of which her
cheeks flushed, and her eyes began to glitter.

“I will go coursing with Michael!” cried she, clapping her hands.

“If your husband were a sitter at home,” said Zagloba, “his beard
would be gray soon from such a wife; but I knew to whom I gave you.
Another woman would be thankful at least, wouldn’t she?”

Basia kissed Zagloba straightway on both cheeks, so that he was
moved and said, “Loving hearts are as dear to a man in old age as
a warm place behind the stove.” Then he was thoughtful for a while
and added, “It is a wonder how I have loved the fair sex all my
life; and if I had to say why, I know not myself, for often they
are bad and deceitful and giddy. But because they are as helpless
as children, if an injustice strikes one of them, a man’s heart
pipes from pity. Embrace me again, or not!”

Basia would have been glad to embrace the whole world; therefore
she satisfied Zagloba’s wish at once, and they drove on in
excellent humor. They went slowly, for the oxen, going behind,
could not travel faster, and it was dangerous to leave them in
the midst of those forests with a small number of men. As they
drew near Ushytsa, the country became more uneven, the desert more
lonely, and the ravines deeper. Every little while something was
injured in the wagons, and sometimes the horses were stubborn;
considerable delays took place through this cause. The old road,
which led once to Mohiloff, was grown over with forests during
twenty years, so that traces of it could barely be seen here and
there; consequently they had to keep to the trails beaten by
earlier and later passages of troops, hence frequently misleading,
and also very difficult. The journey did not pass either without
accident.

On the slope of a ravine the horse stumbled under Mellehovich,
riding at the head of the Tartars, and fell to the stony bottom,
not without injury to the rider, who cut the crown of his head so
severely that consciousness left him for a time. Basia and Zagloba
mounted led palfreys; and Basia gave command to put the Tartar in
the carriage and drive carefully. Afterward she stopped the march
at every spring, and with her own hands bound his head with cloths
wet with cold spring-water. He lay for a time with closed eyes, but
opened them at last; and when Basia bent over him and asked how he
felt, instead of an answer he seized her hand and pressed it to his
white lips. Only after a pause, as if collecting his thoughts and
presence of mind, did he say in Russian,--

“Oh, I am well, as I have not been for a long time.”

The whole day passed in a march of this kind. The sun, growing red
at last and seeming immense, was descending on the Moldavian side;
the Dnieper was gleaming like a fiery ribbon, and from the east,
from the Wilderness, darkness was moving on slowly.

Hreptyoff was not far away, but it was necessary to give rest to
the horses, therefore they stopped for a considerable halt. This
and that dragoon began to chant prayers; the Tartars dismounted,
spread sheepskins on the ground, and fell to praying on their
knees, with faces turned eastward. At times “Allah! Allah!” sounded
through all the ranks; then again they were quiet; holding their
palms turned upward near their faces, they continued in attentive
prayer, repeating only from time to time drowsily and as if with a
sigh, “Lohichmen ah lohichmen!” The rays of the sun fell on them
redder and redder; a breeze came from the west, and with it a great
rustling in the trees, as if they wished to honor before night Him
who brings out on the dark heavens thousands of glittering stars.
Basia looked with great curiosity at the praying of the Tartars;
but at the thought that so many good men, after lives full of toil,
would go straightway after death to hell’s fire, her heart was
oppressed, especially since they, though they met people daily who
professed the true faith, remained of their own will in hardness of
heart.

Zagloba, more accustomed to those things, only shrugged his
shoulders at the pious considerations of Basia, and said, “These
sons of goats are not admitted to heaven, lest they might take with
them vile insects.”

Then, with the assistance of his attendant, he put on a coat
lined with hanging threads,--an excellent defence against evening
cold,--and gave command to move on; but barely had the march begun
when on the opposite heights five horsemen appeared. The Tartars
opened ranks at once.

“Michael!” cried Basia, seeing the man riding in front.

It was indeed Volodyovski, who had come out with a few horsemen
to meet his wife. Springing forward, they greeted each other with
great joy, and then began to tell what had happened to each.

Basia related how the journey had passed, and how Pan Mellehovich
had “sprained his reason[17] against a stone.” The little knight
made a report of his activity in Hreptyoff, in which, as he stated,
everything was ready and waiting to receive her, for five hundred
axes had been working for three weeks on buildings. During this
conversation Pan Michael bent from the saddle every little while,
and seized his young wife in his arms; she, it was clear, was not
very angry at that, for she rode at his side there so closely that
the horses were nearly rubbing against each other.

The end of the journey was not distant; meanwhile a beautiful
night came down, illuminated by a great golden moon. But the moon
grew paler as it rose from the steppes to the sky, and at last its
shining was darkened by a conflagration which blazed up brightly in
front of the caravan.

“What is that?” inquired Basia.

“You will see,” said Volodyovski, “as soon as you have passed that
forest which divides us from Hreptyoff.”

“Is that Hreptyoff already?”

“You would see it as a thing on your palm, but the trees hide it.”

They rode into a small forest; but they had not ridden halfway
through it when a swarm of lights appeared on the other edge like
a swarm of fireflies, or glittering stars. Those stars began to
approach with amazing rapidity; and suddenly the whole forest was
quivering with shouts,--

“Vivat the lady! Vivat her great mightiness! vivat our commandress!
vivat, vivat!”

These were soldiers who had hastened to greet Basia. Hundreds of
them mingled in one moment with the Tartars. Each held on a long
pole a burning taper, fixed in a split at the end of the pole.
Some had iron candlesticks on pikes, from which burning rosin was
falling in the form of long fiery tears.

Basia was surrounded quickly with throngs of mustached faces,
threatening, somewhat wild, but radiant with joy. The greater
number of them had never seen Basia in their lives; many expected
to meet an imposing person; hence their delight was all the greater
at sight of that lady, almost a child in appearance, who was riding
on a white palfrey and bent in thanks to every side her wonderful,
rosy face, small and joyous, but at the same time greatly excited
by the unlooked-for reception.

“I thank you, gentlemen,” said she; “I know that this is not for
me.” But her silvery voice was lost in the _vivats_, and the forest
was trembling from shouts.

The officers from the squadron of the starosta of Podolia and the
chamberlain of Premysl, Motovidlo’s Cossacks and the Tartars,
mingled together. Each wished to see the lady commandress, to
approach her; some of the most urgent kissed the edge of her skirt
or her foot in the stirrup. For these half-wild partisans, inured
to raids and man-hunting, to bloodshed and slaughter, that was a
sight so unusual, so new, that in presence of it their hard hearts
were moved, and some kind of feeling, new and unknown to them, was
roused in their breasts. They came to meet her out of love for Pan
Michael, wishing to give him pleasure, and perhaps to flatter him;
and behold! sudden tenderness seizes them. That smiling, sweet,
and innocent face, with gleaming eyes and distended nostrils,
became dear to them in one moment. “That is our child!” cried old
Cossacks, real wolves of the steppe. “A cherub, Pan Commander.”
“She is a morning dawn! a dear flower!” shouted the officers. “We
will fall, one after another, for her!” And the Tartars, clicking
with their tongues, put their palms to their broad breasts and
cried, “Allah! Allah!” Volodyovski was greatly touched, but glad;
he put his hands on his hips and was proud of his Basia.

Shouts were heard continually. At last the caravan came out of the
forest, and before the eyes of the newly arrived appeared firm
wooden buildings, erected in a circle on high ground. That was the
stanitsa of Hreptyoff, as clearly seen then as in daylight, for
inside the stockade enormous piles were burning, on which whole
logs had been thrown. The square was full of fires, but smaller, so
as not to burn up the place. The soldiers quenched their torches;
then each drew from his shoulder, one a musket, another a gun, a
third a pistol, and thundered in greeting to the lady. Musicians
came too in front of the stockade: the starosta’s band with crooked
horns, the Cossacks with trumpets, drums, and various stringed
instruments, and at last the Tartars, pre-eminent for squeaking
pipes. The barking of the garrison dogs and the bellowing of
terrified cattle added still to the uproar.

The convoy remained now in the rear, and in front rode Basia,
having on one side her husband, and on the other Zagloba. Over
the gate, beautifully ornamented with birch boughs, stood black,
on membranes of bladder smeared with tallow and lighted from the
inside, the inscription:--

      “May Cupid give you many happy moments!
      Dear guests, _crescite, multiplicamini!_”

“Vivant, floreant!” cried the soldiers, when the little knight and
Basia halted to read the inscription.

“For God’s sake!” said Zagloba, “I’m a guest too; but if that wish
for multiplication concerns me, may the crows pluck me if I know
what to do with it.”

But Pan Zagloba found a special transparency intended for himself,
and with no small pleasure he read on it,--

      “Long live our great mighty Onufry Zagloba,
      The highest ornament of the whole knighthood!”

Pan Michael was very joyful; the officers were invited to sup with
him; and for the soldiers he gave command to roll out one and
another keg of spirits. A number of bullocks fell also; these the
men began at once to roast at the fires. They sufficed for all
abundantly. Long into the night the stanitsa was thundering with
shouts and musket-shots, so that fear seized the bands of robbers
hidden in the ravines of Ushytsa.




CHAPTER XXIV.


Pan Michael was not idle in his stanitsa, and his men lived
in perpetual toil. One hundred, sometimes a smaller number,
remained as a garrison in Hreptyoff; the rest were on expeditions
continually. The more considerable detachments were sent to clear
out the ravines of Ushytsa; and they lived, as it were, in endless
warfare, for bands of robbers, frequently very numerous, offered
powerful resistance, and more than once it was needful to fight
with them regular battles. Such expeditions lasted days, and at
times tens of days. Pan Michael sent smaller parties as far as
Bratslav for news of the horde and Doroshenko. The task of these
parties was to bring in informants, and therefore to capture them
on the steppes. Some went down the Dniester to Mohiloff and Yampol,
to maintain connection with commandants in those places; some
watched on the Moldavian side; some built bridges and repaired the
old road.

The country in which such a considerable activity reigned became
pacified gradually; those of the inhabitants who were more
peaceful, and less enamoured of robbery, returned by degrees to
their deserted habitations, at first stealthily, then with more
confidence. A few Jewish handicraftsmen came up to Hreptyoff
itself; sometimes a more considerable Armenian merchant looked
in; shopkeepers visited the place more frequently: Volodyovski
had therefore a not barren hope that if God and the hetman would
permit him to remain a longer time in command, that country which
had grown wild would assume another aspect. That work was merely
the beginning; there was a world of things yet to be done: the
roads were still dangerous; the demoralized people entered into
friendship more readily with robbers than with troops, and for
any cause hid themselves again in the rocky gorges; the fords
of the Dnieper were often passed stealthily by bands made up of
Wallachians, Cossacks, Hungarians, Tartars, and God knows what
people. These sent raids through the country, attacking in Tartar
fashion villages and towns, gathering up everything which let
itself be gathered; for a time yet it was impossible to drop a
sabre from the hand in those regions, or to hang a musket on a
nail; still a beginning was made, and the future promised to be
favorable.

It was necessary to keep the most sensitive ear toward the eastern
side. From Doroshenko’s forces and his allied chambuls were
detached at short intervals parties larger or smaller; and while
attacking the Polish commands, they spread devastation and fire in
the region about. But since these parties were independent, or at
least seemed so, the little knight crushed them without fear of
bringing a greater storm on the country; and without ceasing in his
resistance, he sought them himself in the steppe so effectually
that in time he made attack disgusting to the boldest.

Meanwhile Basia managed affairs in Hreptyoff. She was delighted
immensely with that soldier-life which she had never seen before
so closely,--the movement, marches, returns of expeditions, the
prisoners. She told the little knight that she must take part in
one expedition at least; but for the time she was forced to be
satisfied with this, that she sat on her pony occasionally, and
visited with her husband and Zagloba the environs of Hreptyoff. On
such expeditions she hunted foxes and bustards; sometimes the fox
stole out of the grass and shot along through the valleys. Then
they chased him; but Basia kept in front to the best of her power,
right after the dogs, so as to fall on the wearied beast first and
thunder into his red eyes from her pistol. Pan Zagloba liked best
to hunt with falcons, of which the officers had a number of pairs
very well trained.

Basia accompanied him too; but after Basia Pan Michael sent
secretly a number of tens of men to give aid in emergency, for
though it was known always in Hreptyoff what men were doing in
the desert for twenty miles around, Pan Michael preferred to be
cautious. The soldiers loved Basia more every day, for she took
pains with their food and drink; she nursed the sick and wounded.
Even the sullen Mellehovich, whose head pained him continually, and
who had a harder and a wilder heart than others, grew bright at
the sight of her. Old soldiers were in raptures over her knightly
daring and close knowledge of military affairs.

“If the Little Falcon were gone,” said they, “she might take
command, and it would not be grievous to fall under such a leader.”

At times it happened too that when some disorder arose in the
service during Pan Michael’s absence, Basia reprimanded the
soldiers, and obedience to her was great; old warriors were more
grieved by reproval from her mouth than by punishment, which the
veteran Pan Michael inflicted unsparingly for dereliction of duty.
Great discipline reigned always in the command, for Volodyovski,
reared in the school of Prince Yeremi, knew how to hold soldiers
with an iron hand; and, moreover, the presence of Basia softened
wild manners somewhat. Every man tried to please her; every man
thought of her rest and comfort; hence they avoided whatever might
annoy her.

In the light squadron of Pan Nikolai Pototski there were many
officers, experienced and polite, who, though they had grown rough
in continual wars and adventures, still formed a pleasant company.
These, with the officers from other squadrons, often spent an
evening with the colonel, telling of events and wars in which they
had taken part personally. Among these Pan Zagloba held the first
place. He was the oldest, had seen most and done much; but when,
after one and the second goblet, he was dozing in a comfortable
stuffed chair, which was brought for him purposely, others began.
And they had something to tell, for there were some who had visited
Sweden and Moscow; there were some who had passed their years of
youth at the Saitch before the days of Hmelnitski; there were some
who as captives had herded sheep in the Crimea; who in slavery
had dug wells in Bagchesarai; who had visited Asia Minor; who had
rowed through the Archipelago in Turkish galleys; who had beaten
with their foreheads on the grave of Christ in Jerusalem; who
had experienced every adventure and every mishap, and still had
appeared again under the flag to defend to the end of their lives,
to the last breath, those border regions steeped in blood.

When in November the evenings became longer and there was peace
on the side of the broad steppe, for the grass had withered, they
used to assemble in the colonel’s house daily. Hither came Pan
Motovidlo, the leader of the Cossacks,--a Russian by blood, a man
lean as pincers and tall as a lance, no longer young; he had not
left the field for twenty years and more. Pan Deyma came too, the
brother of that one who had killed Pan Ubysh; and with them Pan
Mushalski, a man formerly wealthy, but who, taken captive in early
years, had rowed in a Turkish galley, and escaping from bondage,
had left his property to others, and with sabre in hand was
avenging his wrongs on the race of Mohammed. He was an incomparable
bowman, who, when he chose, pierced with an arrow a heron in its
lofty flight. There came also the two partisans, Pan Vilga and Pan
Nyenashinyets, great soldiers, and Pan Hromyka and Pan Bavdynovich,
and many others. When these began to tell tales and to throw
forth words quickly, the whole Oriental world was seen in their
narratives,--Bagchesarai and Stambul, the minarets and sanctuaries
of the false prophet, the blue waters of the Bosphorus, the
fountains, and the palace of the Sultan, the swarms of men in the
stone city, the troops, the janissaries, the dervishes, and that
whole terrible locust-swarm, brilliant as a rainbow, against which
the Commonwealth with bleeding breast was defending the Russian
cross, and after it all the crosses and churches in Europe.

The old soldiers sat in a circle in the broad room, like a flock of
storks which, wearied with flying, had settled on some grave-mound
of the steppe and were making themselves heard with great uproar.
In the fireplace logs of pitch-pine were burning, casting out
sharp gleams through the whole room. Moldavian wine was heated at
the fire by the order of Basia; and attendants dipped it with tin
dippers and gave it to the knights. From outside the walls came
the calls of the sentries; the crickets, of which Pan Michael had
complained, were chirping in the room and whistling sometimes in
the chinks stuffed with moss; the November wind, blowing from the
north, grew more and more chilly. During such cold it was most
agreeable to sit in a comfortable, well-lighted room, and listen to
the adventures of the knights.

On such an evening Pan Mushalski spoke as follows:--

“May the Most High have in His protection the whole sacred
Commonwealth, us all, and among us especially her grace, the lady
here present, the worthy wife of our commander, on whose beauty
our eyes are scarcely worthy to gaze. I have no wish to rival Pan
Zagloba, whose adventures would have roused the greatest wonder in
Dido herself and her charming attendants; but if you, gentlemen,
will give time to hear my adventures, I will not delay, lest I
offend the honorable company.

“In youth I inherited in the Ukraine a considerable estate near
Tarashcha. I had two villages from my mother in a peaceable region
near Yaslo; but I chose to live in my father’s place, since it was
nearer the horde and more open to adventure. Knightly daring drew
me toward the Saitch, but for us there was nothing there at that
time; I went to the Wilderness in company with restless spirits,
and experienced delight. It was pleasant for me on my lands; one
thing alone pained me keenly,--I had a bad neighbor. He was a
mere peasant, from Byalotserkov, who had been in his youth at the
Saitch, where he rose to the office of kuren ataman, and was an
envoy from the Cossacks to Warsaw, where he became a noble. His
name was Didyuk. And you, gentlemen, must know that the Mushalskis
derive their descent from a certain chief of the Samnites, called
Musca, which in our tongue means _mucha_ (fly). That Musca, after
fruitless attacks on the Romans, came to the court of Zyemovit, the
son of Piast, who renamed him, for greater convenience, Muscalski,
which later on his posterity changed to Mushalski. Feeling that I
was of such noble blood, I looked with great abomination on that
Didyuk. If the scoundrel had known how to respect the honor which
met him, and to recognize the supreme perfection of the rank of
noble above all others, perhaps I might have said nothing. But
he, while holding land like a noble, mocked at the dignity, and
said frequently: ‘Is my shadow taller now? I was a Cossack, and a
Cossack I’ll remain; but nobility and all you devils of Poles are
that for me--’ I cannot in this place relate to you, gentlemen,
what foul gesture he made, for the presence of her grace, the lady,
will not in any way permit me to do so. But a wild rage seized me,
and I began to persecute him. He was not afraid; he was a resolute
man, and paid me with interest. I would have attacked him with a
sabre; but I did not like to do so, in view of his insignificant
origin. I hated him as the plague, and he pursued me with venom.
Once, on the square in Tarashcha, he fired at me, and came within
one hair of killing me; in return, I opened his head with a
hatchet. Twice I invaded his house with my servants, and twice he
fell upon mine with his ruffians. He could not master me, neither
could I overcome him. I wished to use law against him; bah! what
kind of law is there in the Ukraine, when ruins of towns are still
smoking? Whoever can summon ruffians in the Ukraine may jeer at
the Commonwealth. So did he do, blaspheming besides this common
mother of ours, not remembering for a moment that she, by raising
him to the rank of noble, had pressed him to her bosom, given him
privileges in virtue of which he owned land and that boundless
liberty which he could not have had under any other rule. If we
could have met in neighbor fashion, arguments would not have failed
me; but we did not see each other except with a musket in one hand
and a firebrand in the other. Hatred increased in me daily, until I
had grown yellow. I was thinking always of one thing,--how to seize
him. I felt, however, that hatred was a sin; and I only wished, in
return for his insults to nobility, to tear his skin with sticks,
and then, forgiving him all his sins, as beseemed me, a true
Christian, to give command to shoot him down simply. But the Lord
God ordained otherwise.

“Beyond the village I had a nice bee farm, and went one day to look
at it. The time was near evening. I was there barely the length
of ten ‘Our Fathers,’ when some clamor struck my ears. I looked
around. Smoke like a cloud was over the village. In a moment men
were rushing toward me. The horde! the horde! And right there
behind the men a legion, I tell you. Arrows were flying as thickly
as drops in a rain shower; and wherever I looked, sheepskin coats
and the devilish snouts of the horde. I sprang to horse! But before
I could touch the stirrup with my foot, five or six lariats were
on me. I tore away, for I was strong then. _Nec Hercules!_ Three
months afterward I found myself with another captive in a Crimean
village beyond Bagchesarai. Salma Bey was the name of my master.
He was a rich Tartar, but a sullen man and cruel to captives. We
had to work under clubs, to dig wells, and toil in the fields.
I wished to ransom myself; I had the means to do so. Through a
certain Armenian I wrote letters to Yaslo. I know not whether the
letters were delivered, or the ransom intercepted; it is enough
that nothing came. They took me to Tsargrad[18] and sold me to be a
galley-slave.

“There is much to tell of that city, for I know not whether there
is a greater and a more beautiful one in the world. People are
there as numerous as grass on the steppe, or as stones in the
Dniester; strong battlemented walls; tower after tower. Dogs wander
through the city together with the people; the Turks do not harm
them, because they feel their relationship, being dog brothers
themselves. There are no other ranks with them but lords and
slaves, and there is nothing more grievous than Pagan captivity.
God knows whether it is true, but I heard in the galleys that the
waters in Tsargrad, such as the Bosphorus, and the Golden Horn too,
which enters the heart of the city, have come from tears shed by
captives. Not a few of mine were shed there.

“Terrible is the Turkish power, and to no potentate are so many
kings subject as to the Sultan. The Turks themselves say that were
it not for Lehistan,--thus they name our mother,--they would have
been lords of the earth long ago. ‘Behind the shoulders of the
Pole,’ say they, ‘the rest of the world live in injustice; for the
Pole,’ say they, ‘lies like a dog in front of the cross, and bites
our hands.’ And they are right, for it is that way, and it will be
that way. And we here in Hreptyoff and the commands farther on in
Mohiloff, in Yampol, in Rashkoff,--what else are we doing? There is
a world of wickedness in our Commonwealth; but still I think that
God will account to us for this service sometime, and perhaps men
too will account to us.

“But now I will return to what happened to me. The captives who
live on land, in towns and villages, groan in less suffering than
those who row in galleys. For the galley-slaves when once riveted
on the bench near the oars are never unriveted, day or night, or
festival; they must live there in chains till they die; and if the
vessel goes down in a battle, they must go with it. They are all
naked; the cold freezes them; the rain wets them; hunger pinches
them; and for that there is no help but tears and terrible toil,
for the oars are so heavy and large that two men are needed at one
of them.

“They brought me in the night and riveted my chains, having put me
in front of some comrade in misery whom in the darkness I could
not distinguish. When I heard that beating of the hammer and the
sound of the fetters, dear God! it seemed to me that they were
driving the nails of my coffin; I would have preferred even that. I
prayed, but hope in my heart was as if the wind had blown it away.
A kavadji stifled my groans with blows; I sat there in silence all
night, till day began to break. I looked then on him who was to
work the same oar with me. O dear Jesus Christ! can you guess who
was in front of me, gentlemen? Didyuk!

“I knew him at once, though he was naked, had grown thin, and the
beard had come down to his waist,--for he had been sold long before
to the galleys. I gazed on him, and he on me; he recognized me.
We said not a word to each other. See what had come to us! Still,
there was such rancor in both that not only did we not greet each
other, but hatred burst up like a flame in us, and delight seized
the heart of each that his enemy had to suffer the same things as
he. That very day the galley moved on its voyage. It was strange
to hold one oar with your bitterest enemy, to eat from one dish
with him food which at home with us dogs would not eat, to endure
the same tyranny, to breathe the same air, to suffer together, to
weep face to face. We sailed through the Hellespont, and then the
Archipelago. Island after island is there, and all in the power of
the Turk. Both shores also,--a whole world! Oh, how we suffered!
In the day, heat indescribable. The sun burned with such force
that the waters seemed to flame from it; and when those flames
began to quiver and dance on the waves, you would have said that
a fiery rain was falling. Sweat poured from us, and our tongues
cleaved to the roofs of our mouths. At night the cold bit us like
a dog. Solace from no place; nothing but suffering, sorrow for
lost happiness, torment and pain. Words cannot tell it. At one
station in the Grecian land we saw from the galley famous ruins
of a temple which the Greeks reared in old times. Column stands
there by column; as if gold, that marble is yellow from age. All
was seen clearly, for it was on a steep height, and the sky is
like turquoise in Greece. Then we sailed on around the Morea. Day
followed day, week followed week; Didyuk and I had not exchanged
a word, for pride and rancor dwelt still in our hearts. But we
began to break slowly under God’s hand. From toil and change of
air the sinful flesh was falling from our bones; wounds, given by
the lash, were festering in the sun. In the night we prayed for
death. When I dozed a little, I heard Didyuk say, ‘O Christ, have
mercy! Holy Most Pure, have mercy! Let me die.’ He also heard and
saw how I stretched forth my hands to the Mother of God and her
Child. And here it was as if the sea had blown hatred from the
heart. There was less of it, and then less. At last, when I had
wept over myself, I wept over him. We looked on each other then
differently. Nay! we began to help each other. When sweating and
deathly weariness came on me, he rowed alone; when he was in a
similar state, I did the same for him. When they brought a plate
of food, each one considered that the other ought to have it. But,
gentlemen, see what the nature of man is! Speaking plainly, we
loved each other already, but neither wished to say the word first.
The rogue was in him, the Ukraine spirit! We changed only when it
had become terribly hard for us and grievous, and we said to-day,
‘to-morrow we shall meet the Venetian fleet--’ Provisions too were
scarce, and they spared everything on us but the lash. Night came;
we were groaning in quiet, and he in his way, I in mine, were
praying still more earnestly. I looked by the light of the moon;
tears were flowing down his beard in a torrent. My heart rose, and
I said, ‘Didyuk, we are from the same parts; let us forgive each
other our offences.’ When he heard this, dear God! didn’t the man
sob, and pull till his chains rattled! We fell into each other’s
arms over the oar, kissing each other and weeping. I cannot tell
you how long we held each other, for we forgot ourselves, but we
were trembling from sobs.”

Here Pan Mushalski stopped, and began to remove something from
around his eyes with his fingers. A moment of silence followed; but
the cold north wind whistled from between the beams, and in the
room the fire hissed and the crickets chirped. Then Pan Mushalski
panted, drew a deep breath, and continued:--

“The Lord God, as will appear, blessed us and showed us His favor;
but at the time we paid bitterly for our brotherly feeling. While
we were embracing, we entangled the chains so that we could not
untangle them. The overseers came and extricated us, but the lash
whistled above us for more than an hour. They beat us without
looking where. Blood flowed from me, flowed also from Didyuk; the
two bloods mingled and went in one stream to the sea. But that is
nothing! it is an old story--to the glory of God!

“From that time it did not come to my head that I was descended
from the Samnites, and Didyuk a peasant from Byalotserkov, recently
ennobled. I could not have loved my own brother more than I loved
him. Even if he had not been ennobled, it would have been one to
me,--though I preferred that he should be a noble. And he, in old
fashion, as once he had returned hatred with interest, now returned
love. Such was his nature.

“There was a battle on the following day. The Venetians scattered
to the four winds the Turkish fleet. Our galley, shattered terribly
by a culverin, took refuge at some small desert island, simply
a rock sticking out of the sea. It was necessary to repair it;
and since the soldiers had perished, and hands were lacking, the
officers were forced to unchain us and give us axes. The moment we
landed I glanced at Didyuk; but the same thing was in his head that
was in mine. ‘Shall it be at once?’ inquired he of me. ‘At once!’
said I; and without thinking further, I struck the chubachy on the
head; and Didyuk struck the captain. After us others rose like
a flame! In an hour we had finished the Turks; then we repaired
the galley somehow, took our seats in it without chains, and the
Merciful God commanded the winds to blow us to Venice.

“We reached the Commonwealth on begged bread. I divided my estate
at Yaslo with Didyuk, and we both took the field again to pay for
our tears and our blood. At the time of Podhaytse Didyuk went
through the Saitch to join Sirka, and with him to the Crimea. What
they did there and what a diversion they made, you, gentlemen, know.

“On his way home Didyuk, sated with vengeance, was killed by an
arrow. I was left; and as often as I stretch a bow, I do it for
him, and there are not wanting in this honorable company witnesses
to testify that I have delighted his soul in that way more than
once.”

Here Pan Mushalski was silent, and again nothing was to be heard
but the whistling of the north wind and the crackling of the fire.
The old warrior fixed his glance on the flaming logs, and after a
long silence concluded as follows:--

“Nalevaiko and Loboda have been; Hmelnitski has been; and now
Doroshenko has come. The earth is not dried of blood; we are
wrangling and fighting, and still God has sown in our hearts some
seeds of love, and they lie in barren ground, as it were, till
under the oppression and under the chain of the Pagan, till from
Tartar captivity, they give fruit unexpectedly.”

“Trash is trash!” said Zagloba, waking up suddenly.




CHAPTER XXV.


Mellehovich was regaining health slowly; but because he had taken
no part in expeditions and was sitting confined to his room, no
one was thinking of the man. All at once an incident turned the
attention of all to him.

Pan Motovidlo’s Cossacks seized a Tartar lurking near the stanitsa
in a certain strange manner, and brought him to Hreptyoff. After
a strict examination it came out that he was a Lithuanian Tartar,
but of those who, deserting their service and residence in the
Commonwealth, had gone under the power of the Sultan. He came
from beyond the Dniester, and had a letter from Krychinski to
Mellehovich.

Pan Michael was greatly disturbed at this, and called the officers
to council immediately. “Gracious gentlemen,” said he, “you know
well how many Tartars, even of those who have lived for years
immemorial in Lithuania and here in Russia, have gone over recently
to the horde, repaying the Commonwealth for its kindness with
treason. Therefore we should not trust any one of them too much,
and should follow their acts with watchful eye. We have here too
a small Tartar squadron, numbering one hundred and fifty good
horse, led by Mellehovich. I do not know this Mellehovich from
of old; I know only this, that the hetman has made him captain
for eminent services, and sent him here with his men. It was a
wonder to me, too, that no one of you gentlemen knew him before
his entrance into service, or heard of him. This fact, that our
Tartars love him greatly and obey him blindly, I explained by his
bravery and famous deeds; but even they do not know whence he is,
nor who he is. Relying on the recommendation of the hetman, I have
not suspected him of anything hitherto, nor have I examined him,
though he shrouds himself in a certain secrecy. People have various
fancies; and this is nothing to me, if each man performs his own
duty. But, you see, Pan Motovidlo’s men have captured a Tartar who
was bringing a letter from Krychinski to Mellehovich; and I do not
know whether you are aware, gentlemen, who Krychinski is?”

“Of course!” said Pan Nyenashinyets. “I know Krychinski personally,
and all know him now from his evil fame.”

“We were at school together--” began Pan Zagloba; but he stopped
suddenly, remembering that in such an event Krychinski must be
ninety years old, and at that age men were not usually fighting.

“Speaking briefly,” continued the little knight, “Krychinski is a
Polish Tartar. He was a colonel of one of our Tartar squadrons;
then he betrayed his country and went over to the Dobrudja horde,
where he has, as I hear, great significance, for there they hope
evidently that he will bring over the rest of the Tartars to the
Pagan side. With such a man Mellehovich has entered into relations,
the best proof of which is this letter, the tenor of which is as
follows.” Here the little knight unfolded the letter, struck the
top of it with his hand, and began to read:--

    BROTHER GREATLY BELOVED OF MY SOUL,--Your messenger came to
    us and delivered--

“He writes Polish?” interrupted Zagloba.

“Krychinski, like all our Tartars, knows only Russian and Polish,”
said the little knight; “and Mellehovich also will surely not gnaw
in Tartar. Listen, gentlemen, without interruption.”

    --and delivered your letter. May God bring about that all
    will be well, and that you will accomplish what you desire!
    We take counsel here often with Moravski, Aleksandrovich,
    Tarasovski, and Groholski, and write to other brothers,
    taking their advice too, touching the means through which
    that which you desire may come to pass most quickly. News
    came to us of how you suffered loss of health; therefore
    I send a man to see you with his eyes and bring us
    consolation. Maintain the secret carefully, for God forbid
    that it should be known prematurely! May God make your race
    as numerous as stars in the sky!

  KRYCHINSKI.

Volodyovski finished, and began to cast his eyes around on those
present; and since they kept unbroken silence, evidently weighing
the gist of the letter with care, he said: “Tarasovski, Moravski,
Groholski, and Aleksandrovich are all former Tartar captains, and
traitors.”

“So are Poturzynski, Tvorovski, and Adurovich,” added Pan Snitko.
“Gentlemen, what do you say of this letter?”

“Open treason! there is nothing here upon which to deliberate,”
said Pan Mushalski. “He is simply conspiring with Mellehovich to
take our Tartars over to their side.”

“For God’s sake! what a danger to our command!” cried a number of
voices. “Our Tartars too would give their souls for Mellehovich;
and if he orders them, they will attack us in the night.”

“The blackest treason under the sun!” cried Pan Deyma.

“And the hetman himself made that Mellehovich a captain!” said Pan
Mushalski.

“Pan Snitko,” said Zagloba, “what did I say when I looked at
Mellehovich? Did I not tell you that a renegade and a traitor were
looking with the eyes of that man? Ha! it was enough for me to
glance at him. He might deceive all others, but not me. Repeat my
words, Pan Snitko, but do not change them. Did I not say that he
was a traitor?”

Pan Snitko thrust his feet back under the bench and bent his head
forward, “In truth, the penetration of your grace is to be wondered
at; but what is true, is true. I do not remember that your grace
called him a traitor. Your grace said only that he looked out of
his eyes like a wolf.”

“Ha! then you maintain that a dog is a traitor, and a wolf is not a
traitor; that a wolf does not bite the hand which fondles him and
gives him to eat? Then a dog is a traitor? Perhaps you will defend
Mellehovich yet, and make traitors of all the rest of us?”

Confused in this manner, Pan Snitko opened his eyes and mouth
widely, and was so astonished that he could not utter a word for
some time.

Meanwhile Pan Mushalski, who formed opinions quickly, said at once,
“First of all, we should thank the Lord God for discovering such
infamous intrigues, and then send six dragoons with Mellehovich to
put a bullet in his head.”

“And appoint another captain,” added Nyenashinyets. “The reason is
so evident that there can be no mistake.”

To which Pan Michael added: “First, it is necessary to examine
Mellehovich, and then to inform the hetman of these intrigues, for
as Pan Bogush from Zyembitse told me, the Lithuanian Tartars are
very dear to the marshal of the kingdom.”

“But, your grace,” said Pan Motovidlo, “a general inquiry will be a
favor to Mellehovich, since he has never before been an officer.”

“I know my authority,” said Volodyovski, “and you need not remind
me of it.”

Then the others began to exclaim, “Let such a son stand before our
eyes, that traitor, that betrayer!”

The loud calls roused Zagloba, who had been dozing somewhat; this
happened to him now continually. He recalled quickly the subject of
the conversation and said: “No, Pan Snitko; the moon is hidden in
your escutcheon, but your wit is hidden still better, for no one
could find it with a candle. To say that a dog, a faithful dog, is
a traitor, and a wolf is not a traitor! Permit me, you have used up
your wit altogether.”

Pan Snitko raised his eyes to heaven to show how he was
suffering innocently, but he did not wish to offend the old man
by contradiction; besides, Volodyovski commanded him to go for
Mellehovich; he went out, therefore, in haste, glad to escape
in that way. He returned soon, conducting the young Tartar,
who evidently knew nothing yet of the seizure of Krychinski’s
messenger. His dark and handsome face had become very pale, but he
was in health and did not even bind his head with a kerchief; he
merely covered it with a Crimean cap of red velvet. The eyes of all
were as intent on him as on a rainbow; he inclined to the little
knight rather profoundly, and then to the company rather haughtily.

“Mellehovich!” said Volodyovski, fixing on the Tartar his quick
glance, “do you know Colonel Krychinski?”

A sudden and threatening shadow flew over the face of Mellehovich.
“I know him!”

“Read,” said the little knight, giving him the letter found on the
messenger.

Mellehovich began to read; but before he had finished, calmness
returned to his face. “I await your order,” said he, returning the
letter.

“How long have you been plotting treason, and what confederates
have you?”

“Am I accused, then, of treason?”

“Answer; do not inquire,” said the little knight, threateningly.

“Then I will give this answer: I have plotted no treason; I have no
confederates; or if I have, gentlemen, they are men whom you will
not judge.”

Hearing this, the officers gritted their teeth, and straightway a
number of threatening voices called, “More submissively, dog’s son,
more submissively! You are standing before your betters!”

Thereupon Mellehovich surveyed them with a glance in which cold
hatred was glittering. “I am aware of what I owe to the commandant,
as my chief,” said he, bowing a second time to Volodyovski. “I know
that I am held inferior by you, gentlemen, and I do not seek your
society. Your grace” (here he turned to the little knight) “has
asked me of confederates; I have two in my work: one is Pan Bogush,
under-stolnik of Novgrod, and the other is the grand hetman of the
kingdom.”

When they heard these words, all were astonished greatly, and for a
time there was silence; at last Pan Michael inquired, “In what way?”

“In this way,” answered Mellehovich; “Krychinski, Moravski,
Tvorovski, Aleksandrovich, and all the others went to the horde
and have done much harm to the country; but they did not find
fortune in their new service. Perhaps too their consciences are
moved; it is enough that the title of traitor is bitter to them.
The hetman is well aware of this, and has commissioned Pan Bogush,
and also Pan Myslishevski, to bring them back to the banner of
the Commonwealth. Pan Bogush has employed me in this mission, and
commanded me to come to an agreement with Krychinski. I have at my
quarters letters from Pan Bogush which your grace will believe more
quickly than my words.”

“Go with Pan Snitko for those letters and bring them at once.”

Mellehovich went out.

    “Gracious gentlemen,” said the little knight, quickly,
    “we have offended this soldier greatly through over-hasty
    judgment; for if he has those letters, he tells the truth,
    and I begin to think that he has them. Then he is not
    only a cavalier famous through military exploits, but a
    man sensitive to the good of the country, and reward, not
    unjust judgments, should meet him for that. As God lives!
    this must be corrected at once.”

The others were sunk in silence, not knowing what to say; but
Zagloba closed his eyes, feigning sleep this time.

Meanwhile Mellehovich returned and gave the little knight Bogush’s
letter. Volodyovski read as follows:--

    “I hear from all sides that there is no one more fitted
    than you for such a service, and this by reason of the
    wonderful love which those men bear to you. The hetman is
    ready to forgive them, and promises forgiveness from the
    Commonwealth. Communicate with Krychinski as frequently as
    possible through reliable people, and promise him a reward.
    Guard the secret carefully, for if not, as God lives, you
    would destroy them all. You may divulge the affair to Pan
    Volodyovski, for your chief can aid you greatly. Do not
    spare toil and effort, seeing that the end crowns the work,
    and be certain that our mother will reward your good-will
    with love equal to it.”

“Behold my reward!” muttered the young Tartar, gloomily.

“By the dear God! why did you not mention a word of this to any
one?” cried Pan Michael.

“I wished to tell all to your grace, but I had no opportunity,
for I was ill after that accident. Before their graces” (here
Mellehovich turned to the officers) “I had a secret which I was
prohibited from telling; this prohibition your grace will certainly
enjoin on them now, so as not to ruin those other men.”

“The proofs of your virtue are so evident that a blind man could
not deny them,” said the little knight. “Continue the affair with
Krychinski. You will have no hindrance in this, but aid, in proof
of which I give you my hand as to an honorable cavalier. Come to
sup with me this evening.”

Mellehovich pressed the hand extended to him, and inclined for
the third time. From the corners of the room other officers moved
toward him, saying, “We did not know you; but whoso loves virtue
will not withdraw his hand from you to-day.”

But the young Tartar straightened himself suddenly, pushed his head
back like a bird of prey ready to strike, and said, “I am standing
before my betters.” Then he went out of the room.

It was noisy after his exit. “It is not to be wondered at,” said
the officers among themselves; “his heart is indignant yet at the
injustice, but that will pass. We must treat him differently. He
has real knightly mettle in him. The hetman knew what he was doing.
Miracles are happening; well, well!”

Pan Snitko was triumphing in silence; at last he could not restrain
himself and said, “Permit me, your grace, but that wolf was not a
traitor.”

“Not a traitor?” retorted Zagloba. “He was a traitor, but a
virtuous one, for he betrayed not us, but the horde. Do not lose
hope, Pan Snitko; I will pray to-day for your wit, and perhaps the
Holy Ghost will have mercy.”

Basia was greatly comforted when Zagloba related the whole affair
to her, for she had good-will and compassion for Mellehovich.
“Michael and I must go,” said she, “on the first dangerous
expedition with him, for in this way we shall show our confidence
most thoroughly.”

But the little knight began to stroke Basia’s rosy face and said,
“O suffering fly, I know you! With you it is not a question of
Mellehovich, but you would like to buzz off to the steppe and
engage in a battle. Nothing will come of that!”

“Mulier insidiosa est (woman is insidious)!” said Zagloba, with
gravity.

At this time Mellehovich was sitting in his own room with the
Tartar messenger and speaking in a whisper. The two sat so near
each other that they were almost forehead to forehead. A taper of
mutton-tallow was burning on the table, casting yellow light on
the face of Mellehovich, which, in spite of its beauty, was simply
terrible; there were depicted on it hatred, cruelty, and a savage
delight.

“Halim, listen!” whispered Mellehovich.

“Effendi,” answered the messenger.

“Tell Krychinski that he is wise, for in the letter there was
nothing that could harm me; tell him that he is wise. Let him never
write more clearly. They will trust me now still more, all of them,
the hetman himself, Bogush, Myslishevski, the command here,--all!
Do you hear? May the plague stifle them!”

“I hear, Effendi.”

“But I must be in Rashkoff first, and then I will return to this
place.”

“Effendi, young Novoveski will recognize you.”

“He will not. He saw me at Kalnik, at Bratslav, and did not know
me. He will look at me, wrinkle his brows, but will not recognize
me. He was fifteen years old when I ran away from the house. Eight
times has winter covered the steppes since that hour. I have
changed. The old man would know me, but the young one will not know
me. I will notify you from Rashkoff. Let Krychinski be ready, and
hold himself in the neighborhood. You must have an understanding
with the perkulabs. In Yampol, also, is our squadron. I will
persuade Bogush to get an order from the hetman for me, that it
will be easier for me to act on Krychinski from that place. But I
must return hither,--I must! I do not know what will happen, how I
shall manage. Fire burns me; in the night sleep flies from me. Had
it not been for her, I should have died.”

Mellehovich’s lips began to quiver; and bending still again to the
messenger, he whispered, as if in a fever, “Halim, blessed be her
hands, blessed her head, blessed the earth on which she walks! Do
you hear, Halim? Tell them there that through her I am well.”




CHAPTER XXVI.


Father Kaminski had been a soldier in his youthful years and a
cavalier of great courage; he was now stationed at Ushytsa and
was reorganizing a parish. But as the church was in ruins, and
parishioners were lacking, this pastor without a flock visited
Hreptyoff, and remained there whole weeks, edifying the knights
with pious instruction. He listened with attention to the narrative
of Pan Mushalski, and spoke to the assembly a few evenings later as
follows:--

“I have always loved to hear narratives in which sad adventures
find a happy ending, for from them it is evident that whomever
God’s hand guides, it can free from the toils of the pursuer and
lead even from the Crimea to a peaceful roof. Therefore let each
one of you fix this in his mind: For the Lord there is nothing
impossible, and let no one of you even in direst necessity lose
trust in God’s mercy. This is the truth!

“It was praiseworthy in Pan Mushalski to love a common man with
brotherly affection. The Saviour Himself gave us an example when
He, though of royal blood, loved common people and made many of
them apostles and helped them to promotion, so that now they have
seats in the heavenly senate.

“But personal love is one thing, and general love--that of one
nation to another--is something different. The love which is
general, our Lord, the Redeemer, observed no less earnestly than
the other. And where do we find this love? When, O man, you look
through the world, there is such hatred in hearts everywhere, as if
people were obeying the commands of the Devil and not of the Lord.”

“It will be hard, your grace,” said Zagloba, “to persuade us to
love Turks, Tartars, or other barbarians whom the Lord God Himself
must despise thoroughly.”

“I am not persuading you to that, but I maintain this: that
children of the same mother should have love for one another; but
what do we see? From the days of Hmelnitski, or for thirty years,
no part of these regions is dried from blood.”

“But whose fault is it?”

“Whoso will confess his fault first, him will God pardon.”

“Your grace is wearing the robes of a priest to-day; but in youth
you slew rebels, as we have heard, not at all worse than others.”

“I slew them, for it was my duty as a soldier to do so; that was
not my sin, but this, that I hated them as a pestilence. I had
private reasons which I will not mention, for those are old times
and the wounds are healed now. I repent that I acted beyond my
duty. I had under my command one hundred men from the squadron
of Pan Nyevodovski; and going often independently with my men, I
burned, slaughtered, and hanged. You, gentlemen, know what times
those were. The Tartars, called in by Hmelnitski, burned and slew;
we burned and slew; the Cossacks left only land and water behind
them in all places, committing atrocities worse than ours and the
Tartars. There is nothing more terrible than civil war! What times
those were no man will ever describe; enough that we and they
fought more like mad dogs than men.

“Once news was sent to our command that ruffians had besieged
Pan Rushitski in his fortalice. I was sent with my troops to the
rescue. I came too late; the place was level with the ground. But
I fell upon the drunken peasants and cut them down notably; only
a part hid in the grain. I gave command to take these alive, to
hang them for an example. But where? It was easier to plan than to
execute; in the whole village there was not one tree remaining;
even the pear-trees standing on the boundaries between fields were
cut down. I had no time to make gibbets; a forest too, as that was
a steppe-land, was nowhere in view. What could I do? I took my
prisoners and marched on. ‘I shall find a forked oak somewhere,’
thought I. I went a mile, two miles,--steppe and steppe; you
might roll a ball over it. At last we found traces of a village;
that was toward evening. I gazed around; here and there a pile of
coals, and besides gray ashes, nothing more. On a small hillside
there was a cross, a firm oak one, evidently not long made, for
the wood was not dark yet and glittered in the twilight as if it
were afire. Christ was on it, cut out of tin plate and painted
in such a way that only when you came from one side and saw the
thinness of the plate could you know that not a real statue was
hanging there; but in front the face was as if living, somewhat
pale from pain; on the head a crown of thorns; the eyes were turned
upward with wonderful sadness and pity. When I saw that cross, the
thought flashed into my mind, ‘There is a tree for you; there is
no other,’ but straightway I was afraid. In the name of the Father
and the Son! I will not hang them on the cross. But I thought
that I should comfort the eyes of Christ if I gave command in His
presence to kill those who had spilled so much innocent blood, and
I spoke thus: ‘O dear Lord, let it seem to Thee that these men are
those Jews who nailed Thee to the cross, for these are not better
than those.’ Then I commanded my men to drag the prisoners one by
one to the mound under the cross. There were among them old men,
gray-haired peasants, and youths. The first whom they brought said,
‘By the Passion of the Lord, by that Christ, have mercy on me!’ And
I said in answer, ‘Off with his head!’ A dragoon slashed and cut
off his head. They brought another; the same thing happened: ‘By
that Merciful Christ, have pity on me!’ And I said again, ‘Off with
his head!’ the same with the third, the fourth, the fifth; there
were fourteen of them, and each implored me by Christ. Twilight was
ended when we finished. I gave command to place them in a circle
around the foot of the cross. Fool! I thought to delight the Only
Son with this spectacle. They quivered awhile yet,--one with his
hands, another with his feet, again one floundered like a fish
pulled out of water, but that was short; strength soon left their
bodies, and they lay quiet in a circle.

“Since complete darkness had come, I determined to stay in that
spot for the night, though there was nothing to make a fire. God
gave a warm night, and my men lay down on horse-blankets; but I
went again under the cross to repeat the usual ‘Our Father’ at the
feet of Christ and commit myself to His mercy. I thought that my
prayer would be the more thankfully accepted, because the day had
passed in toil and in deeds of a kind that I accounted to myself as
a service.

“It happens frequently to a wearied soldier to fall asleep at his
evening prayers. It happened so to me. The dragoons, seeing how
I was kneeling with head resting on the cross, understood that I
was sunk in pious meditation, and no one wished to interrupt me;
my eyes closed at once, and a wonderful dream came down to me from
that cross. I do not say that I had a vision, for I was not and am
not worthy of that; but sleeping soundly, I saw as if I had been
awake the whole Passion of the Lord. At sight of the suffering
of the Innocent Lamb the heart was crushed in me, tears dropped
from my eyes, and measureless pity took hold of me. ‘O Lord,’ said
I, ‘I have a handful of good men. Dost Thou wish to see what our
cavalry can do? Only beckon with Thy head, and I will bear apart
on sabres in one twinkle those such sons, Thy executioners.’ I had
barely said this when all vanished from the eye; there remained
only the cross, and on it Christ, weeping tears of blood. I
embraced the foot of the holy tree then, and sobbed. How long this
lasted, I know not; but afterward, when I had grown calm somewhat,
I said again, ‘O Lord, O Lord! why didst Thou announce Thy holy
teaching among hardened Jews? Hadst Thou come from Palestine to our
Commonwealth, surely we should not have nailed Thee to the cross,
but would have received Thee splendidly, given Thee all manner of
gifts, and made Thee a noble for the greater increase of Thy divine
glory. Why didst Thou not do this, O Lord?’

“I raise my eyes,--this was all in a dream, you remember,
gentlemen,--and what do I see? Behold, our Lord looks on me
severely; He frowns, and suddenly speaks in a loud voice: ‘Cheap
is your nobility at this time; during war every low fellow may buy
it, but no more of this! You are worthy of each other, both you
and the ruffians; and each and the other of you are worse than
the Jews, for you nail me here to the cross every day. Have I not
enjoined love, even for enemies, and forgiveness of sins? But you
tear each other’s entrails like mad beasts. Wherefore I, seeing
this, suffer unendurable torment. You yourself, who wish to rescue
me, and invite me to the Commonwealth, what have you done? See,
corpses are lying here around my cross, and you have bespattered
the foot of it with blood; and still there were among them innocent
persons,--young boys, or blinded men, who, having care from no one,
followed others like foolish sheep. Had you mercy on them; did you
judge them before death? No! You gave command to slay them all for
my sake, and still thought that you were giving comfort to me. In
truth, it is one thing to punish and reprove as a father punishes a
son, or as an elder brother reproves a younger brother, and another
to seek revenge without judgment, without measure, in punishing
and without recognizing cruelty. It has gone so far in this land
that wolves are more merciful than men; that the grass is sweating
bloody dew; that the winds do not blow, but howl; that the rivers
flow in tears, and people stretch forth their hands to death,
saying, ”Oh, our refuge!”

“‘O Lord,’ cried I, ‘are they better than we? Who has committed the
greatest cruelty? Who brought in the Pagan?’

“‘Love them while chastising,’ said the Lord, ‘and then the beam
will fall from their eyes, hardness will leave their hearts, and
my mercy will be upon you. Otherwise the onrush of Tartars will
come, and they will lay bonds upon you and upon them, and you will
be forced to serve the enemy in suffering, in contempt, in tears,
till the day in which you love one another. But if you exceed the
measure in hatred, then there will not be mercy for one or the
other, and the Pagan will possess this land for the ages of ages.’

“I grew terrified hearing such commands, and long I was unable to
speak till, throwing myself on my face, I asked, ‘O Lord, what have
I to do to wash away my sins?’ To this the Lord said, ‘Go, repeat
my words; proclaim love.’ After that my dream ended.

“As night in summer is short, I woke up about dawn, all covered
with dew. I looked; the heads were lying in a circle about the
cross, but already they were blue. A wonderful thing,--yesterday
that sight delighted me; to-day terror took hold of me, especially
at sight of one youth, perhaps seventeen years of age, who was
exceedingly beautiful. I ordered the soldiers to bury the bodies
decently under that cross; from that day forth I was not the same
man.

“At first I thought to myself, the dream is an illusion; but still
it was thrust into my memory, and, as it were, took possession of
my whole existence. I did not dare to suppose that the Lord Himself
talked with me, for, as I have said, I did not feel myself worthy
of that; but it might be that conscience, hidden in my soul in time
of war, like a Tartar in the grass, spoke up suddenly, announcing
God’s will. I went to confession; the priest confirmed that
supposition. ‘It is,’ said he, ‘the evident will and forewarning of
God; obey, or it will be ill with thee.’

“Thenceforth I began to proclaim love. But the officers laughed
at me to my eyes. ‘What!’ said they, ‘is this a priest to give
us instruction? Is it little insult that these dog brothers have
worked upon God? Are the churches that they have burned few in
number; are the crosses that they have insulted not many? Are we to
love them for this?’ In one word, no one would listen to me.

“After Berestechko I put on these priestly robes so as to announce
with greater weight the word and the will of God. For more than
twenty years I have done this without rest. God is merciful; He
will not punish me, because thus far my voice is a voice crying in
the wilderness.

“Gracious gentlemen, love your enemies, punish them as a father,
reprimand them as an elder brother, otherwise woe to them, but woe
to you also, woe to the whole Commonwealth!

“Look around; what is the result of this war and the animosity of
brother against brother? This land has become a desert; I have
graves in Ushytsa instead of parishioners; churches, towns, and
villages are in ruins; the Pagan power is rising and growing over
us like a sea, which is ready to swallow even thee, O rock of
Kamenyets.”

Pan Nyenashinyets listened with great emotion to the speech of the
priest, so that the sweat came out on his forehead; then he spoke
thus, amid general silence:--

“That among Cossacks there are worthy cavaliers, a proof is here
present in Pan Motovidlo, whom we all love and respect. But when it
comes to the general love, of which Father Kaminski has spoken so
eloquently, I confess that I have lived in grievous sin hitherto,
for that love was not in me, and I have not striven to gain it.
Now his grace has opened my eyes somewhat. Without special favor
from God I shall not find such love in my heart, because I bear
there the memory of a cruel injustice, which I will relate to you
briefly.”

“Let us drink something warm,” said Zagloba.

“Throw horn-beam on the fire,” said Basia to the attendants.

And soon after the broad room was bright again with light, and
before each of the knights an attendant placed a quart of heated
beer. All moistened their mustaches in it willingly; and when they
had taken one and a second draught, Pan Nyenashinyets collected his
voice again, and spoke as if a wagon were rumbling,--

“My mother when dying committed to my care a sister; Halshka was
her name. I had no wife nor children, therefore I loved that girl
as the apple of my eye. She was twenty years younger than I, and
I had carried her in my arms, I looked on her simply as my own
child. Later I went on a campaign, and the horde took her captive.
When I came home I beat my head against the wall. My property
had vanished in time of the invasion; but I sold what I had, put
my last saddle on a horse, and went with Armenians to ransom my
sister. I found her in Bagchesarai. She was attached to the harem,
not in the harem, for she was only twelve years of age then. I
shall never forget the hour when I found thee, O Halshka. How thou
didst embrace my neck! how thou didst kiss me in the eyes! But
what! It turned out that the money I had brought was too little.
The girl was beautiful. Yehu Aga, who carried her away, asked three
times as much for her. I offered to give myself in addition, but
that did not help. She was bought in the market before my eyes by
Tugai Bey, that famous enemy of ours, who wished to keep her three
years in his harem and then make her his wife. I returned, tearing
my hair. On the road home I discovered that in a Tartar village by
the sea one of Tugai Bey’s wives was dwelling with his favorite son
Azya. Tugai Bey had wives in all the towns and in many villages, so
as to have everywhere a resting-place under his own roof. Hearing
of this son, I thought that God would show me the last means of
salvation for Halshka. At once I determined to bear away that
son, and then exchange him for my sister; but I could not do this
alone. It was necessary to assemble a band in the Ukraine, or the
Wilderness, which was not easy,--first, because the name of Tugai
Bey was terrible in all Russia, and secondly, he was helping the
Cossacks against us. But not a few heroes were wandering through
the steppes,--men looking to their own profit only and ready to go
anywhere for plunder. I collected a notable party of those. What we
passed through before our boats came out on the sea tongue cannot
tell, for we had to hide before the Cossack commanders. But God
blessed us. I stole Azya, and with him splendid booty. We returned
to the Wilderness in safety. I wished to go thence to Kamenyets and
commence negotiations with merchants of that place.

“I divided all the booty among my heroes, reserving for myself
Tugai Bey’s whelp alone; and since I had acted with such
liberality, since I had suffered so many dangers with those men,
had endured hunger with them, and risked my life for them, I
thought that each one would spring into the fire for me, that I had
won their hearts for the ages.

“I had reason to repent of that bitterly and soon. It had not come
to my head that they tear their own ataman to pieces, to divide
his plunder between themselves afterward; I forgot that among them
there are no men of faith, virtue, gratitude, or conscience. Near
Kamenyets the hope of a rich ransom for Azya tempted my followers.
They fell on me in the nighttime like wolves, throttled me with a
rope, cut my body with knives, and at last, thinking me dead, threw
me aside in the desert and fled with the boy.

“God sent me rescue and gave back my health; but my Halshka is gone
forever. Maybe she is living there yet somewhere; maybe after the
death of Tugai Bey another Pagan took her; maybe she has received
the faith of Mohammed; maybe she has forgotten her brother; maybe
her son will shed my blood sometime. That is my history.”

Here Pan Nyenashinyets stopped speaking and looked on the ground
gloomily.

“What streams of our blood and tears have flowed for these
regions!” said Pan Mushalski.

“Thou shalt love thine enemies,” put in Father Kaminski.

“And when you came to health did you not look for that whelp?”
asked Zagloba.

“As I learned afterward,” answered Pan Nyenashinyets, “another band
fell on my robbers and cut them to pieces; they must have taken the
child with the booty. I searched everywhere, but he vanished as a
stone dropped into water.”

“Maybe you met him afterward, but could not recognize him,” said
Basia.

“I do not know whether the child was as old as three years. I
barely learned that his name was Azya. But I should have recognized
him, for he had tattooed over each breast a fish in blue.”

All at once Mellehovich, who had sat in silence hitherto, spoke
with a strange voice from the corner of the room, “You would not
have known him by the fish, for many Tartars bear the same sign,
especially those who live near the water.”

“Not true,” answered the hoary Pan Hromyka; “after Berestechko we
examined the carrion of Tugai Bey,--for it remained on the field;
and I know that he had fish on his breast, and all the other slain
Tartars had different marks.”

“But I tell you that many wear fish.”

“True; but they are of the devilish Tugai Bey stock.”

Further conversation was stopped by the entrance of Pan Lelchyts,
whom Pan Michael had sent on a reconnoissance that morning, and who
had returned just then.

“Pan Commandant,” said he in the door, “at Sirotski Brod, on the
Moldavian side, there is some sort of band moving toward us.”

“What kind of people are they?” asked Pan Michael.

“Robbers. There are a few Wallachians, a few Hungarians; most of
them are men detached from the horde, altogether about two hundred
in number.”

“Those are the same of whom I have tidings that they are plundering
on the Moldavian side,” said Volodyovski, “The perkulab must have
made it hot for them there, hence they are escaping toward us;
but of the horde alone there will be about two hundred. They will
cross in the night, and at daylight we shall intercept them. Pan
Motovidlo and Mellehovich will be ready at midnight. Drive forward
a small herd of bullocks to entice them, and now to your quarters.”

The soldiers began to separate, but not all had left the room yet
when Basia ran up to her husband, threw her arms around his neck,
and began to whisper in his ear. He laughed, and shook his head
repeatedly; evidently she was insisting, while pressing her arms
around his neck with more vigor. Seeing this, Zagloba said,--

“Give her this pleasure once; if you do, I, old man, will clatter
on with you.”




CHAPTER XXVII.


Independent detachments, occupied in robbery on both banks of the
Dniester, were made up of men of all nationalities inhabiting
the neighboring countries. Runaway Tartars from the Dobrudja
and Belgrod hordes, wilder still and braver than their Crimean
brethren, always preponderated in them; but there were not lacking
either Wallachians, Cossacks, Hungarians, Polish domestics escaped
from stanitsas on the banks of the Dniester. They ravaged now on
the Polish, now on the Moldavian side, crossing and recrossing
the boundary river, as they were hunted by the perkulab’s forces
or by the commandants of the Commonwealth. They had their almost
inaccessible hiding-places in ravines, forests, and caves. The
main object of their attacks was the herds of cattle and horses
belonging to the stanitsas; these herds did not leave the steppes
even in winter, seeking sustenance for themselves under the snow.
But, besides, the robbers attacked villages, hamlets, settlements,
smaller commands, Polish and even Turkish merchants, intermediaries
going with ransom to the Crimea. These bands had their own order
and their leaders, but they joined forces rarely. It happened often
even that larger bands cut down smaller ones. They had increased
greatly everywhere in the Russian regions, especially since the
time of the Cossack wars, when safety of every kind vanished in
those parts. The bands on the Dniester, reinforced by fugitives
from the horde, were peculiarly terrible. Some appeared numbering
five hundred. Their leaders took the title of “bey.” They ravaged
the country in a manner thoroughly Tartar, and more than once
the commandants themselves did not know whether they had to do
with bandits or with advance chambuls of the whole horde. Against
mounted troops, especially the cavalry of the Commonwealth, these
bands could not stand in the open field; but, caught in a trap,
they fought desperately, knowing well that if taken captive the
halter was waiting for them. Their arms were various. Bows and guns
were lacking them, which, however, were of little use in night
attacks. The greater part were armed with daggers and Turkish
yataghans, sling-shots, Tartar sabres, and with horse-skulls
fastened to oak clubs with cords. This last weapon, in strong
hands, did terrible service, for it smashed every sabre. Some had
very long forks pointed with iron, some spears; these in sudden
emergencies they used against cavalry.

The band which had halted at Sirotski Brod must have been numerous
or must have been in extreme peril on the Moldavian side, since
it had ventured to approach the command at Hreptyoff, in spite
of the terror which the name alone of Pan Volodyovski roused in
the robbers on both sides of the boundary. In fact, another party
brought intelligence that it was composed of more than four hundred
men, under the leadership of Azba Bey, a famous ravager, who for
a number of years had filled the Polish and Moldavian banks with
terror.

Pan Volodyovski was delighted when he knew with whom he had to
do, and issued proper orders at once. Besides Mellehovich and Pan
Motovidlo, the squadron of the starosta of Podolia went, and that
of the under-stolnik of Premysl. They set out in the night, and, as
it were, in different directions; for as fishermen who cast their
nets widely, in order afterward to meet at one opening, so those
squadrons, marching in a broad circle, were to meet at Sirotski
Brod about dawn.

Basia assisted with beating heart at the departure of the troops,
since this was to be her first expedition; and the heart rose
in her at sight of those old wolves of the steppe. They went so
quietly that in the fortalice itself it was possible not to hear
them: the bridle-bits did not rattle; stirrup did not strike
against stirrup, sabre against sabre; not a horse neighed. The
night was calm and unusually bright. The full moon lighted clearly
the heights of the stanitsa and the steppe, which was somewhat
inclined toward every side; still, barely had a squadron left the
stockade, barely had it glittered with silver sparks, which the
moon marked on the sabres, when it had vanished from the eye like
a flock of partridges into waves of grass. It seemed to Basia that
they were sportsmen setting out on some hunt, which was to begin at
daybreak, and were going therefore quietly and carefully, so as not
to rouse the game too early. Hence great desire entered her heart
to take part in that hunt.

Pan Michael did not oppose this, for Zagloba had inclined him to
consent. He knew besides that it was necessary to gratify Basia’s
wish sometime; he preferred therefore to do it at once, especially
since the ravagers were not accustomed to bows and muskets. But
they moved only three hours after the departure of the first
squadrons, for Pan Michael had thus planned the whole affair. Pan
Mushalski, with twenty of Linkhauz’s dragoons and a sergeant, went
with them,--all Mazovians, choice men, behind whose sabres the
charming wife of the commandant was as safe as in her husband’s
room.

Basia herself, having to ride on a man’s saddle, was dressed
accordingly; she wore pearl-colored velvet trousers, very wide,
looking like a petticoat, and thrust into yellow morocco boots; a
gray overcoat lined with white Crimean sheepskin and embroidered
ornamentally at the seams; she carried a silver cartridge-box,
of excellent work, a light Turkish sabre on a silk pendant, and
pistols in her holsters. Her head was covered with a cap, having a
crown of Venetian velvet, adorned with a heron-feather, and bound
with a rim of lynx-skin; from under the cap looked forth a bright
rosy face, almost childlike, and two eyes curious and gleaming like
coals.

Thus equipped, and sitting on a chestnut pony, swift and gentle
as a deer, she seemed a hetman’s child, who, under guard of old
warriors, was going to take the first lesson. They were astonished
too at her figure. Pan Zagloba and Pan Mushalski nudged each other
with their elbows, each kissing his hand from time to time, in
sign of unusual homage for Basia; both of them, together with Pan
Michael, allayed her fear as to their late departure.

“You do not know war,” said the little knight, “and therefore
reproach us with wishing to take you to the place when the battle
is over. Some squadrons go directly; others must make a detour,
so as to cut off the roads, and then they will join the others in
silence, taking the enemy in a trap. We shall be there in time, and
without us nothing will begin, for every hour is reckoned.”

“But if the enemy takes alarm and escapes between the squadrons?”

“He is cunning and watchful, but such a war is no novelty to us.”

“Trust in Michael,” cried Zagloba; “for there is not a man of
more practice than he. Their evil fate sent those bullock-drivers
hither.”

“In Lubni I was a youth,” said Pan Michael; “and even then they
committed such duties to me. Now, wishing to show you this
spectacle, I have disposed everything with still greater care.
The squadrons will appear before the enemy together, will shout
together, and gallop against the robbers together, as if some one
had cracked a whip.”

“I! I!” piped Basia, with delight; and standing in the stirrups,
she caught the little knight by the neck. “But may I gallop, too?
What, Michael, what?” asked she, with sparkling eyes.

“Into the throng I will not let you go, for in the throng an
accident is easy, not to mention this,--that your horse might
stumble; but I have ordered to give rein to our horses immediately
the band driven against us is scattered, and then you may cut down
two or three men, and attack always on the left side, for in that
way it will be awkward for the fugitive to strike across his horse
at you, while you will have him under your hand.”

“Ho! ho! never fear. You said yourself that I work with the sabre
far better than Uncle Makovetski; let no one give me advice!”

“Remember to hold the bridle firmly,” put in Zagloba. “They have
their methods; and it may be that when you are chasing, the
fugitive will turn his horse suddenly and stop, then before you can
pass, he may strike you. A veteran never lets his horse out too
much, but reins him in as he wishes.”

“And never raise your sabre too high, lest you be exposed to a
thrust,” said Pan Mushalski.

“I shall be near her to guard against accident,” said the little
knight. “You see, in battle the whole difficulty is in this, that
you must think of all things at once,--of your horse, of the
enemy, of your bridle, the sabre, the blow, and the thrust, all
at one time. For him who is trained this comes of itself; but at
first even renowned fencers are frequently awkward, and any common
fellow, if in practice, will unhorse a new man more skilled than
himself. Therefore I will be at your side.”

“But do not rescue me, and give command to the men that no one is
to rescue me without need.”

“Well, well! we shall see yet what your courage will be when it
comes to a trial,” answered the little knight, laughing.

“Or if you will not seize one of us by the skirts,” finished
Zagloba.

“We shall see!” said Basia, with indignation.

Thus conversing, they entered a place covered here and there with
thicket. The hour was not far from daybreak, but it had become
darker, for the moon had gone down. A light fog had begun to rise
from the ground and conceal distant objects. In that light fog and
gloom, the indistinct thickets at a distance took the forms of
living creatures in the excited imagination of Basia. More than
once it seemed to her that she saw men and horses clearly.

“Michael, what is that?” asked she, whispering, and pointing with
her finger.

“Nothing; bushes.”

“I thought it was horsemen. Shall we be there soon?”

“The affair will begin in something like an hour and a half.”

“Ha!”

“Are you afraid?”

“No; but my heart beats with great desire. I, fear! Nothing and
nothing! See, what hoar-frost lies there! It is visible in the
dark.”

In fact, they were riding along a strip of country on which the
long dry stems of steppe-grass were covered with hoar-frost. Pan
Michael looked and said,--

“Motovidlo has passed this way. He must be hidden not more than a
couple of miles distant. It is dawning already!”

In fact, day was breaking. The gloom was decreasing. The sky and
earth were becoming gray; the air was growing pale; the tops of
the trees and the bushes were becoming covered, as it were, with
silver. The farther clumps began to disclose themselves, as if some
one were raising a curtain from before them one after another.
Meanwhile from the next clump a horseman came out suddenly.

“From Pan Motovidlo?” asked Volodyovski, when the Cossack stopped
right before them.

“Yes, your grace.”

“What is to be heard?”

“They crossed Sirotski Brod, turned toward the bellowing of the
bullocks, and went in the direction of Kalusik. They took the
cattle, and are at Yurgove Polye.”

“And where is Pan Motovidlo?”

“He has stopped near the hill, and Pan Mellehovich neat Kalusik.
Where the other squadrons are I know not.”

“Well,” said Volodyovski, “I know. Hurry to Pan Motovidlo and carry
the command to close in, and dispose men singly as far as halfway
from Pan Mellehovich. Hurry!”

The Cossack bent in the saddle and shot forward, so that the flanks
of his horse quivered at once, and soon he was out of sight. They
rode on still more quietly, still more cautiously. Meanwhile it had
become clear day. The haze which had risen from the earth about
dawn fell away altogether, and on the eastern side of the sky
appeared a long streak, bright and rosy, the rosiness and light of
which began to color the air on high land, the edges of distant
ravines, and the hill-tops. Then there came to the ears of the
horsemen a mingled croaking from the direction of the Dniester; and
high in the air before them appeared, flying eastward, an immense
flock of ravens. Single birds separated every moment from the
others, and instead of flying forward directly began to describe
circles, as kites and falcons do when seeking for prey. Pan Zagloba
raised his sabre, pointing the tip of it to the ravens, and said to
Basia,--

“Admire the sense of these birds. Only let it come to a battle in
any place, straightway they will fly in from every side, as if
some one had shaken them from a bag. But let the same army march
alone, or go out to meet friends, the birds will not come; thus are
these creatures able to divine the intentions of men, though no
one assists them. The wisdom of nostrils is not sufficient in this
case, and so we have reason to wonder.”

Meanwhile the birds, croaking louder and louder, approached
considerably; therefore Pan Mushalski turned to the little knight
and said, striking his palm on the bow, “Pan Commandant, will it be
forbidden to bring down one, to please the lady? It will make no
noise.”

“Bring down even two,” said Volodyovski, seeing how the old soldier
had the weakness of showing the certainty of his arrows.

Thereupon the incomparable bowman, reaching behind his shoulder,
took out a feathered arrow, put it on the string, and raising the
bow and his head, waited.

The flock was drawing nearer and nearer. All reined in their horses
and looked with curiosity toward the sky. All at once the plaintive
wheeze of the string was heard, like the twitter of a sparrow; and
the arrow, rushing forth, vanished near the flock. For a while it
might be thought that Mushalski had missed, but, behold, a bird
reeled head downward, and was dropping straight toward the ground
over their heads, then tumbling continually, approached nearer and
nearer; at last it began to fall with outspread wings, like a leaf
opposing the air. Soon it fell a few steps in front of Basia’s
pony. The arrow had gone through the raven, so that the point was
gleaming above the bird’s back.

“As a lucky omen,” said Mushalski, bowing to Basia, “I will have
an eye from a distance on the lady commandress and my great
benefactress; and if there is a sudden emergency, God grant me
again to send out a fortunate arrow. Though it may buzz near by, I
assure you that it will not wound.”

“I should not like to be the Tartar under your aim,” answered Basia.

Further conversation was interrupted by Volodyovski, who said,
pointing to a considerable eminence some furlongs away, “We will
halt there.”

After these words they moved forward at a trot. Halfway up, the
little knight commanded them to lessen their pace, and at last, not
far from the top, he held in his horse.

“We will not go to the very top,” said he, “for on such a bright
morning the eye might catch us from a distance; but dismounting, we
will approach the summit, so that a few heads may look over.”

When he had said this, he sprang from his horse, and after him
Basia, Pan Mushalski, and a number of others. The dragoons remained
below the summit, holding their horses; but the others pushed on to
where the height descended in wall form, almost perpendicularly, to
the valley. At the foot of this wall, which was a number of tens of
yards in height, grew a somewhat dense, narrow strip of brushwood,
and farther on extended a low level steppe; of this they were able
to take in an enormous expanse with their eyes from the height.
This plain, cut through by a small stream running in the direction
of Kalusik, was covered with clumps of thicket in the same way that
it was near the cliff. In the thickest clumps slender columns of
smoke were rising to the sky.

“Yon see,” said Pan Michael to Basia, “that the enemy is hidden
there.”

“I see smoke, but I see neither men nor horses,” said Basia, with a
beating heart.

“No; for they are concealed by the thickets, though a trained eye
can see them. Look there: two, three, four, a whole group of horses
are to be seen,--one pied, another all white, and from here one
seems blue.”

“Shall we go to them soon?”

“They will be driven to us; but we have time enough, for to that
thicket it is a mile and a quarter.”

“Where are our men?”

“Do you see the edge of the wood yonder? The chamberlain’s squadron
must be touching that edge just now. Mellehovich will come out of
the other side in a moment. The accompanying squadron will attack
the robbers from that cliff. Seeing people, they will move toward
us, for here it is possible to go to the river under the slope; but
on the other side there is a ravine, terribly steep, through which
no one can go.”

“Then they are in a trap?”

“As you see.”

“For God’s sake! I am barely able to stand still!” cried Basia; but
after a while she inquired, “Michael, if they were wise, what would
they do?”

“They would rush, as if into smoke, at the men of the chamberlain’s
squadron and go over their bellies. Then they would be free. But
they will not do that, for, first, they do not like to rush into
the eyes of regular cavalry; secondly, they will be afraid that
more troops are waiting in the forest; therefore they will rush to
us.”

“Bah! But we cannot resist them; we have only twenty men.”

“But Motovidlo?”

“True! Ha! but where is he?”

Pan Michael, instead of an answer, cried suddenly, imitating a
hawk. Straightway numerous calls answered him from the foot of the
cliff. These were Motovidlo’s Cossacks, who were secreted so well
in the thicket that Basia, though standing right above their heads,
had not seen them at all. She looked for a while with astonishment,
now downward, now at the little knight; suddenly her eyes flashed
with fire, and she seized her husband by the neck.

“Michael, you are the first leader on earth.”

“I have a little training, that is all,” answered Volodyovski,
smiling. “But do not pat me here with delight, and remember that a
good soldier must be calm.”

But the warning was useless; Basia was as if in a fever. She
wished to sit straightway on her horse and ride down from the
height to join Motovidlo’s detachment; but Volodyovski delayed,
for he wished her to see the beginning clearly. Meanwhile the
morning sun had risen over the steppe and covered with a cold,
pale yellow light the whole plain. The nearer clumps of trees were
brightening cheerfully; the more distant and less distinct became
more distinct; the hoar-frost, lying in the low places in spots,
was disappearing every moment; the air had grown quite transparent,
and the glance could extend to a distance almost without limit.

“The chamberlain’s squadron is coming out of the grove,” said
Volodyovski; “I see men and horses.”

In fact, horses began to emerge from the edge of the wood, and
seemed black in a long line on the meadow, which was thickly
covered with hoar-frost near the wood. The white space between
them and the wood began to widen gradually. It was evident that
they were not hurrying too much, wishing to give time to the other
squadrons. Pan Michael turned then to the left side.

“Mellehovich is here too,” said he. And after a while he said
again, “And the men of the under-stolnik of Premysl are coming. No
one is behind time two ‘Our Fathers.’ Not a foot should escape! Now
to horse!”

They turned quickly to the dragoons, and springing into the saddles
rode down along the flank of the height to the thicket below, where
they found themselves among Motovidlo’s Cossacks. Then they moved
in a mass to the edge of the thicket, and halted, looking forward.

It was evident that the enemy had seen the squadron of the
chamberlain, for at that moment crowds of horsemen rushed out of
the grove growing in the middle of the plain, as deer rush when
some one has roused them. Every moment more of them came out.
Forming a line, they moved at first over the steppe by the edge of
the grove; the horsemen bent to the backs of the horses, so that
from a distance it might be supposed that that was merely a herd
moving of itself along the grove. Clearly, they were not certain
yet whether the squadron was moving against them, or even saw them,
or whether it was a detachment examining the neighborhood. In the
last event they might hope that the grove would hide them from the
eyes of the on-coming party.

From the place where Pan Michael stood, at the head of Motovidlo’s
men, the uncertain and hesitating movements of the chambul could
be seen perfectly, and were just like the movements of wild beasts
sniffing danger. When they had ridden half the width of the grove,
they began to go at a light gallop. When the first ranks reached
the open plain, they held in their beasts suddenly, and then the
whole party did the same. They saw approaching from that side
Mellehovich’s detachment. Then they described a half-circle in the
direction opposite the grove, and before their eyes appeared the
whole Premysl squadron, moving at a trot.

Now it was clear to the robbers that all the squadrons knew
of their presence and were marching against them. Wild cries
were heard in the midst of the party, and disorder began. The
squadrons, shouting also, advanced on a gallop, so that the plain
was thundering from the tramp of their horses. Seeing this, the
robber chambul extended in the form of a bench in the twinkle of
an eye, and chased with what breath was in the breasts of their
horses toward the elevation near which the little knight stood with
Motovidlo and his men. The space between them began to decrease
with astonishing rapidity.

Basia grew somewhat pale from emotion at first, and her heart
thumped more powerfully in her breast; but knowing that people
were looking at her, and not noticing the least alarm on any face,
she controlled herself quickly. Then the crowd, approaching like
a whirlwind, occupied all her attention. She tightened the rein,
grasped her sabre more firmly, and the blood again flowed with
great impulse from her heart to her face.

“Good!” said the little knight.

She looked only at him; her nostrils quivered, and she whispered,
“Shall we move soon?”

“There is time yet,” answered Pan Michael.

But the others are chasing on, like a gray wolf who feels dogs
behind him. Now not more than half a furlong divides them from the
thicket; the outstretched heads of the horses are to be seen, with
ears lying down, and over them Tartar faces, as if grown to the
mane. They are nearer and nearer. Basia hears the snorting of the
horses; and they, with bared teeth and staring eyes, show that they
are going at such speed that their breath is stopping. Volodyovski
gives a sign, and the Cossack muskets, standing hedge-like, incline
toward the onrushing robbers.

“Fire!”

A roar, smoke: it was as if a whirlwind had struck a pile of chaff.
In one twinkle of an eye the party flew apart in every direction,
howling and shouting. With that the little knight pushed out of
the thicket, and at the same time Mellehovich’s squadron, and
that of the chamberlain, closing the circle, forced the scattered
enemy to the centre again in one group. The horde seek in vain
to escape singly; in vain they circle around; they rush to the
right, to the left, to the front, to the rear; the circle is closed
up completely; the robbers come therefore more closely together
in spite of themselves. Meanwhile the squadrons hurry up, and a
horrible smashing begins.

The ravagers understood that only he would escape with his life
who could batter his way through; hence they fell to defending
themselves with rage and despair, though without order and each
for himself independently. In the very beginning they covered the
field thickly, so great was the fury of the shock. The soldiers,
pressing them and urging their horses on in spite of the throng,
hewed and thrust with that merciless and terrible skill which only
a soldier by profession can have. The noise of pounding was heard
above that circle of men, like the thumping of flails wielded by a
multitude quickly on a threshing-space. The horde were slashed and
cut through their heads, shoulders, necks, and through the hands
with which they covered their heads; they were beaten on every
side unceasingly, without quarter or pity. They too struck, each
with what he had, with daggers, with sabres, with sling-shots,
with horse-skulls. Their horses, pushed to the centre, rose on
their haunches, or fell on their backs. Others, biting and whining,
kicked at the throng, causing confusion unspeakable. After a
short struggle in silence, a howl was torn from the breasts of
the robbers; superior numbers were bending them, better weapons,
greater skill. They understood that there was no rescue for them;
that no man would leave there, not only with plunder, but with
life. The soldiers, warming up gradually, pounded them with growing
force. Some of the robbers sprang from their saddles, wishing to
slip away between the legs of the horses. These were trampled with
hoofs, and sometimes the soldiers turned from the fight and pierced
the fugitives from above; some fell on the ground, hoping that
when the squadrons pushed toward the centre, they, left beyond the
circle, might escape by flight.

In fact, the party decreased more and more, for every moment
horses and men fell away. Seeing this, Azba Bey collected, as far
as he was able, horses and men in a wedge, and threw himself with
all his might on Motovidlo’s Cossacks, wishing to break the ring
at any cost. But they hurled him back, and then began a terrible
slaughter. At that same time Mellehovich, raging like a flame,
split the party, and leaving the halves to two other squadrons,
sprang himself on the shoulders of those who were fighting with the
Cossacks.

It is true that a part of the robbers escaped from the ring to the
field through this movement and rushed apart over the plain, like
a flock of leaves; but soldiers in the rear ranks who could not
find access to the battle, through the narrowness of the combat,
rushed after them straightway in twos and threes or singly. Those
who were unable to break out went under the sword in spite of their
passionate defence and fell near each other, like grain which
harvesters are reaping from opposite sides.

Basia moved on with the Cossacks, piping with a thin voice to give
herself courage, for at the first moment it grew a little dark in
her eyes, both from the speed and the mighty excitement. When she
rushed up to the enemy, she saw before her at first only a dark,
moving, surging mass. An overpowering desire to close her eyes
altogether was bearing her away. She resisted the desire, it is
true; still she struck with her sabre somewhat at random. Soon her
daring overcame her confusion; she had clear vision at once. In
front she saw heads of horses, behind them inflamed and wild faces;
one of these gleamed right there before her; Basia gave a sweeping
cut, and the face vanished as quickly as if it had been a phantom.
That moment the calm voice of her husband came to her ears.

“Good!”

That voice gave her uncommon pleasure; she piped again more thinly,
and began to extend disaster, and now with perfect presence
of mind. Behold, again some terrible head, with flat nose and
projecting cheek-bones, is gnashing its teeth before her. Basia
gives a blow at that one. Again a hand raises a sling-shot. Basia
strikes at that. She sees some face in a sheepskin; she thrusts at
that. Then she strikes to the right, to the left, straight ahead;
and whenever she cuts, a man flies to the ground, tearing the
bridle from his horse. Basia wonders that it is so easy; but it is
easy because on one side rides, stirrup to her stirrup, the little
knight, and on the other Pan Motovidlo. The first looks carefully
after her, and quenches a man as he would a candle; then with his
keen blade he cuts off an arm together with its weapon; at times
he thrusts his sword between Basia and the enemy, and the hostile
sabre flies upward as suddenly as would a winged bird.

Pan Motovidlo, a phlegmatic soldier, guarded the other side of the
mettlesome lady; and as an industrious gardener, going among trees,
trims or breaks off dry branches, so he time after time brings down
men to the bloody earth, fighting as coolly and calmly as if his
mind were in another place. Both knew when to let Basia go forward
alone, and when to anticipate or intercept her. There was watching
over her from a distance still a third man,--the incomparable
archer, who, standing purposely at a distance, put every little
while the butt of an arrow on the string, and sent an unerring
messenger of death to the densest throng.

But the pressure became so savage that Pan Michael commanded
Basia to withdraw from the whirl with some men, especially as
the half-wild horses of the horde began to bite and kick. Basia
obeyed quickly; for although eagerness was bearing her away, and
her valiant heart urged her to continue the struggle, her woman’s
nature was gaining the upper hand of her ardor; and in presence
of that slaughter and blood, in the midst of howls, groans, and
the agonies of the dying, in an atmosphere filled with the odor
of flesh and sweat, she began to shudder. Withdrawing her horse
slowly, she soon found herself behind the circle of combatants;
hence Pan Michael and Pan Motovidlo, relieved from guarding her,
were able to give perfect freedom at last to their soldierly wishes.

Pan Mushalski, standing hitherto at a distance, approached Basia.
“Your ladyship, my benefactress, fought really like a cavalier,”
said he. “A man not knowing that you were there might have thought
that the Archangel Michael had come down to help our Cossacks, and
was smiting the dog brothers. What an honor for them to perish
under such a hand, which on this occasion let it not be forbidden
me to kiss.” So saying, Pan Mushalski seized Basia’s hand and
pressed it to his mustache.

“Did you see? Did I do well, really?” inquired Basia, catching the
air in her distended nostrils and her mouth.

“A cat could not do better against rats. The heart rose in me at
sight of you, as I love the Lord God. But you did well to withdraw
from the fight, for toward the end there is more chance for an
accident.”

“My husband commanded me; and when leaving home, I promised to obey
him at once.”

“May my bow remain? No! it is of no use now; besides, I will rush
forward with the sabre. I see three men riding up; of course the
colonel has sent them to guard your worthy person. Otherwise I
would send; but I will go to the foot of the cliff, for the end
will come soon, and I must hurry.”

Three dragoons really came to guard Basia; seeing this, Pan
Mushalski spurred his horse and galloped away. For a while Basia
hesitated whether to remain in that place or ride around the steep
cliff, and go to the eminence from which they had looked on the
plain before the battle. But feeling great weariness, she resolved
to remain.

The feminine nature rose in her more and more powerfully. About two
hundred yards distant they were cutting down the remnant of the
ravagers without mercy, and a black mass of strugglers was whirling
with growing violence on the bloody place of conflict. Despairing
cries rent the air; and Basia, so full of eagerness shortly before,
had grown weak now in some way. Great fear seized her, so that she
came near fainting, and only shame in presence of the dragoons
kept her in the saddle; she turned her face from them to hide her
pallor. The fresh air brought back her strength slowly and her
courage, but not to that degree that she had the wish to spring in
anew among the combatants. She would have done so to implore mercy
for the rest of the horde. But knowing that that would be useless,
she waited anxiously for the end of the struggle. And there they
were cutting and cutting. The sound of the hacking and the cries
did not cease for a moment. Half an hour perhaps had passed; the
squadrons were closing in with greater force. All at once a party
of ravagers, numbering about twenty, tore themselves free of the
murderous circle, and rushed like a whirlwind toward the eminence.

Escaping along the cliff, they might in fact reach a place where
the eminence was lost by degrees in the plain, and find on the
high steppe their salvation; but in their way stood Basia with
the dragoons. The sight of danger gave strength to Basia’s heart
at this moment, and self-control to her mind. She understood
that to stay where she was was destruction; for the robbers with
impetus alone could overturn and trample her and her guards, not to
mention that they would bear them apart on sabres. The old sergeant
of dragoons was clearly of this view, for he seized the bridle
of Basia’s pony, turned the beast, and cried with voice almost
despairing,--

“On, on! serene lady!”

Basia shot away like the wind; but the three faithful soldiers
stood like a wall on the spot, to hold back the enemy even
one moment, and give the beloved lady time to put herself at
a distance. Meanwhile soldiers galloped after that band in
immediate pursuit; but the circle hitherto enclosing the ravagers
hermetically was thereby broken; they began to escape in twos, in
threes, and then more numerously. The enormous majority were lying
on the field, but some tens of them, together with Azba Bey, were
able to flee. All these rushed on in a body as fast as their horses
could gallop toward the eminence.

Three dragoons could not detain all the fugitives,--in fact, after
a short struggle they fell from their saddles; but the cloud,
running on behind Basia, turned to the slope of the eminence and
reached the high steppe. The Polish squadrons in the front ranks
and the nearer Lithuanian Tartars rushed with all speed some tens
of steps behind them. On the high steppe, which was cut across
thickly by treacherous clefts and ravines, was formed a gigantic
serpent of those on horseback, the head of which was Basia, the
neck the ravagers, and the continuation of the body Mellehovich
with the Lithuanian Tartars and dragoons, at the head of which
rushed Volodyovski, with his spurs in the side of his horse, and
terror in his soul.

At the moment when the handful of robbers had torn themselves free
of the ring, Volodyovski was engaged on the opposite side of it;
therefore Mellehovich preceded him in the pursuit. The hair was
standing on his head at the thought that Basia might be seized
by the fugitives; that she might lose presence of mind, and rush
straight toward the Dniester; that any one of the robbers might
reach her with a sabre, a dagger, or a sling-shot,--and the heart
was sinking in him from fear for her life. Lying almost on the neck
of the horse, he was pale, with set teeth, a whirlwind of ghastly
thoughts in his head; he pricked his steed with armed heels, struck
him with the side of his sword, and flew like a bustard before he
rises to soar.

“God grant Mellehovich to come up! He is on a good horse. God grant
him!” repeated he, in despair.

But his fears were ill founded, and the danger was not so great as
it seemed to the loving knight. The question of their own skins was
too near to the robbers; they felt the Lithuanian Tartars too close
to their shoulders to pursue a single rider, even were that rider
the most beautiful houri in the Mohammedan paradise, escaping in a
robe set with jewels. Basia needed only to turn toward Hreptyoff to
escape from pursuit; for surely the fugitives would not return to
the jaws of the lion for her, while they had before them a river,
with its reeds in which they could hide. The Lithuanian Tartars had
better horses, and Basia was sitting on a pony incomparably swifter
than the ordinary shaggy beasts of the horde, which were enduring
in flight, but not so swift as horses of high blood. Besides, she
not only did not lose presence of mind, but her daring nature
asserted itself with all force, and knightly blood played again in
her veins. The pony stretched out like a deer; the wind whistled
in Basia’s ears, and instead of fear, a certain feeling of delight
seized her.

“They might hunt a whole year, and not catch me,” thought she.
“I’ll rush on yet, and then turn, and either let them pass, or if
they have not stopped pursuing, I will put them under the sabre.”

It came to her mind that if the ravagers behind her were scattered
greatly over the steppe, she might, on turning, meet one of them
and have a hand-to-hand combat.

“Well, what is that?” said she to her valiant soul. “Michael has
taught me so that I may venture boldly; if I do not, they will
think that I am fleeing through fear, and will not take me on
another expedition; and besides, Pan Zagloba will make sport of me.”

Saying this to herself, she looked around at the robbers, but they
were fleeing in a crowd. There was no possibility of single combat;
but Basia wished to give proof before the eyes of the whole army
that she was not fleeing at random and in frenzy. Remembering that
she had in the holsters two excellent pistols carefully loaded by
Michael himself before they set out, she began to rein in her pony,
or rather to turn him toward Hreptyoff, while slacking his speed.
But, oh, wonder! at sight of this the whole party of ravagers
changed the direction of their flight somewhat, going more to the
left, toward the edge of the eminence. Basia, letting them come
within a few tens of steps, fired twice at the nearest horses;
then, turning, urged on at full gallop toward Hreptyoff.

But the pony had run barely some yards with the speed of a sparrow,
when suddenly there darkened in front a cleft in the steppe. Basia
pressed the pony with her spurs without hesitation, and the noble
beast did not refuse, but sprang forward; only his fore feet caught
somewhat the bank opposite. For a moment he strove violently to
find support on the steep wall with his hind feet; but the earth,
not sufficiently frozen yet, fell away, and the horse went down
through the opening, with Basia. Fortunately the horse did not fall
on her; she succeeded in freeing her feet from the stirrups, and,
leaning to one side with all force, struck on a thick layer of
moss, which covered the bottom of the chasm as if with a lining;
but the shock was so violent that she fainted.

Pan Michael did not see the fall, for the horizon was concealed by
the Lithuanian Tartars; but Mellehovich shouted with a terrible
voice at his men to pursue the ravagers without stopping, and
running himself to the cleft, disappeared in it. In a twinkle he
was down from the saddle, and seized Basia in his arms. His falcon
eyes saw her all in one moment, looking to see if there was blood
anywhere; then they fell on the moss, and he understood that this
had saved her and the pony from death. A stifled cry of joy was
rent from the mouth of the young Tartar. But Basia was hanging in
his arms; he pressed her with all his strength to his breast; then
with pale lips he kissed her eyes time after time, as if wishing
to drink them out of her head. The whole world whirled with him in
a mad vortex; the passion concealed hitherto in the bottom of his
breast, as a dragon lies concealed in a cave, carried him away like
a storm.

But at that moment the tramp of many horses was heard in an echo
from the lofty steppe, and approached more and more swiftly.
Numerous voices were crying, “Here! in this cleft! Here!”
Mellehovich placed Basia on the moss, and called to those riding
up,--

“This way, this way!”

A moment later, Pan Michael was at the bottom of the cleft; after
him Pan Zagloba, Mushalski, and a number of other officers.

“Nothing is the matter,” cried the Tartar. “The moss saved her.”

Pan Michael grasped his insensible wife by the hands; others ran
for water, which was not near. Zagloba, seizing the temples of the
unconscious woman, began to cry,--

“Basia, Basia, dearest! Basia!”

“Nothing is the matter with her,” said Mellehovich, pale as a
corpse.

Meanwhile Zagloba clapped his side, took a flask, poured gorailka
on his palm, and began to rub her temples. Then he put the flask to
her lips; this acted evidently, for before the men returned with
water, she had opened her eyes and began to catch for air, coughing
meanwhile, for the gorailka had burned the roof of her mouth and
her throat. In a few moments she had recovered completely.

Pan Michael, not regarding the presence of officers and soldiers,
pressed her to his bosom, and covered her hands with kisses,
saying, “Oh, my love, the soul came near leaving me! Has nothing
hurt? Does nothing pain you?”

“Nothing is the matter,” said Basia. “Aha! I remember now that it
grew dark in my eyes, for my horse slipped. But is the battle over?”

“It is. Azba Bey is killed. We will go home at once, for I am
afraid that fatigue may overcome you.”

“I feel no fatigue whatever.” Then, looking quickly at those
present, she distended her nostrils, and said, “But do not think,
gentlemen, that I fled through fear. Oho! I did not even dream of
it. As I love Michael, I galloped ahead of them only for sport, and
then I fired my pistols.”

“A horse was struck by those shots, and we took one robber alive,”
put in Mellehovich.

“And what?” asked Basia. “Such an accident may happen any one in
galloping, is it not true? No experience will save one from that,
for a horse will slip sometimes. Ha! it is well that you watched
me, gentlemen, for I might have lain here a long time.”

“Pan Mellehovich saw you first, and first saved you; for we were
galloping behind him,” said Volodyovski.

Basia, hearing this, turned to Mellehovich and reached her hand to
him. “I thank you for good offices.”

He made no answer, only pressed the hand to his mouth, and then
embraced with submission her feet, like a peasant.

Meanwhile more of the squadron assembled at the edge of the cleft;
Pan Michael simply gave orders to Mellehovich to form a circle
around the few robbers who had hidden from pursuit, and then
started for Hreptyoff. On the road Basia saw the field of battle
once more from the height. The bodies of men and horses lay in
places in piles, in places singly. Through the blue sky flocks
of ravens were approaching more and more numerously, with great
cawing, and coming down at a distance, waited till the soldiers,
still going about on the plain, should depart.

“Here are the soldiers’ gravediggers!” said Zagloba, pointing at
the birds with his sabre; “let us only go away, and wolves will
come too, with their orchestra, and will ring with their teeth over
these dead men. This is a notable victory, though gained over such
a vile enemy; for that Azba has ravaged here and there for a number
of years. Commandants have hunted him like a wolf, always in vain,
till at last he met Michael, and the black hour came on him.”

“Is Azba Bey killed?”

“Mellehovich overtook him first; and I tell you if he did not cut
him over the ear! The sabre went to his teeth.”

“Mellehovich is a good soldier,” said Basia. Here she turned to
Zagloba, “And have you done much?”

“I did not chirp like a cricket, nor jump like a flea, for I leave
such amusement to insects. But if I did not, men did not look for
me among moss, like mushrooms; no one pulled my nose, and no one
touched my face.”

“I do not like you!” said Basia, pouting, and reaching
involuntarily to her nose, which was red.

And he looked at her, smiled, and muttered, without ceasing to
joke, “You fought valiantly, you fled valiantly, you went valiantly
heels over head; and now, from pain in your bones, you will put
away kasha so valiantly that we shall be forced to take care of
you, lest the sparrows eat you up with your valor, for they are
very fond of kasha.”

“You are talking in that way so that Michael may not take me on
another expedition. I know you perfectly!”

“But, but I will ask him to take you nutting always, for you are
skilful, and do not break branches under you. My God, that is
gratitude to me! And who persuaded Michael to let you go? I. I
reproach myself now severely, especially since you pay me so for my
devotion. Wait! you will cut stalks now on the square at Hreptyoff
with a wooden sword! Here is an expedition for you! Another woman
would hug the old man; but this scolding Satan frightens me first,
and threatens me afterward.”

Basia, without hesitating long, embraced Zagloba. He was greatly
delighted, and said, “Well, well! I must confess that you helped
somewhat to the victory of to-day; for the soldiers, since each
wished to exhibit himself, fought with terrible fury.”

“As true as I live,” cried Pan Mushalski, “a man is not sorry to
die when such eyes are upon him.”

“Vivat our lady!” cried Pan Nyenashinyets.

“Vivat!” cried a hundred voices.

“God give her health!”

Here Zagloba inclined toward her and muttered, “After faintness!”

And they rode forward joyously, shouting, certain of a feast in the
evening. The weather became wonderful. The trumpeters played in the
squadrons, the drummers beat their drums, and all entered Hreptyoff
with an uproar.




CHAPTER XXVIII.


Beyond every expectation, the Volodyovskis found guests at the
fortalice. Pan Bogush had come; he had determined to fix his
residence at Hreptyoff for some months, so as to treat through
Mellehovich with the Tartar captains Aleksandrovich, Moravski,
Tvorovski, Krychinski, and others, either of the Lithuanian or
Ukraine Tartars, who had gone to the service of the Sultan. Pan
Bogush was accompanied also by old Pan Novoveski and his daughter
Eva, and by Pani Boski, a sedate person, with her daughter, Panna
Zosia, who was young yet, and very beautiful. The sight of ladies
in the Wilderness and in wild Hreptyoff delighted, but still more
astonished, the soldiers. The guests, too, were surprised at
sight of the commandant and his wife; for the first, judging from
his extended and terrible fame, they imagined to be some kind of
giant, who by his very look would terrify people, his wife as a
giantess with brows ever frowning and a rude voice. Meanwhile they
saw before them a little soldier, with a kindly and friendly face,
and also a tiny woman, rosy as a doll, who, in her broad trousers
and with her sabre, seemed more like a beautiful boy than a grown
person. None the less did the hosts receive their visitors with
open arms. Basia kissed heartily, before presentation, the three
women; when they told who they were, and whence they had come, she
said,--

“I should rejoice to bend the heavens for you, ladies, and for
you, gentlemen. I am awfully glad to see you! It is well that no
misfortune has met you on the road, for in our desert, you see,
such a thing is not difficult; but this very day we have cut the
ravagers to pieces.”

Seeing then that Pani Boski was looking at her with increasing
astonishment, she struck her sabre, and added with great
boastfulness, “Ah, but I was in the fight! Of course I was. That’s
the way with us! For God’s sake, permit me, ladies, to go out and
put on clothing proper to my sex, and wash my hands from blood a
little; for I am coming from a terrible battle. Oh, if we hadn’t
cut down Azba to-day, perhaps you ladies would not have arrived
without accident at Hreptyoff. I will return in a moment, and
Michael will be at your service meanwhile.”

She vanished through the door; and then the little knight, who had
greeted Pan Novoveski already, pushed up to Pani Boski. “God has
given me such a wife,” said he to her, “that she is not only a
loving companion in the house, but can be a valiant comrade in the
field. Now, at her command I offer my services to your ladyship.”

“May God bless her in everything,” answered Pani Boski, “as He has
blessed her in beauty! I am Antonia Boski; I have not come to exact
services from your grace, but to beg on my knees for aid and rescue
in misfortune. Zosia, kneel down here too before the knight; for if
he cannot help us, no man can.”

Pani Boski fell on her knees then, and the comely Zosia followed
her example; both, shedding ardent tears, began to cry, “Save us,
knight! Have pity on orphans!”

A crowd of officers, made curious, drew near on seeing the kneeling
women, and especially because the sight of the comely Zosia
attracted them; the little knight, greatly confused, raised Pani
Boski, and seated her on a bench. “In God’s name,” asked he, “what
are you doing? I should kneel first before a worthy woman. Tell,
your ladyship, in what I can render assistance, and as God is in
heaven, I will not delay.”

“He will do what he promises; I, on my part, offer myself! Zagloba
_sum!_ it is enough for you to know that!” said the old warrior,
moved by the tears of the women.

Then Pani Boski beckoned to Zosia; she took quickly from her bosom
a letter, which she gave to the little knight. He looked at the
letter and said, “From the hetman!” Then he broke the seal and
began to read:--

    VERY DEAR AND BELOVED VOLODYOVSKI!--I send from the road to
    you, through Pan Bogush, my sincere love and instructions,
    which Pan Bogush will communicate to you personally. I
    have barely recovered from fatigues in Yavorov, when
    immediately another affair comes up. This affair is very
    near my heart, because of the affection which I bear
    soldiers, whom if I forgot, the Lord God would forget me.
    Pan Boski, a cavalier of great honor and a dear comrade,
    was taken by the horde some years since, near Kamenyets.
    I have given shelter to his wife and daughter in Yavorov;
    but their hearts are weeping,--one for a husband, the
    other for a father. I wrote through Pyotrovich to Pan
    Zlotnitski, our Resident in the Crimea, to look for Pan
    Boski everywhere. They found him, it seems; but the Tartars
    hid him afterward, therefore he could not be given up
    with other prisoners, and doubtless is rowing in a galley
    to this time. The women, despairing and hopeless, have
    ceased to importune me; but I, on returning recently, and
    seeing their unappeased sorrow, could not refrain from
    attempting some rescue. You are near the place, and have
    concluded, as I know, brotherhood with many murzas. I send
    the ladies to you, therefore, and do you give them aid.
    Pyotrovich will go soon to the Crimea. Give him letters to
    those murzas with whom you are in brotherhood. I cannot
    write to the vizir or the Khan, for they are not friendly
    to me; and besides, I fear that if I should write, they
    would consider Boski a very eminent person, and increase
    the ransom beyond measure. Commend the affair urgently to
    Pyotrovich, and command him not to return without Boski.
    Stir up all your brothers; though Pagans, they observe
    plighted faith always, and must have great respect for
    you. Finally, do what you please; go to Rashkoff; promise
    three of the most considerable Tartars in exchange, if
    they return Boski alive. No one knows better than you all
    their methods, for, as I hear, you have ransomed relatives
    already. God bless you, and I will love you still more,
    for my heart will cease to bleed. I have heard of your
    management in Hreptyoff, that it is quiet there. I expected
    this. Only keep watch on Azba. Pan Bogush will tell you all
    about public affairs. For God’s sake, listen carefully in
    the direction of Moldavia, for a great invasion will not
    miss us. Committing Pani Boski to your heart and efforts, I
    subscribe myself, etc.

Pani Boski wept without ceasing during the reading of the letter;
and Zosia accompanied her, raising her blue eyes to heaven.
Meanwhile, and before Pan Michael had finished, Basia ran in,
dressed in woman’s garments; and seeing tears in the eyes of
the ladies, began to inquire with sympathy what the matter was.
Therefore Pan Michael read the hetman’s letter for her; and when
she had listened to it carefully, she supported at once and with
eagerness the prayers of the hetman and Pani Boski.

“The hetman has a golden heart,” cried Basia, embracing her
husband; “but we shall not show a worse one, Michael. Pani Boski
will stay with us till her husband’s return, and you will bring
him in three months from the Crimea. In three or in two, is it not
true?”

“Or to-morrow, or in an hour!” said Pan Michael, bantering. Here
he turned to Pani Boski, “Decisions, as you see, are quick with my
wife.”

“May God bless her for that!” said Pani Boski. “Zosia, kiss the
hand of the lady commandress.”

But the lady commandress did not think of giving her hands to be
kissed; she embraced Zosia again, for in some way they pleased each
other at once. “Help us, gracious gentlemen,” cried she. “Help us,
and quickly!”

“Quickly, for her head is burning!” muttered Zagloba.

But Basia, shaking her yellow forelock, said, “Not my head, but the
hearts of those gentlemen are burning from sorrow.”

“No one will oppose your honest intention,” said Pan Michael; “but
first we must hear Pani Boski’s story in detail.”

“Zosia, tell everything as it was, for I cannot, from tears,” said
the matron.

Zosia dropped her eyes toward the floor, covering them entirely
with the lids; then she became as red as a cherry, not knowing how
to begin, and was greatly abashed at having to speak in such a
numerous assembly.

But Basia came to her aid. “Zosia, and when did they take Pan Boski
captive?”

“Five years ago, in 1667,” said Zosia, with a thin voice, without
raising the long lashes from her eyes. And she began in one breath
to tell the story: “There were no raids to be heard of at that
time, and papa’s squadron was near Panyovtsi. Papa, with Pan
Bulayovski, was looking after men who were herding cattle in the
meadows, and the Tartars came then on the Wallachian road, and took
papa, with Pan Bulayovski; but Pan Bulayovski returned two years
ago, and papa has not returned.”

Here two tears began to flow down Zosia’s cheeks, so that Zagloba
was moved at sight of them, and said, “Poor girl! Do not fear,
child; papa will return, and will dance yet at your wedding.”

“But did the hetman write to Pan Zlotnitski through Pyotrovich?”
inquired Volodyovski.

“The hetman wrote about papa to the sword-bearer of Poznan,”
recited Zosia; “and the sword-bearer and Pan Pyotrovich found papa
with Aga Murza Bey.”

“In God’s name! I know that Murza Bey. I was in brotherhood with
his brother,” said Volodyovski. “Would he not give up Pan Boski?”

“There was a command of the Khan to give up papa; but Murza Bey
is severe, cruel. He hid papa, and told Pan Pyotrovich that he
had sold him long before into Asia. But other captives told Pan
Pyotrovich that that was not true, and that the murza only said
that purposely, so that he might abuse papa longer; for he is the
cruellest of all the Tartars toward prisoners. Perhaps papa was not
in the Crimea then; for the murza has his own galleys, and needs
men for rowing. But papa was not sold; all the prisoners said that
the murza would rather kill a prisoner than sell him.”

“Holy truth!” said Pan Mushalski. “They know that Murza Bey in the
whole Crimea. He is a very rich Tartar, but wonderfully venomous
against our people, for four brothers of his fell in campaigns
against us.”

“But has he never formed brotherhood among our people?” asked Pan
Michael.

“It is doubtful!” answered the officers from every side.

“Tell me once what that brotherhood is,” said Basia.

“You see,” said Zagloba, “when negotiations are begun at the end
of war, men from both armies visit one another and enter into
friendship. It happens then that an officer inclines to himself
a murza, and a murza an officer; then they vow to each other
life-friendship, which they call brotherhood. The more famous a
man is, as Michael, for instance, or I, or Pan Rushchyts, who
holds command in Rashkoff now, the more is his brotherhood sought.
It is clear that such a man will not conclude brotherhood with
some common fellow, but will seek it only among the most renowned
murzas. The custom is this,--they pour water on their sabres and
swear mutual friendship; do you understand?”

“And how if it comes to war afterward?”

“They can fight in a general war; but if they meet alone, if they
are attacking as skirmishers, they will greet each other, and
depart in friendship. Also if one of them falls into captivity, the
other is bound to alleviate it, and in the worst case to ransom
him; indeed, there have been some who shared their property with
brothers. When it is a question of friends or acquaintances, or of
finding some one, brothers go to brothers; and justice commands us
to acknowledge that no people observe such oaths better than the
Tartars. The word is the main thing with them, and, such a friend
you can trust certainly.”

“But has Michael many such?”

“I have three powerful murzas,” answered Volodyovski; “and one of
them is from Lubni times. Once I begged him of Prince Yeremi. Aga
Bey is his name; and even now, if he had to lay his head down for
me, he would lay it down. The other two are equally reliable.”

“Ah,” said Basia, “I should like to conclude brotherhood with the
Khan himself, and free all the prisoners.”

“He would not be averse to that,” said Zagloba; “but it is not
known what reward he would ask of you.”

“Permit me, gentlemen,” said Pan Michael; “let us consider what
we ought to do. Now listen; we have news from Kamenyets that in
two weeks at the furthest Pyotrovich will be here with a numerous
escort. He will go to the Crimea with ransom for a number of
Armenian merchants from Kamenyets, who at the change of the Khan
were plundered and taken captive. That happened to Seferovich, the
brother of Pretor. All those people are very wealthy; they will
not spare money, and Pyotrovich will go well provided. No danger
threatens him; for, first, winter is near, and it is not the time
for chambuls, and, secondly, with him are going Naviragh, the
delegate of the Patriarch of Echmiadzin, and the two Anardrats from
Kaffa, who have a safe-conduct from the young Khan. I will give
letters to Pyotrovich to the residents of the Commonwealth and
to my brothers. Besides, it is known to you, gentlemen, that Pan
Rushchyts, the commandant at Rashkoff, has relatives in the horde,
who, taken captive in childhood, have become thoroughly Tartar, and
have risen to dignities. All these will move earth and heaven, will
try negotiations; in case of stubbornness on the part of the murza,
they will rouse the Khan himself against him, or perhaps they will
twist the murza’s head somewhere in secret. I hope, therefore,
that if, which God grant, Pan Boski is alive, I shall get him in
a couple of months without fail, as the hetman commands, and my
immediate superior here present” (at this Pan Michael bowed to his
wife).

His immediate superior sprang to embrace the little knight the
second time. Pani and Panna Boski clasped their hands, thanking
God, who had permitted them to meet such kindly people. Both became
notably cheerful, therefore.

“If the old Khan were alive,” said Pan Nyenashinyets, “all would go
more smoothly; for he was greatly devoted to us, and of the young
one they say the opposite. In fact, those Armenian merchants for
whom Pan Pyotrovich is to go, were imprisoned in Bagchesarai itself
during the time of the young Khan, and probably at his command.”

“There will be a change in the young, as there was in the old Khan,
who, before he convinced himself of our honesty, was the most
inveterate enemy of the Polish name,” said Zagloba. “I know this
best, for I was seven years under him in captivity. Let the sight
of me give comfort to your ladyship,” continued he, taking a seat
near Pani Boski. “Seven years is no joke; and still I returned
and crushed so many of those dog brothers that for each day of my
captivity I sent at least two of them to hell; and for Sundays and
holidays who knows if there will not be three or four? Ha!”

“Seven years!” repeated Pani Boski, with a sigh.

“May I die if I add a day! Seven years in the very palace of the
Khan,” confirmed Zagloba, blinking mysteriously. “And you must know
that that young Khan is my--” Here he whispered something in the
ear of Pani Boski, burst into a loud “Ha, ha, ha!” and began to
stroke his knees with his palms; finally he slapped Pani Boski’s
knees, and said, “They were good times, were they not? In youth
every man you met was an enemy, and every day a new prank, ha!”

The sedate matron became greatly confused, and pushed back somewhat
from the jovial knight; the younger women dropped their eyes,
divining easily that the pranks of which Pan Zagloba was talking
must be something opposed to their native modesty, especially since
the soldiers burst into loud laughter.

“It will be needful to send to Pan Rushchyts at once,” said Basia,
“so that Pan Pyotrovich may find the letters ready in Rashkoff.”

“Hasten with the whole affair,” added Pan Bogush, “while it is
winter: for, first, no chambuls come out, and roads are safe;
secondly, in the spring God knows what may happen.”

“Has the hetman news from Tsargrad?” inquired Volodyovski.

“He has; and of this we must talk apart. It is necessary to finish
quickly with those captains. When will Mellehovich come back?--for
much depends on him.”

“He has only to destroy the rest of the ravagers, and afterward
bury the dead. He ought to return to-day or to-morrow morning. I
commanded him to bury only our men, not Azba’s; for winter is at
hand, and there is no danger of infection. Besides, the wolves will
clear them away.”

“The hetman asks,” said Pan Bogush, “that Mellehovich should have
no hindrance in his work; as often as he wishes to go to Rashkoff,
let him go. The hetman asks, too, to trust him in everything, for
he is certain of his devotion. He is a great soldier, and may do us
much good.”

“Let him go to Rashkoff and whithersoever he pleases,” said the
little knight. “Since we have destroyed Azba, I have no urgent need
of him. No large band will appear now till the first grass.”

“Is Azba cut to pieces then?” inquired Novoveski.

“So cut up that I do not know if twenty-five men escaped; and even
those will be caught one by one, if Mellehovich has not caught them
already.”

“I am terribly glad of this,” said Novoveski, “for now it will be
possible to go to Rashkoff in safety.” Here he turned to Basia:
“We can take to Pan Rushchyts the letters which her grace, our
benefactress, has mentioned.”

“Thank you,” answered Basia; “there are occasions here continually,
for men are sent expressly.”

“All the commands must maintain communication,” said Pan Michael.
“But are you going to Rashkoff, indeed, with this young beauty?”

“Oh, this is an ordinary puss, not a beauty, gracious benefactor,”
said Novoveski; “and I am going to Rashkoff, for my son, the
rascal, is serving there under the banner of Pan Rushchyts. It is
nearly ten years since he ran away from home, and knocks at my
fatherly clemency only with letters.”

“I guessed at once that you were Pan Adam’s father, and I was about
to inquire; but we were so taken up with sorrow for Pani Boski. I
guessed it at once, for there is a resemblance in features. Well,
then, he is your son?”

“So his late mother declared; and as she was a virtuous woman, I
have no reason for doubt.”

“I am doubly glad to have such a guest as you. For God’s sake, but
do not call your son a rascal; for he is a famous soldier, and a
worthy cavalier, who brings the highest honor to your grace. Do
you not know that, after Pan Rushchyts, he is the best partisan
in the squadron? Do you not know that he is an eye in the head of
the hetman? Independent commands are intrusted to him, and he has
fulfilled every function with incomparable credit.”

Pan Novoveski flushed from delight. “Gracious Colonel,” said he,
“more than once a father blames his child only to let some one deny
what he says; and I think that ’tis impossible to please a parent’s
heart more than by such a denial. Reports have reached me already
of Adam’s good service; but I am really comforted now for the first
time, when I hear these reports confirmed by such renowned lips.
They say that he is not only a manful soldier, but steady,--which
is even a wonder to me, for he was always a whirlwind. The rogue
had a love for war from youth upward; and the best proof of this is
that he ran away from home as a boy. If I could have caught him at
that time, I would not have spared him. But now I must spare him;
if not, he would hide for ten other years, and it is dreary for me,
an old man, without him.”

“And has he not been home during so many years?”

“He has not; I forbade him. But I have had enough of it, and now
I go to him, since he, being in service, cannot come to me. I
intended to ask of you and my benefactress a refuge for this maiden
while I went to Rashkoff alone; but since you say that it is safe
everywhere, I will take her. She is curious, the magpie, to see the
world. Let her look at it.”

“And let people look at her,” put in Zagloba. “Ah, they would
have nothing to see,” said the young lady, out of whose dark eyes
and mouth, fixed as if for a kiss, something quite different was
speaking.

“An ordinary puss,--nothing more than a puss!” said Pan Novoveski.
“But if she sees a handsome officer, something may happen;
therefore I chose to bring her with me rather than leave her,
especially as it is dangerous for a girl at home alone. But if I go
without her to Rashkoff, then let her grace give command to tie her
with a cord, or she will play pranks.”

“I was no better myself,” said Basia.

“They gave her a distaff to spin,” said Zagloba; “but she danced
with it, since she had no one better to dance with. But you are
a jovial man. Basia, I should like to have an encounter with Pan
Novoveski, for I also am fond of amusement at times.”

Meanwhile, before supper was served, the door opened, and
Mellehovich entered. Pan Novoveski did not notice him at once, for
he was talking with Zagloba; but Eva saw him, and a flame struck
her face; then she grew pale suddenly.

“Pan Commandant,” said Mellehovich to Pan Michael, “according to
order, those men were caught.”

“Well, where are they?”

“According to order, I had them hanged.”

“Well done! And have your men returned?”

“A part remained to bury the bodies; the rest are with me.”

At this moment Pan Novoveski raised his head, and great
astonishment was reflected on his face. “In God’s name, what do I
see?” cried he. Then he rose, went straight to Mellehovich, and
said, “Azya! And what art thou doing here, ruffian?”

He raised his hand to seize the Tartar by the collar; but in
Mellehovich there was such an outburst in one moment as there is
when a man throws a handful of powder into fire; he grew pale as a
corpse, and seizing with iron grasp the hand of Novoveski, he said,
“I do not know you! Who are you?” and pushed him so violently that
Novoveski staggered to the middle of the room. For some time he
could not utter a word from rage; but regaining breath, began to
cry,--

“Gracious Commandant, this is my man, and besides that, a runaway.
He was in my house from childhood. The ruffian denies! He is my
man! Eva, who is he? Tell.”

“Azya,” said Eva, trembling in all her body.

Mellehovich did not even look at her. With eyes fixed on Novoveski,
and with quivering nostril, he looked at the old noble with
unspeakable hatred, pressing with his hand the handle of his knife.
At the same time his mustaches began to quiver from the movement
of his nostrils, and from under those mustaches white teeth were
gleaming, like those of an angry wild beast.

The officers stood in a circle; Basia sprang in between Mellehovich
and Novoveski. “What does this mean?” asked she, frowning.

“Pan Commandant,” said Novoveski, “this is my man, Azya by name,
and a runaway. Serving in youthful years in the Crimea, I found
him half alive on the steppe, and I took him. He is a Tartar. He
remained twelve years in my house, and was taught together with my
son. When my son ran away, this one helped me in management until
he wished to make love to Eva; seeing this, I had him flogged: he
ran away after that. What is his name here?”

“Mellehovich.”

“He has assumed that name. He is called Azya,--nothing more. He
says that he does not know me; but I know him, and so does Eva.”

“Your grace’s son has seen him many times,” said Basia. “Why did
not he know him?”

“My son might not know him; for when he ran away from home, both
were fifteen years old, and this one remained six years with me
afterward, during which time he changed considerably, grew, and got
mustaches. But Eva knew him at once. Gracious hosts, you will lend
belief more quickly to a citizen than to this accident from the
Crimea!”

“Pan Mellehovich is an officer of the hetman,” said Basia; “we have
nothing to do with him.”

“Permit me; I will ask him. Let the other side be heard,” said the
little knight.

But Pan Novoveski was furious. “_Pan_ Mellehovich! What sort of
a _Pan_ is he?--My serving-lad, who has hidden himself under a
strange name. To-morrow I’ll make my dog keeper of that _Pan_;
the day after to-morrow I’ll give command to beat that _Pan_ with
clubs. And the hetman himself cannot hinder me; for I am a noble,
and I know my rights.”

To this Pan Michael answered more sharply, and his mustaches
quivered. “I am not only a noble, but a colonel, and I know my
rights too. You can demand your man, by law, and have recourse to
the jurisdiction of the hetman; but I command here, and no one else
does.”

Pan Novoveski moderated at once, remembering that he was talking,
not only to a commandant, but to his own son’s superior, and
besides the most noted knight in the Commonwealth. “Pan Colonel,”
said he, in a milder tone, “I will not take him against the will of
your grace; but I bring forward my rights, and I beg you to believe
me.”

“Mellehovich, what do you say to this?” asked Volodyovski.

The Tartar fixed his eyes on the floor, and was silent.

“That your name is Azya we all know,” added Pan Michael.

“There are other proofs to seek,” said Novoveski. “If he is my man,
he has fish tattooed in blue on his breast.”

Hearing this, Pan Nyenashinyets opened his eyes widely and his
mouth; then he seized himself by the head, and cried, “Azya, Tugai
Beyovich!”

All eyes were turned on him; he trembled throughout his whole body,
as if all his wounds were reopened, and he repeated, “That is my
captive! That is Tugai Bey’s son. As God lives, it is he.”

But the young Tartar raised his head proudly, cast his wild-cat
glance on the assembly, and pulling open suddenly the clothes on
his bosom, said, “Here are the fish tattooed in blue. I am the son
of Tugai Bey!”




CHAPTER XXIX.


All were silent, so great was the impression which the name of the
terrible warrior had made. Tugai Bey was the man who, in company
with the dreadful Hmelnitski, had shaken the entire Commonwealth;
he had shed a whole sea of Polish blood; he had trampled the
Ukraine, Volynia, Podolia, and the lands of Galicia with the hoofs
of horses; had destroyed castles and towns, had visited villages
with fire, had taken tens of thousands of people captive. The son
of such a man was now there before the assembly in the stanitsa of
Hreptyoff, and said to the eyes of people: “I have blue fish on my
breast; I am Azya, bone of the bone of Tugai Bey.” But such was
the honor among people of that time for famous blood that in spite
of the terror which the name of the celebrated murza must have
called forth in the soul of each soldier, Mellehovich increased in
their eyes as if he had taken on himself the whole greatness of his
father.

They looked on him with wonderment, especially the women, for whom
every mystery becomes the highest charm; he too, as if he had
increased in his own eyes through his confession, grew haughty: he
did not drop his head a whit, but said in conclusion,--

“That noble”--here he pointed at Novoveski--“says I am his man;
but this is my reply to him: ‘My father mounted his steed from
the backs of men better than you.’ He says truly also that I was
with him, for I was, and under his rods my back streamed with
blood, which I shall not forget, so help me God! I took the name
of Mellehovich to escape his pursuit. But now, though I might have
gone to the Crimea, I am serving this fatherland with my blood
and health, and I am under no one but the hetman. My father was
a relative of the Khan, and in the Crimea wealth and luxury were
waiting for me; but I remained here in contempt, for I love this
fatherland, I love the hetman, and I love those who have never
disdained me.”

When he had said this, he bowed to Volodyovski, bowed so low before
Basia that his head almost touched her knees; then, without looking
on any one again, he took his sabre under his arm, and walked out.

For a time yet silence continued. Zagloba spoke first. “Ha! Where
is Pan Snitko! But I said that a wolf was looking out of the eyes
of that Azya; and he is the son of a wolf!”

“The son of a lion!” said Volodyovski; “and who knows if he hasn’t
taken after his father?”

“As God lives, gentlemen, did you notice how his teeth glittered,
just like those of old Tugai when he was in anger?” said Pan
Mushalski. “By that alone I should have known him, for I saw old
Tugai often.”

“Not so often as I,” said Zagloba.

“Now I understand,” put in Bogush, “why he is so much esteemed
among the Tartars of Lithuania and the South. And they remember
Tugai’s name as sacred. By the living God, if that man had the
wish, he might take every Tartar to the Sultan’s service, and cause
us a world of trouble.”

“He will not do that,” answered Pan Michael, “for what he has
said--that he loves the country and the hetman--is true; otherwise
he would not be serving among us, being able to go to the Crimea
and swim there in everything. He has not known luxury with us.”

“He will not go to the Crimea,” said Pan Bogush, “for if he had had
the wish, he could have done so already; he met no hindrance.”

“On the contrary,” added Nyenashinyets, “I believe now that he
will entice back all those traitorous captains to the Commonwealth
again.”

“Pan Novoveski,” said Zagloba, suddenly, “if you had known that he
was the son of Tugai Bey, perhaps then--perhaps so--what?”

“I should have commanded to give him, instead of three hundred,
three thousand blows. May the thunderbolts shatter me if I would
not have done so! Gracious gentlemen, it is a wonder to me that he,
being Tugai Bey’s whelp, did not run off to the Crimea, It must be
that he discovered this only recently; for when with me he knew
nothing about it. This is a wonder to me, I tell you it is; but for
God’s sake, do not trust him. I know him, gentlemen, longer than
you do; and I will tell you only this much: the devil is not so
slippery, a mad dog is not so irritable, a wolf is less malignant
and cruel, than that man. He will pour tallow under the skins of
you all yet.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Mushalski. “We have seen him
in action at Kalnik, at Uman, at Bratslav, and in a hundred other
emergencies.”

“He will not forget his own; he will have vengeance,” said
Novoveski.

“But to-day he slew Azba’s ravagers. What are you telling us?”

Meanwhile Basia was all on fire, that history of Mellehovich
occupied her so much; but she was anxious that the end should be
worthy of the beginning; therefore, shaking Eva Novoveski, she
whispered in her ear, “But you loved him, Eva? Own up; don’t deny!
You loved him. You love him yet, do you not? I am sure you do.
Be outspoken with me. In whom can you confide, if not in me, a
woman? There is almost royal blood in him. The hetman will get him,
not one, but ten naturalizations. Pan Novoveski will not oppose.
Undoubtedly Azya himself loves you yet. I know already; I know, I
know. Never fear. He has confidence in me. I will put the question
to him at once. He will tell me without torture. You loved him
terribly; you love him yet, do you not?”

Eva was as if dazed. When Azya showed his inclination to her the
first time, she was almost a child; after that she did not see
him for a number of years, and had ceased to think of him. There
remained with her the remembrance of him as a passionate stripling,
who was half comrade to her brother, and half serving-lad. But now
she saw him again; he stood before her a handsome hero and fierce
as a falcon, a famous warrior, and, besides, the son of a foreign,
it is true, but princely, stock. Therefore young Azya seemed to
her altogether different; therefore the sight of him stunned her,
and at the time dazzled and charmed her. Memories of him appeared
before her as in a dream. Her heart could not love the young man in
one moment, but in one moment she felt in it an agreeable readiness
to love him.

Basia, unable to question her to the end, took her, with Zosia
Boski, to an alcove, and began again to insist, “Eva, tell me
quickly, awfully quickly, do you love him?”

A flame beat into the face of Eva. She was a dark-haired and
dark-eyed maiden, with hot blood; and that blood flew to her cheeks
at any mention of love.

“Eva,” repeated Basia, for the tenth time, “do you love him?”

“I do not know,” answered Eva, after a moment’s hesitation.

“But you don’t deny? Oho! I know. Do not hesitate. I told Michael
first that I loved him,--no harm! and it was well. You must have
loved each other terribly this long time. Ha! I understand now. It
is from yearning for you that he has always been so gloomy; he went
around like a wolf. The poor soldier withered away almost. What
passed between you? Tell me.”

“He told me in the storehouse that he loved me,” whispered Eva.

“In the storehouse! What then?”

“Then he caught me and began to kiss me,” continued she, in a still
lower voice.

“Maybe I don’t know him, that Mellehovich! And what did you do?”

“I was afraid to scream.”

“Afraid to scream! Zosia, do you hear that? When was your loving
found out?”

“Father came in, and struck him on the spot with a hatchet; then he
whipped me, and gave orders to flog him so severely that he was a
fortnight in bed.”

Here Eva began to cry, partly from sorrow, and partly from
confusion. At sight of this, the dark-blue eyes of the sensitive
Zosia filled with tears, then Basia began to comfort Eva, “All will
be well, my head on that! And I will harness Michael into the work,
and Pan Zagloba. I will persuade them, never fear. Against the wit
of Pan Zagloba nothing can stand; you do not know him. Don’t cry,
Eva dear, it is time for supper.”

Mellehovich was not at supper. He was sitting in his own room,
warming at the fire gorailka and mead, which he poured into a
smaller cup afterward and drank, eating at the same time dry
biscuits. Pan Bogush came to him late in the evening to talk over
news.

The Tartar seated him at once on a chair lined with sheepskin, and
placing before him a pitcher of hot drink, inquired, “But does Pan
Novoveski still wish to make me his slave?”

“There is no longer any talk of that,” answered the under-stolnik
of Novgrod, “Pan Nyenashinyets might claim you first; but he cares
nothing for you, since his sister is already either dead, or does
not wish any change in her fate. Pan Novoveski did not know who you
were when he punished you for intimacy with his daughter. Now he
is going around like one stunned, for though your father brought
a world of evil on this country, he was a renowned warrior, and
blood is always blood. As God lives, no one will raise a finger
here while you serve the country faithfully, especially as you have
friends on all sides.”

“Why should I not serve faithfully?” answered Azya. “My father
fought against you; but he was a Pagan, while I profess Christ.”

“That’s it,--that’s it! You cannot return to the Crimea,
unless with loss of faith, and that would be followed by loss
of salvation; therefore no earthly wealth, dignity, or office
could recompense you. In truth, you owe gratitude both to Pan
Nyenashinyets and Pan Novoveski, for the first brought you from
among Pagans, and the second reared you in the true faith.”

“I know,” said Azya, “that I owe them gratitude, and I will try to
repay them. Your grace has remarked truly that I have found here a
multitude of benefactors.”

“You speak as if it were bitter in your mouth when you say that;
but count yourself your well-wishers.”

“His grace the hetman and you in the first rank,--that I will
repeat until death. What others there are, I know not.”

“But the commandant here? Do you think that he would yield you into
any one’s hands, even though you were not Tugai Bey’s son? And
Pani Volodyovski, I heard what she said about you during supper.
Even before, when Novoveski recognized you, she took your part.
Pan Volodyovski would do everything for her, for he does not see
the world beyond her; a sister could not have more affection for a
brother than she has for you. During the whole time of supper your
name was on her lips.”

The young Tartar bent his head suddenly, and began to blow into the
cup of hot drink; when he put out his somewhat blue lips to blow,
his face became so Tartar-like that Pan Bogush said,--

“As God is true, how entirely like Tugai Bey you were this moment
passes imagination. I knew him perfectly. I saw him in the palace
of the Khan and on the field; I went to his encampment it is small
to say twenty times.”

“May God bless the just, and the plague choke evildoers!” said
Azya. “To the health of the hetman!”

Pan Bogush drank, and said, “Health and long years! It is true
those of us who stand with him are a handful, but true soldiers.
God grant that we shall not give up to those bread-skinners, who
know only how to intrigue at petty diets, and accuse the hetman of
treason to the king. The rascals! We stand night and day with our
faces to the enemy, and they draw around kneading-troughs full of
hashed meat and cabbage with millet, and are drumming on them with
spoons,--that is their labor. The hetman sends envoy after envoy,
implores reinforcements for Kamenyets. Cassandra-like, he predicts
the destruction of Ilion and the people of Priam; but they have
no thought in their heads, and are simply looking for an offender
against the king.”

“Of what is your grace speaking?”

“Nothing! I made a comparison of Kamenyets with Troy; but you, of
course, have not heard of Troy. Wait a little; the hetman will
obtain naturalization for you. The times are such that the occasion
will not be wanting, if you wish really to cover yourself with
glory.”

“Either I shall cover myself with glory, or earth will cover me.
You will hear of me, as God is in heaven!”

“But those men? What is Krychinski doing? Will they return, or not?
What are they doing now?”

“They are in encampment,--some in Urzyisk, others farther on. It is
hard to come to an agreement at present, for they are far from one
another. They have an order to move in spring to Adrianople, and to
take with them all the provisions they can carry.”

“In God’s name, that is important, for if there is to be a great
gathering of forces in Adrianople, war with us is certain. It is
necessary to inform the hetman of this at once. He thinks also that
war will come, but this would be an infallible sign.”

“Halim told me that it is said there among them that the Sultan
himself is to be at Adrianople.”

“Praised be the name of the Lord! And here with us hardly a handful
of troops. Our whole hope in the rock of Kamenyets! Does Krychinski
bring forward new conditions?”

“He presents complaints rather than conditions. A general amnesty,
a return to the rights and privileges of nobles which they had
formerly, commands for the captains,--is what they wish; but as the
Sultan has offered them more, they are hesitating.”

“What do you tell me? How could the Sultan give them more than
the Commonwealth? In Turkey there is absolute rule, and all
rights depend on the fancy of the Sultan alone. Even if he who is
living and reigning at present were to keep all his promises, his
successor might break them or trample on them at will; while with
us privileges are sacred, and whoso becomes a noble, from him even
the king can take nothing.”

“They say that they were nobles, and still they were treated on a
level with dragoons; that the starostas commanded them more than
once to perform various duties, from which not only a noble is
free, but even an attendant.”

“But if the hetman promises them.”

“No one doubts the high mind of the hetman, and all love him in
their hearts secretly; but they think thus to themselves: ‘The
crowd of nobles will shout down the hetman as a traitor; at the
king’s court they hate him; a confederacy threatens him with
impeachment. How can he do anything?’”

Pan Bogush began to stroke his forelock. “Well, what?”

“They know not themselves what to do.”

“And will they remain with the Sultan?”

“No.”

“But who will command them to return to the Commonwealth?”

“I.”

“How is that?”

“I am the son of Tugai Bey.”

“My Azya,” said Pan Bogush, after a while, “I do not deny that they
may be in love with your blood and the glory of Tugai Bey, though
they are our Tartars, and Tugai Bey was our enemy. I understand
such things, for even with us there are nobles who say with a
certain pride that Hmelnitski was a noble, and descended, not from
the Cossacks, but from our people,--from the Mazovians. Well,
though such a rascal that in hell a worse is not to be found, they
are glad to recognize him, because he was a renowned warrior. Such
is the nature of man! But that your blood of Tugai Bey should give
you the right to command all Tartars, for this I see no sufficient
reason.”

Azya was silent for a time; then he rested his palms on his thighs,
and said, “Then I will tell you; Krychinski and other Tartars obey
me. For besides this, that they are simple Tartars and I a prince,
there are resources and power in me. But neither you know them, nor
does the hetman himself know them.”

“What resources, what power?”

“I do not know how to tell you,” answered Azya, in Russian. “But
why am I ready to do things that another would not dare? Why have I
thought of that of which another would not have thought?”

“What do you say? Of what have you thought?”

“I have thought of this,--that if the hetman would give me the will
and the right, I would bring back, not merely the captains, but
would put half the horde in the service of the hetman. Is there
little vacant land in the Ukraine and the Wilderness? Let the
hetman only announce that if a Tartar comes to the Commonwealth
he will be a noble, will not be oppressed in his faith, and will
serve in a squadron of his own people, that all will have their
own hetman, as the Cossacks have, and my head for it, the whole
Ukraine will be swarming soon. The Lithuanian Tartars will come;
they will come from the South; they will come from Dobrudja and
Belgrod; they will come from the Crimea; they will drive their
flocks, and bring their wives and children in wagons. Do not shake
your head, your grace; they will come!--as those came long ago who
served the Commonwealth faithfully for generations. In the Crimea
and everywhere the Khan and the murzas oppress the people; but in
the Ukraine they will have their sabres, and take the field under
their own hetman. I swear to you that they will come, for they
suffer from hunger there from time to time. Now, if it is announced
among the villages that I, by the authority of the hetman, call
them,--that Tugai Bey’s son calls,--thousands will come here.”

Pan Bogush seized his own head: “By the wounds of God, Azya, whence
did such thoughts come to you? What would there be?”

“There would be in the Ukraine a Tartar nation, as there is a
Cossack. You have granted privileges to the Cossacks, and a hetman.
Why should you not grant them to us? You ask what there would be.
There would not be what there is now,--a second Hmelnitski,--for
we should have put foot at once on the throat of the Cossack;
there would not be an uprising of peasants, slaughter and ruin;
there would be no Doroshenko, for let him but rise, and I should
be the first to bring him on a halter to the feet of the hetman.
And should the Turkish power think to move against us, we would
beat the Sultan; were the Khan to threaten raids, we would beat
the Khan. Is it so long since the Lithuanian Tartars, and those
of Podolia, did the like, though remaining in the Mohammedan
faith? Why should we do otherwise? We are of the Commonwealth, we
are noble. Now, calculate. The Ukraine in peace, the Cossacks in
check, protection against Turkey, a number of tens of thousands
of additional troops,--this is what I have been thinking; this is
what came to my head; this is why Krychinski, Adurovich, Moravski,
Tarasovski, obey me; this is why one half the Crimea will roll to
those steppes when I raise the call.”

Pan Bogush was as much astonished and weighed down by the words of
Azya as if the walls of that room in which they were sitting had
opened on a sudden, and new, unknown regions had appeared to his
eyes. For a long time he could not utter a word, and merely gazed
on the young Tartar; but Azya began to walk with great strides up
and down in the room. At last he said,--

“Without me this cannot be done, for I am the son of Tugai Bey; and
from the Dnieper to the Danube there is no greater name among the
Tartars.” After a while he added: “What are Krychinski, Tarasovski,
and others to me? It is not a question of them alone, or of some
thousands of Lithuanian or Podolian Tartars, but of the whole
Commonwealth. They say that in spring a great war will rise with
the power of the Sultan; but only give me permission, and I will
cause such a seething among the Tartars that the Sultan himself
will scald his hands.”

“In God’s name, who are you, Azya?” cried Pan Bogush.

The young man raised his head: “The coming hetman of the Tartars!”

A gleam of the fire fell at that moment on Azya, lighting his
face, which was at once cruel and beautiful. And it seemed to Pan
Bogush that some new man was standing before him, such was the
greatness and pride beating from the person of the young Tartar.
Pan Bogush felt also that Azya was speaking the truth. If such
a proclamation of the hetman were published, all the Lithuanian
and Podolian Tartars would return without fail, and very many of
the wild Tartars would follow them. The old noble knew passing
well the Crimea, in which he had been twice as a captive, and,
ransomed by the hetman, had been afterward an envoy; he knew the
court of Bagchesarai; he knew the hordes living from the Don to the
Dobrudja; he knew that in winter many villages were depopulated
by hunger; he knew that the despotism and rapacity of the Khan’s
baskaks were disgusting to the murzas; that in the Crimea itself
it came often to rebellion; he understood at once, then, that rich
lands and privileges would entice without fail all those for whom
it was evil, narrow, or dangerous in their old homesteads. They
would be enticed most surely if the son of Tugai Bey raised the
call. He alone could do this,--no other. He, through the renown of
his father, might rouse villages, involve one half of the Crimea
against the other half, bring in the wild horde of Belgrod, and
shake the whole power of the Khan,--nay, even that of the Sultan.
Should the hetman desire to take advantage of the occasion, he
might consider Tugai Bey’s son as a man sent by Providence itself.

Pan Bogush began then to look with another eye on Azya, and to
wonder more and more how such thoughts could be hatched in his
head. And the sweat was in drops like pearl on the forehead of the
knight, so immense did those thoughts seem to him. Still, doubt
remained yet in his soul; therefore he said, after a while,--

“And do you know that there would have to be war with Turkey over
such a question?”

“There will be war as it is. Why did they command the horde to
march to Adrianople? There will be war unless dissensions rise in
the Sultan’s dominions; and if it comes to taking the field, half
the horde will be on our side.”

“For every point the rogue has an argument,” thought Pan Bogush.
“It turns one’s head,” said he, after a while, “You see, Azya, in
every case it is not an easy thing. What would the king say, what
the chancellor, the estates, and all the nobles, for the greater
part hostile to the hetman?”

“I need only the permission of the hetman on paper; and when we
are once here, let them drive us out! Who will drive us out, and
with what? You would be glad to squeeze the Zaporojians out of the
Saitch, but you cannot in any way.”

“The hetman will dread the responsibility.”

“Behind the hetman will be fifty thousand sabres of the horde,
besides the troops which he has in hand.”

“But the Cossacks? Do you forget the Cossacks? They will begin
opposition at once.”

“We are needed here specially to keep a sword hanging over the
Cossack neck. Through whom has Doroshenko support? Through the
Tartars! Let me take the Tartars in hand, Doroshenko must beat with
his forehead to the hetman.”

Here Azya stretched out his palm and opened his fingers like the
talons of an eagle; then he grasped after the hilt of his sabre.
“This is the way we will show the Cossacks law! They will become
serfs, and we will hold the Ukraine. Do you hear, Pan Bogush? You
think that I am a small man; but I am not so small as it seems
to Novoveski, the commandant of this place, and you, Pan Bogush.
Behold, I have been thinking over this day and night, till I have
grown thin, till my face is sunken. Look at it, your grace; it has
grown black. But what I have thought out, I have thought out well;
and therefore I tell you that in me there are resources and power.
You see yourself that these are great things. Go to the hetman, but
go quickly. Lay the question before him; let him give me a letter
touching this matter, and I shall not care about the estates. The
hetman has a great soul; the hetman will know that this is power
and resource. Tell the hetman that I am Tugai Bey’s son; that I
alone can do this. Lay it before him, let him consent to it; but
in God’s name, let it be done in time, while there is snow on the
steppe, before spring, for in spring there will be war! Go at once
and return at once, so that I may know quickly what I am to do.”

Pan Bogush did not observe even that Azya spoke in a tone of
command, as if he were a hetman giving instructions to his officer.
“To-morrow I will rest,” said he; “and after to-morrow I will set
out. God grant me to find the hetman in Yavorov! Decision is quick
with him, and soon you will have an answer.”

“What does your grace think,--will the hetman consent?”

“Perhaps he will command you to come to him; do not go to Rashkoff,
then, at present,--you can go more quickly to Yavorov from this
place. Whether he will agree, I know not; but he will take the
matter under prompt consideration, for you present powerful
reasons. By the living God, I did not expect this of you; but I see
now that you are an uncommon man, and that the Lord God predestined
you to greatness. Well, Azya, Azya! Lieutenant in a Tartar
squadron, nothing more, and such things are in his head that fear
seizes a man! Now I shall not wonder even if I see a heron-feather
in your cap, and a bunchuk above you. I believe now what you tell
me,--that these thoughts have been burning you in the nighttime. I
will go at once, the day after to-morrow; but I will rest a little.
Now I will leave you, for it is late, and my head is as noisy as a
saw-mill. Be with God, Azya! My temples are aching as if I had been
drunk. Be with God, Azya, son of Tugai Bey!”

Here Pan Bogush pressed the thin hand of the Tartar, and turned
toward the door; but on the threshold he stopped again, and said,
“How is this? New troops for the Commonwealth; a sword ready above
the neck of the Cossack; Doroshenko conquered; dissension in the
Crimea; the Turkish power weakened; an end to the raids against
Russia,--for God’s sake!”

When he had said this, Pan Bogush went out. Azya looked after him
a while, and whispered, “But for me a bunchuk, a baton, and, with
consent or without, she. Otherwise woe to you!”

Then he finished the gorailka, and threw himself on to the bed,
covered with skins. The fire had gone down in the chimney; but
through the window came in the clear rays of the moon, which had
risen high in the cold wintry sky. Azya lay for some time quietly,
but evidently was unable to sleep. At last he rose, approached
the window, and looked at the moon, sailing like a ship through
the infinite solitudes of heaven. The young Tartar looked at it
long; at last he placed his fists on his breast, pointed both
thumbs upward, and from the mouth of him who barely an hour before
had confessed Christ, came, in a half-chant, a half-drawl, in a
melancholy key,--

“La Allah illa Allah! Mahomet Rossul Allah!”




CHAPTER XXX.


Meanwhile Basia was holding counsel from early morning with her
husband and Pan Zagloba how to unite two loving and straitened
hearts. The two men laughed at her enthusiasm, and did not cease to
banter her; still, yielding to her usually in everything, as to a
spoiled child, they promised at last to assist her.

“The best thing,” said Zagloba, “is to persuade old Novoveski not
to take the girl with him to Rashkoff; tell him that the frosts
have come, and that the road is not perfectly safe. Here the young
people will see each other often, and fall in love with all their
might.”

“That is a splendid idea,” cried Basia.

“Splendid or not,” said Zagloba, “do not let them out of your
sight. You are a woman, and I think this way,--you will solder them
at last, for a woman carries her point always; but see to it that
the Devil does not carry his point in the mean while. That would be
a shame for you, since the affair is on your responsibility.”

Basia began first of all to spit at Pan Zagloba, like a cat; then
she said, “You boast that you were a Turk in your youth, and you
think that every one is a Turk. Azya is not that kind.”

“Not a Turk, only a Tartar. Pretty image! She would vouch for
Tartar love.”

“They are both thinking more of weeping, and that from harsh
sorrow. Eva, besides, is a most honest maiden.”

“Still, she has a face as if some one had written on her forehead,
‘Here are lips for you!’ Ho! she is a daw. Yesterday I fixed it in
my mind that when she sits opposite a nice fellow, her sighs are
such that they drive her plate forward time after time, and she
must push it back again. A real daw, I tell you.”

“Do you wish me to go to my own room?” asked Basia.

“You will not go when it is a question of match-making. I know
you,--you’ll not go! But still ’tis too early for you to make
matches; for that is the business of women with gray hair. Pani
Boski told me yesterday that when she saw you returning from the
battle in trousers, she thought that she was looking at Pani
Volodyovski’s son, who had gone to the woods on an expedition. You
do not love dignity; but dignity, too, does not love you, which
appears at once from your slender form. You are a regular student,
as God is dear to me! There is another style of women in the world
now. In my time, when a woman sat down, the chair squeaked in such
fashion that you might think some one had sat on the tail of a dog;
but as to you, you might ride bareback on a tom-cat without great
harm to the beast. They say, too, that women who begin to make
matches will have no posterity.”

“Do they really say that?” asked the little knight, alarmed.

But Zagloba began to laugh; and Basia, putting her rosy face to
the face of her husband, said, in an undertone, “Ah, Michael, at
a convenient time we will make a pilgrimage to Chenstohova; then
maybe the Most Holy Lady will change matters.”

“That is the best way indeed,” said Zagloba.

Then they embraced at once, and Basia said, “But now let us talk of
Azya and poor Eva, of how we are to help them. We are happy; let
them be happy.”

“When Novoveski goes away, it will be easier for them,” said the
little knight; “for in his presence they could not see each other,
especially as Azya hates the old man. But if the old man were to
give him Eva, maybe, forgetting former offences, they would begin
to love each other as son-in-law and father-in-law. According to my
head, it is not a question of bringing the young people together,
for they love each other already, but of bringing over the old man.”

“He is a misanthrope!” said Basia.

“Baska,” said Zagloba, “imagine to yourself that you had a
daughter, and that you had to give her to some Tartar--”

“Azya is a prince.”

“I do not deny that Tugai Bey comes of high blood. Ketling was a
noble; still Krysia would not have married him if he had not been
naturalized.”

“Then try to obtain naturalization for Azya.”

“Is that an easy thing? Though some one were to admit him to his
escutcheon, the Diet would have to confirm the choice; and for
that, time and protection are necessary.”

“I do not like this,--that time is needed,--for we could find
protection. Surely the hetman would not refuse it to Azya, for he
loves soldiers. Michael, write to the hetman. Do you want ink, pen,
paper? Write at once! I’ll bring you everything, and a taper and
the seal; and you will sit down and write without delay.”

“O Almighty God!” cried he, “I asked a sedate, sober wife of Thee,
and Thou didst give me a whirlwind!”

“Talk that way, talk; then I’ll die.”

“Ah, your impatience!” cried the little knight, with
animation,--“your impatience, tfu! tfu! a charm for a dog!” Here he
turned to Zagloba: “Do you not know the words of a charm?”

“I know them, and I’ve told them,” said Zagloba.

“Write!” cried Basia, “or I shall jump out of my skin.”

“I would write twelve letters, to please you, though I know not
what good that would be, for in this case the hetman himself can
do nothing; even with protection, Azya can appear only at the
right time. My Basia, Panna Novoveski has revealed her secret to
you,--very well! But you have not spoken to Azya, and you do not
know to this moment whether he is burning with love for Eva or not.”

“He not burning! Why shouldn’t he be burning, when he kissed her in
the storehouse? Aha!”

“Golden soul!” said Zagloba, smiling. “That is like the talk of
a newly born infant, except that you turn your tongue better. My
love, if Michael and I had to marry all the women whom we happened
to kiss, we should have to join the Mohammedan faith at once, and I
should be Sultan of Turkey, and he Khan of the Crimea. How is that,
Michael, hei?”

“I suspected Michael before I was his,” said Basia; and thrusting
her finger up to his eye, she began to tease him. “Move your
mustaches; move them! Do not deny! I know, I know, and you know--at
Ketling’s.”

The little knight really moved his mustaches to give himself
courage, and at the same time to cover his confusion; at last,
wishing to change the conversation, he said, “And so you do not
know whether Azya is in love with Panna Eva?”

“Wait; I will talk to him alone and ask him. But he is in love, he
must be in love! Otherwise I don’t want to know him.”

“In God’s name! she is ready to talk him into it,” said Zagloba.

“And I will persuade him, even if I had to shut myself in with him
daily.”

“Inquire of him, to begin with,” said the little knight. “Maybe
at first he will not confess, for he is shy; that is nothing. You
will gain his confidence gradually; you’ll know him better; you’ll
understand him, and then only can you decide what to do.” Here
the little knight turned to Zagloba: “She seems giddy, but she is
quick.”

“Kids are quick,” said Zagloba, seriously.

Further conversation was interrupted by Pan Bogush, who rushed in
like a bomb, and had barely kissed Basia’s hands when he exclaimed,
“May the bullets strike that Azya! I could not close my eyes the
whole night. May the woods cover him!”

“What did Pan Azya bring against your grace?” asked Basia.

“Do you know what we were making yesterday?” And Pan Bogush,
staring, began to look around on those present.

“What?”

“History! As God is dear to me, I do not lie.”

“What history?”

“The history of the Commonwealth; that is, simply a great man. Pan
Sobieski himself will be astonished when I lay Azya’s ideas before
him. A great man, I repeat to you; and I regret that I cannot tell
you more, for I am sure that you would be as much astonished as I.
I can only say that if what he has in view succeeds, God knows what
he will be.”

“For example,” asked Zagloba, “will he be hetman?”

Pan Bogush put his hands on his hips: “That is it,--he will be
hetman. I am sorry that I cannot tell you more. He will be hetman,
and that’s enough.”

“Perhaps a dog hetman, or he will go with bullocks. Chabans have
their hetmans also. Tfu! what is this that your grace is saying.
Pan Under-Stolnik? That he is the son of Tugai Bey is true; but
if he is to become hetman, what am I to become, or what will Pan
Michael become, or your grace? Shall we become three kings at the
birth of Christ, waiting for the abdication of Caspar, Melchior,
and Baltazar? The nobles at least created me commander; I resigned
the office, however, out of friendship for Pavel,[19] but, as God
lives, I don’t understand your prediction.”

“But I tell you that Azya is a great man.”

“I said so,” exclaimed Basia, turning toward the door, through
which other guests at the stanitsa began to enter.

First came Pani Boski with the blue-eyed Zosia, and Pan Novoveski
with Eva, who, after a night of bad sleep, looked more charming
than usual. She had slept badly, for strange dreams had disturbed
her; she dreamed of Azya, only he was more beautiful and insistent
than of old. The blood rushed to her face at thought of this
dream, for she imagined that every one would guess it in her eyes.
But no one noticed her, since all had begun to say “good-day” to
Pani Volodyovski. Then Pan Bogush resumed his narrative touching
Azya’s greatness and destiny; and Basia was glad that Eva and Pan
Novoveski must listen to it. In fact, the old noble had blown
off his anger since his first meeting with the Tartar, and was
notably calmer. He spoke of him no longer as his man. To tell the
truth, the discovery that he was a Tartar prince and a son of
Tugai Bey imposed upon him beyond measure. He heard with wonder of
Azya’s uncommon bravery, and how the hetman had intrusted such an
important function to him as that of bringing back to the service
of the Commonwealth all the Lithuanian and Podolian Tartars. At
times it seemed even to Pan Novoveski that they were talking of
some one else besides Azya, to such a degree had the young Tartar
become uncommon.

But Pan Bogush repeated every little while, with a very mysterious
mien, “This is nothing in comparison with what is waiting for
him; but I am not free to speak of it.” And when the others shook
their heads with doubt, he cried, “There are two great men in the
Commonwealth,--Pan Sobieski and that Azya, son of Tugai Bey.”

“By the dear God,” said Pan Novoveski, made impatient at last,
“prince or not prince, what can he be in this Commonwealth, unless
he is a noble? He is not naturalized yet.”

“The hetman will get him ten naturalizations!” cried Basia.

Eva listened to these praises with closed eyes and a beating heart.
It is difficult to say whether it would have beaten so feverishly
for a poor and unknown Azya as for Azya the knight and man of great
future. But that glitter captivated her; and the old remembrance of
the kisses and the fresh dream went through her with a quiver of
delight.

“So great and so celebrated,” said Eva. “What wonder if he is as
quick as fire!”




CHAPTER XXXI.


Basia took the Tartar that very day to “an examination,” following
the advice of her husband; and fearing the shyness of Azya, she
resolved not to insist too much at once. Still, he had barely
appeared before her when she said, straight from the bridge,--

“Pan Bogush says that you are a great man; but I think that the
greatest man cannot avoid love.”

Azya closed his eyes, inclined his head, and said, “Your grace is
right.”

“I see that you are a man with a heart.”

When she had said this, Basia began to shake her yellow forelock
and blink, as if to say that she knew affairs of this kind
well, and also hoped that she was not speaking to a man without
knowledge. Azya raised his head and embraced with his glance her
charming figure. She had never seemed so wonderful to him as on
that day, when her eyes, gleaming from curiosity and animation, and
the blushing childlike face, full of smiles, were raised toward his
face. But the more innocent the face, the more charm did Azya see
in it; the more did desire rise in his soul; the more powerfully
did love seize and intoxicate him as with wine, and drive out all
other desires, save this one alone,--to take her from her husband,
bear her away, hold her forever at his breast, press her lips
to his lips, feel her arms twined around his neck: to love, to
love even to forget himself, even to perish alone, or perish with
her. At thought of this the whole world whirled around with him;
new desires crept up every moment from the den of his soul, like
serpents from crevices in a cliff. But he was a man who possessed
also great self-control; therefore he said in spirit, “It is
impossible yet!” and he held his wild heart at check when he chose,
as a furious horse is held on a lariat.

He stood before her apparently cold, though he had a flame in his
mouth and eyes, and his deep pupils told all that his compressed
lips refused to confess. But Basia, having a soul as pure as water
in a spring, and besides a mind occupied entirely with something
else, did not understand that speech; she was thinking in the
moment what further to tell the Tartar; and at last, raising her
finger, she said:

“More than one bears in his heart hidden love, and does not dare to
speak of it to any one; but if he would confess his love sincerely,
perhaps he might learn something good.”

Azya’s face grew dark for a moment; a wild hope flashed through his
head like lightning; but he recollected himself, and inquired, “Of
what does your grace wish to speak?”

“Another would be hasty with you,” said Basia, “since women are
impatient, and not deliberate; but I am not of that kind. As
to helping, I would help you willingly, but I do not ask your
confidence in a moment; I only say this to you: Do not hide; come
to me even daily. I have spoken of this matter with my husband
already; gradually you will come to know and see my good-will, and
you will know that I do not ask through mere curiosity, but from
sympathy, and because if I am to assist, I must be certain that you
are in love. Besides, it is proper that you show it first; when you
acknowledge it to me, perhaps I can tell you something.”

Tugai Bey’s son understood now in an instant how vain was that
hope which had gleamed in his head a moment before; he divined at
once that it was a question of Eva Novoveski, and all the curses
on the whole family which time had collected in his vengeful soul
came to his mouth. Hatred burst out in him like a flame; the
greater, the more different were the feelings which had shaken
him a moment earlier. But he recollected himself. He possessed
not merely self-control, but the adroitness of Orientals. In one
moment he understood that if he burst out against the Novoveskis
venomously, he would lose the favor of Basia and the possibility of
seeing her daily; but, on the other hand, he felt that he could not
conquer himself--at least then--to such a degree as to lie to that
desired one in the face of his own soul by saying that he loved
another. Therefore, from a real internal conflict and undissembled
suffering, he threw himself suddenly before Basia, and kissing her
feet, began to speak thus:--

“I give my soul into the hands of your grace; I give my faith into
the hands of your grace. I do not wish to do anything except what
you command me; I do not wish to know any other will. Do with me
what you like. I live in torment and suffering; I am unhappy. Have
compassion on me; if not, I shall perish and be lost.”

And he began to groan, for he felt immense pain, and unacknowledged
desires burned him with a living flame. But Basia considered these
words as an outburst of love for Eva,--love long and painfully
hidden; therefore pity for the young man seized her, and two tears
gleamed in her eyes.

“Rise, Azya!” said she to the kneeling Tartar. “I have always
wished you well, and I wish sincerely to help you; you come of high
blood, and they will surely not withhold naturalization in return
for your services. Pan Novoveski will let himself be appeased, for
now he looks with different eyes on you; and Eva--” Here Basia
rose, raised her rosy, smiling face, and putting her hand at the
side of her mouth, whispered in Azya’s ear,--“Eva loves you.”

His face wrinkled, as if from rage; he seized his hips with
his hands, and without thinking of the astonishment which his
exclamation might cause, he repeated a number of times in a hoarse
voice, “Allah! Allah! Allah!” Then he rushed out of the room.

Basia looked after him for a moment. The cry did not astonish her
greatly, for the Polish soldiers used it often; but seeing the
violence of the young Tartar, she said to herself, “Real fire! He
is wild after her.” Then she shot out like a whirlwind to make a
report to her husband, Pan Zagloba, and Eva.

She found Pan Michael in the chancery, occupied with the registry
of the squadron stationed in Hreptyoff. He was sitting and writing,
but she ran up to him and cried, “Do you know? I spoke to him. He
fell at my feet; he is wild after her.”

The little knight put down his pen and began to look at his wife.
She was so animated and pretty that his eyes gleamed; and, smiling,
he stretched his arms toward her. She, defending herself, repeated
again,--

“Azya is wild after Eva!”

“As I am after you,” said the little knight, embracing her.

That same day Zagloba and Eva knew most minutely all her
conversation with Azya. The young lady’s heart yielded itself now
completely to the sweet feeling, and was beating like a hammer at
the thought of the first meeting, and still more at thought of
what would happen when they should be alone. And she saw already
the face of Azya at her knees, and felt his kisses on her hands,
and her own faintness at the time when the head of a maiden bends
toward the arms of the loved one, and her lips whisper, “I love.”
Meanwhile, from emotion and disquiet she kissed Basia’s hands
violently, and looked every moment at the door to see if she could
behold in it the gloomy but shapely form of young Tugai Bey.

But Azya did not show himself, for Halim had come to him,--Halim,
the old servant of his father, and at present a considerable murza
in the Dobrudja. He had come quite openly, since it was known in
Hreptyoff that he was the intermediary between Azya and those
captains who had accepted service with the Sultan. They shut
themselves up at once in Azya’s quarters, where Halim, after he
had given the requisite obeisances to Tugai Bey’s son, crossed his
hands on his breast, and with bowed head waited for questions.

“Have you any letters?” asked Azya.

“I have none, Effendi. They commanded me to give everything in
words.”

“Well, speak.”

“War is certain. In the spring we must all go to Adrianople.
Commands are issued to the Bulgarians to take hay and barley there.”

“And where will the Khan be?”

“He will go straight by the Wilderness, through the Ukraine, to
Doroshenko.”

“What do you hear concerning the encampments?”

“They are glad of the war, and are sighing for spring; there is
suffering in the encampments, though the winter is only beginning.”

“Is the suffering great?”

“Many horses have died. In Belgrod men have sold themselves into
slavery, only to live till spring. Many horses have died, Effendi;
for in the fall there was little grass on the steppes. The sun
burned it up.”

“But have they heard of Tugai Bey’s son?”

“I have spoken as much as you permitted. The report went out from
the Lithuanian and Podolian Tartars; but no one knows the truth
clearly. They are talking too of this,--that the Commonwealth
wishes to give them freedom and land, and call them to service
under Tugai Bey’s son. At the mere report all the villages that
are poorer were roused. They are willing, Effendi, they are
willing; but some explain to them that this is all untrue, that
the Commonwealth will send troops against them, and that there is
no son of Tugai Bey at all. There were merchants of ours in the
Crimea; they said that some there were giving out, ‘There is a son
of Tugai Bey,’ and the people were roused; others said, ‘There is
not,’ and the people were restrained. But if it should go out that
your grace calls them to freedom, land, and service, swarms would
move. Only let it be free for me to speak.”

Azya’s face grew bright from satisfaction, and he began to walk
with great strides up and down in the room; then he said, “Be in
good health, Halim, under my roof. Sit down and eat.”

“I am your servant and dog, Effendi,” said the old Tartar.

Azya clapped his hands, whereupon a Tartar orderly came in, and,
hearing the command, brought refreshments after a time,--gorailka,
dried meat, bread, sweetmeats, and some handfuls of dried
water-melon seeds, which, with sunflower seeds, are a tidbit
greatly relished by Tartars.

“You are a friend, not a servant,” said Azya, when the orderly
retired. “Be well, for you bring good news; sit and eat.”

Halim began to eat, and until he had finished, they said nothing;
but he refreshed himself quickly, and began to glance at Azya,
waiting till he should speak.

“They know here now who I am,” said Azya, at length.

“And what, Effendi?”

“Nothing. They respect me still more. When it came to work, I had
to tell them anyhow. But I delayed, for I was waiting for news from
the horde, and I wished the hetman to know first; but Novoveski
came, and he recognized me.”

“The young one?” asked Halim, with fear.

“The old, not the young one. Allah has sent them all to me here,
for the maiden is here. The Evil Spirit must have entered them.
Only let me become hetman, I will play with them. They are giving
me the maiden; very well, slaves are needed in the harem.”

“Is the old man giving her?”

“No. _She_--she thinks that I love, not her, but the other.”

“Effendi,” said Halim, bowing, “I am the slave of your house, and
I have not the right to speak before your face; but I recognized
you among the Lithuanian Tartars; I told you at Bratslav who you
are; and from that time I serve you faithfully. I tell others that
they are to look on you as master; but though they love you, no one
loves you as I do: is it free for me to speak?”

“Speak.”

“Be on your guard against the little knight. He is famous in the
Crimea and the Dobrudja.”

“And, Halim, have you heard of Hmelnitski?”

“I have, and I served Tugai Bey, who warred with Hmelnitski against
the Poles, ruined castles, and took property.”

“And do you know that Hmelnitski took Chaplinski’s wife from him,
married her himself, and had children by her? What then? There
was war; and all the troops of the hetmans and the king and the
Commonwealth did not take her from Hmelnitski. He beat the hetmans
and the king and the Commonwealth; and besides that, he was hetman
of the Cossacks. And I,--what shall I be? Hetman of the Tartars.
They must give me plenty of land, and some town as capital; around
the town villages will rise on rich land, and in the villages good
men with sabres, many bows and many sabres. And when I carry her
away to my town, and have her for wife, the beauty, with whom will
the power be? With me. Who will demand her? The little knight,--if
he be alive. Even should he be alive, and howl like a wolf and
beat with his forehead to the king with complaint, do you think
that they would raise war with me for one bright tress? They have
had such a war already, and half the Commonwealth was flaming with
fire. Who will take her? Is it the hetman? Then I will join the
Cossacks, will conclude brotherhood with Doroshenko, and give the
country over to the Sultan. I am a second Hmelnitski; I am better
than Hmelnitski: in me a lion is dwelling. Let them permit me to
take her, I will serve them, beat the Cossacks, beat the Khan,
and beat the Sultan; but if not, I will trample all Lehistan[20]
with hoofs, take hetmans captive, scatter armies, burn towns, slay
people. I am Tugai Bey’s son; I am a lion.”

Here Azya’s eyes blazed with a red light; his white teeth glittered
like those of old Tugai; he raised his hand and shook his
threatening fist toward the north, and he was great and terrible
and splendid, so that Halim bowed to him repeatedly, and said
hurriedly, in a low voice,--

“Allah kerim! Allah kerim!”[21]

Then silence continued for a long time. Azya grew calm by degrees;
at last he said, “Bogush came here. I revealed to him my strength
and resource; namely, to have in the Ukraine, at the side of the
Cossack nation, a Tartar nation, and besides the Cossack hetman a
Tartar hetman.”

“Did he approve it?”

“He seized himself by the head, and almost beat with the forehead;
next day he galloped off to the hetman with the happy news.”

“Effendi,” said Halim, timidly, “but if the Great Lion should not
approve it?”

“Sobieski?”

“Yes.”

A ruddy light began to gleam again in Azya’s eyes; but it remained
only during one twinkle. His face grew calm immediately; then he
sat on a bench, and resting his head on his hands, fell into deep
thought.

“I have weighed in my mind,” said he, at last, “what the grand
hetman may answer when Bogush gives him the happy news. The hetman
is wise, and will consent. The hetman knows that in spring there
will be war with the Sultan, for which there are neither men nor
money in the Commonwealth; and when Doroshenko and the Cossacks
are on the side of the Sultan, final destruction may come on
Lehistan,--and all the more that neither the king nor the estates
believe that there will be war, and are not hurrying to prepare for
it. I have an attentive ear here on everything; I know all, and
Bogush makes no secret before me of what they say at the hetman’s
headquarters. Pan Sobieski is a great man; he will consent, for he
knows that if the Tartars come here for freedom and land, a civil
war may spring up in the Crimea and the steppes of the Dobrudja,
that the strength of the horde will decrease, and that the Sultan
himself must see to quieting those outbreaks. Meanwhile, the
hetman will have time to prepare himself better; the Cossacks and
Doroshenko will waver in loyalty to the Sultan. This is the only
salvation for the Commonwealth, which is so weak that even the
return of a few thousand Lithuanian Tartars means much for it. The
hetman knows this; he is wise, he will consent.”

“I bow before your reason,” answered Halim; “but what will happen
if Allah takes from the Great Lion his light, or if Satan so blinds
him with pride that he will reject your plans?”

Azya pushed his wild face up to Halim’s ear, and whispered, “You
remain here now until the answer comes from the hetman; and till
then I will not go to Rashkoff. If they reject my plans, I will
send you to Krychinski and the others. You will give them the order
to advance to this side of the river almost up to Hreptyoff, and to
be in readiness; and I with my men here will fall on the command
the first night I choose, and do this for them--” Here Azya drew
his finger across his neck, and after a while added, “Fate, fate,
fate!”

Halim thrust his head down between his shoulders, and on his
beast-like face an ominous smile appeared. “Allah! And that to the
Little Falcon?”

“That to him first.”

“And then to the Sultan’s dominions?”

“To the Sultan’s dominions,--with her.”




CHAPTER XXXII.


A fierce winter covered the forests with heavy snow-clusters and
icicles, and filled ravines to their edges with drifts, so that the
whole land seemed a single white plain. Great, sudden storms came,
in which men and herds were lost under the pall of snow; roads grew
misleading and perilous: still, Pan Bogush hastened with all his
power to Yavorov to communicate Azya’s great plans to the hetman
as quickly as possible. A noble of the border, reared in continual
danger of Cossacks and Tartars, penetrated with the thought of
perils which threatened the country from insurrections, from raids,
from the whole power of the Turks, he saw in those plans almost the
salvation of the country; he believed sacredly that the hetman,
held in homage by him, and by all men of the frontier, would not
hesitate a moment when it was a question of the power of the
Commonwealth: hence he rode forward with joy in his heart, in spite
of snowdrifts, wrong roads, and tempests.

He dropped in at last on a Sunday, together with snow, at Yavorov,
and having the good fortune to find Pan Sobieski at home, announced
himself straightway, though attendants informed him that the
hetman, busied night and day with expeditions and the writing of
despatches, had barely time to take food. But beyond expectation,
the hetman gave command to call him at once. Therefore, after he
had waited only a short time, the old soldier bowed to the knees of
his leader.

He found Pan Sobieski changed greatly, and with a face full of
care; for those were well-nigh the most grievous years of his
life. His name had not thundered yet through every corner of
Christendom; but the fame of a great leader and a terrible crusher
of the Mussulman encircled him already in the Commonwealth. Owing
to that fame, the grand baton was confided to him in time, and the
defence of the eastern boundary; but with the dignity of hetman
they had given him neither money nor men. Still, victory had
followed his steps hitherto as faithfully as his shadow follows a
man. With a handful of troops he had won victory at Podhaytse; with
a handful of troops he had passed like a flame through the length
and the breadth of the Ukraine, rubbing into dust chambuls of many
thousands, capturing insurgent cities, spreading dread and terror
of the Polish name. But now there hung over the Commonwealth a war
with the most terrible of the powers of that period, for it was a
war with the whole Mussulman world. It was no longer a secret for
Sobieski that since Doroshenko had given up the Ukraine and the
Cossacks to the Sultan, the latter had promised to move Turkey,
Asia Minor, Arabia, and Egypt as far as the interior of Africa, to
proclaim a sacred war, and go in his own person to demand the new
“pashalik”[22] from the Commonwealth. Destruction, like a bird of
prey, was floating over all Southern Russia, and meanwhile there
was disorder in the Commonwealth; the nobles were uproarious in
defence of their incompetent king, and, assembled in armed camps,
were ready for civil war, if for any. The country, exhausted
by recent conflicts and military confederations, had become
impoverished; envy was storming in it; mutual distrust was rankling
in men’s hearts.

No one wished to believe that war with the Mussulman power was
imminent; and they condemned the great leader for spreading news
about it purposely to turn men’s minds from home questions. He was
condemned greatly for this also,--that he was ready himself to call
in the Turks, if only to secure victory to his adherents. They made
him simply a traitor; and had it not been for the army, they would
not have hesitated to impeach him.

In view of the approaching war, to which thousands of legions of
wild people would march from the East, he was without an army,--he
had merely a handful, so small that the Sultan’s court counted more
servants; he was without money, without means of repairing the
ruined fortresses, without hope of victory, without possibility
of defence, without the conviction that his death, as formerly
the death of Jolkyevski, would rouse the torpid country and give
birth to an avenger. That was the reason that care had settled on
his forehead; and the lordly countenance, like that of a Roman
conqueror with a forehead in laurels, bore traces of hidden pain
and sleepless nights. But at sight of Bogush a kindly smile
brightened the face of the hetman; he placed his hands on the
shoulders of the man inclining before him, and said,--

“I greet you, soldier, I greet you! I had not hoped to see you
so soon; but you are the dearer to me in Yavorov. Whence do you
come,--from Kamenyets?”

“No, serene, great, mighty lord hetman, I have not even been at
Kamenyets. I come straightway from Hreptyoff.”

“What is my little soldier doing there? Is he well, and has he
cleared the wilds of Ushytsa even somewhat?”

“The wilds are so peaceful that a child might pass through them in
safety. The robbers are hanged, and in these last days Azba Bey
with his whole party was cut to pieces, so that even a witness of
the slaughter was not left. I arrived there on the very day of
their destruction.”

“I recognize Volodyovski: Rushchyts in Rashkoff is the only man
who may compare with him. But what do they say in the steppes? Are
there fresh tidings from the Danube?”

“There are, but of evil. There is to be a great muster of troops at
Adrianople in the last days of winter.”

“I know that already. There are no tidings now save of evil,--evil
from the Commonwealth, evil from the Crimea and from Stambul.”

“But not altogether, for I myself bring such good tidings that if I
were a Turk or a Tartar I should surely mention a present.”

“Well, then, you have fallen from heaven to me. Come, speak
quickly, dispel my anxiety!”

“But if I am so frozen, your great mightiness, that the wit has
stiffened in my head?”

The hetman clapped his hands, and commanded an attendant to
bring mead. After a while they brought in a mouldy decanter, and
candlesticks with burning tapers, for though the hour was still
early, snowy clouds had made the air so gloomy that outside, as
well as in the house, it was like nightfall.

The hetman poured out and drank to his guest; the latter, bowing
low, emptied his glass, and said: “The first news is this, that
Azya, who was to bring back to our service the captains of the
Lithuanian Tartars and the Cheremis, is not called Mellehovich, he
is a son of Tugai Bey.”

“Of Tugai Bey?” asked Pan Sobieski, with amazement.

“Thus it is, your great mightiness. It has come out that Pan
Nyenashinyets carried him away from the Crimea while a child, but
lost him on the road home; and Azya, falling into possession of the
Novoveskis, was reared at their house without knowing that he was
descended from such a father.”

“It was a wonder to me that he, though so young, was held in such
esteem among the Tartars. But now I understand; and the Cossacks
too, even those who have remained faithful to the mother,[23]
consider Hmelnitski as a kind of saint, and are proud of him.”

“That is just it, just it; I told Azya the same thing,” said Pan
Bogush.

“Wonderful are the ways of God,” said the hetman, after a while;
“old Tugai shed rivers of blood in our country, and his son is
serving it,--at least he serves it faithfully so far; but now I do
not know whether he will not wish to taste Crimean greatness.”

“Now? Now he is still more faithful; and here my second tidings
begin, in which it may be that strength and resource and salvation
for the suffering Commonwealth are contained. So help me God,
I forgot fatigue and danger in view of these tidings, so as to
let them out of my lips at the earliest moment, and console your
troubled heart.”

“I am listening eagerly,” said Pan Sobieski.

Bogush began to explain Azya’s plans, and presented them with such
enthusiasm that he grew really eloquent. From time to time his
hand, trembling from emotion, poured out a glass of mead, spilling
the noble drink over the rim; and he spoke and spoke on. Before
the astonished eyes of the grand hetman passed as it were clear
pictures of the future; therefore thousands and tens of thousands
of Tartars came for land and freedom, bringing their wives and
children and their herds; therefore the astonished Cossacks, seeing
the new power of the Commonwealth, bowed down to it obediently,
bowed down to the king and the hetman; hence there was rebellion in
the Ukraine no longer; hence raids, destructive as fire or flood,
were advancing no longer on the old roads against Russia,--but
at the side of the Polish and the Cossack armies moved over the
measureless steppes, with the playing of trumpets and the rattle of
drums, chambuls of Tartars, nobles of the Ukraine.

And for whole years carts after carts were advancing, and in them,
in spite of the commands of Khan and Sultan, were multitudes
who preferred the black land of the Ukraine and bread to their
former hungry settlements. And the power, hostile aforetime, was
moving to the service of the Commonwealth. The Crimea became
depopulated; their former power slipped out of the hands of the
Khan and the Sultan, and dread seized them; for from the steppes,
from the Ukraine, the new hetman of a new Tartar nobility looked
threateningly into their eyes,--a guardian and faithful defender
of the Commonwealth, the renowned son of a terrible father, young
Tugai Bey.

A flush came out on the countenance of Bogush; it seemed that his
own words bore him away, for at the end he raised both hands and
cried,--

“This is what I bring! This is what that dragon’s whelp has brooded
out in the wild woods of Hreptyoff! All that is needed now is
to give him a letter and permission from your great mightiness
to spread a report in the Crimea and on the Danube. Your great
mightiness, if Tugai Bey’s son were to do nothing except to make an
uproar in the Crimea and on the Danube, to cause misunderstandings,
to rouse the hydra of civil war among the Tartars, to embroil some
camps against others, and that on the eve of conflict, I repeat, he
would render a great and undying service to the Commonwealth.”

But Pan Sobieski walked back and forth with long strides through
the room, without speaking. His lordly face was gloomy, almost
terrible; he strode, and it was to be seen that he was conversing
in his soul,--unknown whether with himself or with God.

At last thou didst open some page in thy soul, grand hetman, for
thou gavest answer in these words to the speaker:--

“Bogush, even if I had the right to give such a letter and such
permission, while I live I should not give them.”

These words fell as heavily as if they had been of molten lead or
iron, and weighed so on Bogush that for a time he was dumb, hung
his head, and only after a long interval did he groan out,--

“Why, your great mightiness, why?”

“First, I will tell you, as a statesman, that the name of Tugai
Bey’s son might attract, it is true, a certain number of Tartars,
if land, liberty, and the rights of nobility were offered them; but
not so many would come as he and you have imagined. And, besides,
it would be an act of madness to call Tartars to the Ukraine, and
settle new people there, when we cannot manage the Cossacks alone.
You say that disputes and war will rise among them at once, that
there will be a sword ready for the Cossack neck; but who will
assure you that that sword would not be stained with Polish blood
also? I have not known this Azya, hitherto; but now I perceive that
the dragon of pride and ambition inhabits his breast, therefore I
ask again, who will guarantee that there is not in him a second
Hmelnitski? He will beat the Cossacks; but if the Commonwealth
shall fail to satisfy him in something, and threaten him with
justice and punishment for some act of violence, he will join the
Cossacks, summon new hordes from the East, as Hmelnitski summoned
Tugai Bey, give himself to the Sultan, as Doroshenko has done, and,
instead of a new growth of power, new bloodshed and defeats will
come on us.”

“Your great mightiness, the Tartars, when they have become nobles,
will hold faithfully to the Commonwealth.”

“Were there few of the Lithuanian Tartars and Cheremis? They were
nobles a long time, and went over to the Sultan.”

“Their privileges were withheld from the Lithuanian Tartars.”

“But what will happen if, to begin with, the Polish nobles, as
is certain, oppose such an extension of their rights to others?
With what face, with what conscience, will you give to wild and
predatory hordes, who have been destroying our country continually,
the power and the right to determine the fate of that country, to
choose kings, and send deputies to the diets? Why give them such
a reward? What madness has come to the head of this Tartar, and
what evil spirit seized you, my old soldier, to let yourself be so
beguiled and seduced as to believe in such dishonor and such an
impossibility?”

Bogush dropped his eyes, and said with an uncertain voice:--

“I knew beforehand that the estates would oppose; but Azya said
that if the Tartars were to settle with permission of your great
mightiness, they would not let themselves be driven out.”

“Man! Why, he threatened, he shook his sword over the Commonwealth,
and you did not see it!”

“Your great mightiness,” said Bogush, in despair, “it might
be arranged not to make all the Tartars nobles, only the most
considerable, and proclaim the rest free men. Even in that
situation they would answer the summons of Tugai Bey’s son.”

“But why is it not better to proclaim all the Cossacks free men?
Cease, old soldier! I tell you that an evil spirit has taken
possession of you.”

“Your great mightiness--”

“And I say farther,” here Pan Sobieski wrinkled his lionlike
forehead and his eyes gleamed, “even if everything were to happen
as you say, even if our power were to increase through this action,
even if war with Turkey were to be averted, even if the nobles
themselves were to call for it, still, while this hand of mine
wields a sabre and can make the sign of the cross, never and never
will I permit such a thing! So help me God!”

“Why, your great mightiness?” repeated Bogush, wringing his hands.

“Because I am not only a Polish hetman, but a Christian hetman, for
I stand in defence of the Cross. And even if those Cossacks were
to tear the entrails of the Commonwealth more cruelly than ever, I
will not cut the necks of a blinded but still Christian people with
the swords of Pagans. For by doing so I should say ‘raca’ to our
fathers and grandfathers, to my own ancestors, to their ashes, to
the blood and tears of the whole past Commonwealth. As God is true!
if destruction is waiting for us, if our name is to be the name of
a dead and not of a living people, let our glory remain behind and
a memory of that service which God pointed out to us; let people
who come in after time say, when looking at those crosses and
tombs: ‘Here is Christianity; here they defended the Cross against
Mohammedan foulness, while there was breath in their breasts, while
the blood was in their veins; and they died for other nations.’
This is our service, Bogush. Behold, we are the fortress on which
Christ fixed His crucifix, and you tell me, a soldier of God, nay,
the commander of the fortress, to be the first to open the gate
and let in Pagans, like wolves to a sheepfold, and give the sheep,
the flock of Jesus, to slaughter. Better for us to suffer from
chambuls; better for us to endure rebellions; better for us to go
to this terrible war; better for me and you to fall, and for the
whole Commonwealth to perish,--than to put disgrace on our name,
to lose our fame, and betray that guardianship and that service of
God.”

When he had said this, Pan Sobieski stood erect in all his
grandeur; on his face there was a radiance such as must have been
on that of Godfrey de Bouillon when he burst in over the walls of
Jerusalem, shouting, “God wills it!” Pan Bogush seemed to himself
dust before those words, and Azya seemed to him dust before Pan
Sobieski, and the fiery plans of the young Tartar grew black and
became suddenly in the eyes of Bogush something dishonest and
altogether infamous. For what could he say after the statement of
the hetman that it was better to fall than to betray the service of
God? What argument could he bring? Therefore he did not know, poor
knight, whether to fall at the knees of the hetman, or to beat his
own breast, repeating, “_Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa_.”

But at that moment the sound of bells was given out from the
neighboring Dominican monastery.

Hearing this, Pan Sobieski said,--

“They are sounding for vespers, Bogush; let us go and commit
ourselves to God.”




CHAPTER XXXIII.


As much as Pan Bogush hastened when going from Hreptyoff to the
hetman, so much did he loiter on the way back. He halted a week or
two in each more considerable place; he spent Christmas in Lvoff,
and the New Year came on him there. He carried, it is true, the
hetman’s instructions for the son of Tugai Bey; but they contained
merely injunctions to finish the affair of the captains promptly,
and a dry and even threatening command to leave his great plans.
Pan Bogush had no reason to push on, for Azya could do nothing
among the Tartars without a document from the hetman. He loitered,
therefore, visiting churches along the road, and doing penance
because he had joined Azya’s plans.

Meanwhile guests had swarmed into Hreptyoff immediately after
the New Year. From Kamenyets came Naviragh, a delegate from the
patriarch of Echmiadzin, with him the two Anardrats, skilful
theologians from Kaffa, and a numerous retinue. The soldiers
wondered greatly at the strange garments of these men, at the
violet and red Crimean caps, long shawls, velvet and silk, at their
dark faces, and the great gravity with which they strode, like
bustards or cranes, through the Hreptyoff stanitsa. Pan Zaharyash
Pyotrovich, famed for his continual journeys to the Crimea, nay,
to Tsargrad itself, and still more for the eagerness with which
he sought out and ransomed captives in the markets of the East,
accompanied, as interpreter, Naviragh and the Anardrats. Pan
Volodyovski counted out to him at once the sum needful to ransom
Pan Boski; and since the wife had not money sufficient, he gave
from his own; Basia added her ear-rings with pearls, so as to aid
more efficiently the suffering lady and her charming daughter. Pan
Seferovich, pretor of Kamenyets, came also,--a rich Armenian whose
brother was groaning in Tartar bonds,--and two women, still young
and of beauty far from inconsiderable, though somewhat dark, Pani
Neresevich and Pani Kyeremovich. Both were concerned for their
captive husbands.

The guests were for the greater part in trouble, but there were
joyous ones also. Father Kaminski had sent, to remain for the
carnival at Hreptyoff, under Basia’s protection, his niece Panna
Kaminski; and on a certain day Pan Novoveski the younger--that is,
Pan Adam--burst in like a thunderbolt. When he had heard of the
arrival of his father at Hreptyoff he obtained leave at once from
Pan Rushchyts, and hastened to meet him.

Pan Adam had changed greatly during the last few years; first
of all, his upper lip was shaded thickly by a short mustache,
which did not cover his teeth, white as a wolf’s teeth, but was
handsome and twisted. Secondly, the young man, always stalwart,
had now become almost a giant. It seemed that such a dense and
bushy forelock could grow only on such an enormous head, and such
an enormous head could find needful support only on fabulous
shoulders. His face, always dark, was swarthy from the winds; his
eyes were gleaming like coals; defiance was as if written on his
features. When he seized a large apple he hid it so easily in his
powerful palm that he could play “guess which one;” and when he put
a handful of nuts on his knee and pressed them with his hand he
made snuff of them. Everything in him went to strength; still he
was lean,--his stomach was receding, but the chest above it was as
roomy as a chapel. He broke horseshoes with ease, he tied iron rods
around the necks of soldiers, he seemed even larger than he was
in reality; when he walked, planks creaked under him; and when he
stumbled against a bench, he knocked splinters from it.

In a word, he was a man in a hundred, in whom life, daring, and
strength were boiling, as water in a caldron. Not being able to
find room, in even such an enormous body, it seemed that he had
a flame in his breast and his head, and involuntarily one looked
to see if his forelock were not steaming. In fact, it steamed
sometimes, for he was good at the goblet. To battle he went with
a laugh which recalled the neighing of a charger; and he hewed
in such fashion that when each engagement was over soldiers went
to examine the bodies left by him, and wonder at his astonishing
blows. Accustomed, moreover, from childhood to the steppe, to
watchfulness and war, he was careful and foreseeing in spite of
all his vehemence; he knew every Tartar stratagem, and, after
Volodyovski and Rushchyts, was deemed the best partisan leader.

In spite of threats and promises, old Novoveski did not receive
his son very harshly; for he feared lest he might go away again if
offended, and not show himself for another eleven years. Besides,
the selfish noble was satisfied at heart with that son who had
taken no money from home, who had helped himself thoroughly in the
world, won glory among his comrades, the favor of the hetman, and
the rank of an officer, which no one else could have struggled to
without protection. The father considered that this young man,
grown wild in the steppes, might not bend before the importance of
his father, and in such a case it was not best to expose it to the
test. Therefore the son fell at his feet, as was proper; still he
looked into his eyes, and at the first reproach he answered without
ceremony,--

“Father, you have blame in your mouth, but at heart you are glad,
and with reason, I have incurred no disgrace,--I ran away to the
squadron; besides, I am a noble.”

“But you may be a Mussulman,” said the father, “since you did not
show yourself at home for eleven years.”

“I did not show myself through fear of punishment, which would be
repugnant to my rank and dignity of officer. I waited for a letter
of pardon; I saw nothing of the letter, you saw nothing of me.”

“But are you not afraid at present?”

The young man showed his white teeth with a smile. “This place is
governed by military power, to which even the power of a father
must yield. Why should you not, my benefactor, embrace me, for you
have a hearty desire to do so?”

Saying this, he opened his arms, and Pan Novoveski did not know
himself what to do. Indeed, he could not quarrel with that son
who went out of the house a lad, and returned now a mature man
and an officer surrounded with military renown. And this and that
flattered greatly the fatherly pride of Pan Novoveski; he hesitated
only out of regard for his personal dignity.

But the son seized him; the bones of the old noble cracked in the
bear-like embrace, and this touched him completely.

“What is to be done?” cried he, panting. “He feels, the rascal,
that he is sitting on his own horse, and is not afraid. ’Pon my
word! if I were at home, indeed I should not be so tender; but
here, what can I do? Well, come on again.”

And they embraced a second time, after which the young man began to
inquire hurriedly for his sister.

“I gave command to keep her aside till I called her,” said the
father; “the girl will jump almost out of her skin.”

“For God’s sake, where is she?” cried the son, and opening the door
he began to call so loudly that an echo answered, “Eva! Eva!” from
the walls.

Eva, who was waiting in the next chamber, rushed in at once; but
she was barely able to cry “Adam!” when strong arms seized her
and raised her from the floor. The brother had loved her greatly
always; in old times, while protecting her from the tyranny of
their father, he took her faults on himself frequently, and
received the floggings due her. In general the father was a despot
at home, really cruel; therefore the maiden greeted now in that
strong brother, not a brother merely, but her future refuge and
protection. He kissed her on the head, on the eyes and hands; at
times he held her at arms’ length, looked into her face, and cried
out with delight,--

“A splendid girl, as God is dear to me!” Then again, “See how she
has grown! A stove,[24] not a maiden!”

Her eyes were laughing at him. They began to talk then very
rapidly, of their long separation, of home and the wars. Old Pan
Novoveski walked around them and muttered. The son made a great
impression on him; but at times disquiet touching his own future
authority seemed to seize him. Those were the days of great
parental power, which grew to boundless preponderance afterward;
but this son was that partisan, that soldier from the wild
stanitsas, who, as Pan Novoveski understood at once, was riding on
his own special horse. Pan Novoveski guarded his parental authority
jealously. He was certain, however, that his son would always
respect him, would give him his due; but would he yield always like
wax, would he endure everything as he had endured when a stripling?
“Bah!” thought the old man, “if I make up my mind to it, I’ll treat
him like a stripling. He is daring, a lieutenant; he imposes on
me, as I love God.” To finish all, Pan Novoveski felt that his
fatherly affection was growing each minute, and that he would have
a weakness for that giant of a son.

Meanwhile Eva was twittering like a bird, overwhelming her brother
with questions. “When would he come home; and wouldn’t he settle
down, wouldn’t he marry?” She in truth does not know clearly, and
is not certain; but as she loves her father, she has heard that
soldiers are given to falling in love. But now she remembers that
it was Paul Volodyovski who said so. How beautiful and kind she
is, that Pani Volodyovski! A more beautiful and better is not to
be found in all Poland with a candle. Zosia Boski alone might,
perhaps, be compared with her.

“Who is Zosia Boski?” asked Pan Adam.

“She who with her mother is stopping here, whose father was carried
off by the Tartars. If you see her yourself you will fall in love
with her.”

“Give us Zosia Boski!” cried the young officer.

The father and Eva laughed at such readiness.

“Love is like death,” said Pan Adam: “it misses no one. I was still
smooth-faced, and Pani Volodyovski was a young lady, when I fell
terribly in love with her. Oi! dear God! how I loved that Basia!
But what of it! ‘I will tell her so,’ thought I. I told her, and
the answer was as if some one had given me a slap in the face. Shu,
cat away from the milk! She was in love with Pan Volodyovski, it
seems, already; but what is the use in talking?--she was right.”

“Why?” asked old Pan Novoveski.

“Why? This is why: because I, without boasting, could meet every
one else with the sabre; but he would not amuse himself with
me while you could say ‘Our Father’ twice. And besides he is a
partisan beyond compare, before whom Rushchyts himself would take
off his cap. What, Pan Rushchyts? Even the Tartars love him. He is
the greatest soldier in the Commonwealth.”

“And how he and his wife love each other! Ai, ai! enough to make
your eyes ache to look at them,” put in Eva.

“Ai, your mouth waters! Your mouth waters, for your time has come
too,” exclaimed Pan Adam. And putting his hands on his hips he
began to nod his head, as a horse does; but she answered modestly,--

“I have no thought of it.”

“Well, there is no lack of officers and pleasant company here.”

“But,” said Eva, “I do not know whether father has told you that
Azya is here.”

“Azya Mellehovich, the Lithuanian Tartar? I know him; he is a good
soldier.”

“But you do not know,” said old Pan Novoveski, “that he is not
Mellehovich, but that Azya who grew up with you.”

“In God’s name, what do I hear? Just think! Sometimes that came
to my head too; but they told me that his name was Mellehovich,
therefore I thought, ‘Well, he is not the man,’ Azya with the
Tartars is a universal name. I had not seen him for so many years
that I was not certain. Our Azya was rather ugly and short, and
this one is a beauty.”

“He is ours, ours!” said old Novoveski, “or rather not ours, for do
you know what has come out, whose son he is?”

“How should I know?”

“He is the son of the great Tugai Bey.”

The young man struck his powerful palms on his knees till the sound
was heard through the house.

“I cannot believe my ears! Of the great Tugai Bey? If that is true,
he is a prince and a relative of the Khan. There is no higher blood
in the Crimea than Tugai Bey’s.”

“It is the blood of an enemy!”

“It was that in the father, but the son serves us; I have seen him
myself twenty times in action. Ha! I understand now whence comes
that devilish daring in him. Pan Sobieski distinguished him before
the whole army, and made him a captain. I am glad from my soul to
greet him,--a strong soldier; from my whole heart I will greet him.”

“But be not too familiar with him.”

“Why? Is he my servant, or ours? I am a soldier, he is a soldier;
I am an officer, he is an officer. If he were some fellow of the
infantry who commands his regiment with a reed, I shouldn’t have
a word to say; but if he is the son of Tugai Bey, then no common
blood flows in him. He is a prince, and that is the end of it; the
hetman himself will provide naturalization for him. How should
I thrust my nose above him, when I am in brotherhood with Kulak
Murza, with Bakchy Aga and Sukyman? None of these would be ashamed
to herd sheep for Tugai Bey.”

Eva felt a sudden wish to kiss her brother again; then she sat
so near him that she began to stroke his bushy forelock with her
shapely hand.

The entrance of Pan Michael interrupted this tenderness.

Pan Adam sprang up to greet the commanding officer, and began at
once to explain that he had not paid his respects first of all
to the commandant, because he had not come on service, but as a
private person. Pan Michael embraced him cordially and said,--

“And who would blame you, dear comrade, if after so many years of
absence you fell at your father’s knees first of all? It would be
something different were it a question of service; but have you no
commission from Pan Rushchyts?”

“Only obeisances. Pan Rushchyts went down to Yagorlik, for they
informed him that there were multitudes of horse-tracks on the
snow. My commandant received your letter and sent it to the horde
to his relatives and brothers, instructing them to search and make
inquiries there; but he will not write himself. ‘My hand is too
heavy,’ he says, ‘and I have no experience in that art.’”

“He does not like writing, I know,” said Pan Michael. “The sabre
with him is always the basis.” Here the mustaches of the little
knight quivered, and he added, not without a certain boastfulness,
“And still you were chasing Azba Bey two months for nothing.”

“But your grace gulped him as a pike does a whiting,” cried Pan
Adam, with enthusiasm. “Well, God must have disturbed his mind,
that when he had escaped from Pan Rushchyts, he came under your
hand. He caught it!”

These words tickled the little knight agreeably, and wishing to
return politeness for politeness, he turned to Pan Novoveski and
said,--

“The Lord Jesus has not given me a son so far; but if ever He does,
I should wish him to be like this cavalier.”

“There is nothing in him!” answered the old noble,--“nothing, and
that is the end of it.”

But in spite of these words he began to puff from delight.

“Here is another great treat for me!”

Meanwhile the little knight stroked Eva’s face, and said to her:
“You see that I am no stripling; but my Basia is almost of your
age; therefore I am thinking that at times she should have some
pleasant amusement, proper for youthful years. It is true that all
here love her beyond description, and you, I trust, see some reason
for it.”

“Beloved God!” said Eva, “there is not in the world another such
woman! I have said that just now.”

The little knight was rejoiced beyond measure, so that his face
shone, and he asked, “Did you say that really?”

“As I live she did!” cried father and son together.

“Well, then, array yourself in the best, for, without Basia’s
knowledge, I have brought an orchestra from Kamenyets. I ordered
the men to hide the instruments in straw, and I told her that they
were Gypsies who had come to shoe horses. This evening I’ll have
tremendous dancing. She loves it, she loves it, though she likes to
play the dignified matron.”

When he had said this, Pan Michael began to rub his hands, and was
greatly pleased with himself.




CHAPTER XXXIV.


The snow fell so thickly that it filled the stanitsa trench
altogether, and settled on the stockade wall like a mound. Outside
were night and a storm; but the chief room in Hreptyoff was blazing
with light. There were two violins, a bass-viol, a flageolet, a
French horn, and two bugles. The fiddlers worked away till they
were turning in their seats. The cheeks of the flageolet player and
the buglers were puffed out, and their eyes were bloodshot. The
oldest officers sat on benches at the wall, one near another,--as
gray doves sit before their cotes in a roof,--and while drinking
mead and wine looked at the dancers.

Basia opened the ball with Pan Mushalski, who, despite advanced
years, was as great a dancer as a bowman. Basia wore a robe of
silver brocade edged with ermine, and resembled a newly blown
rose in fresh snow. Young and old marvelled at her beauty, and
the cry “Save us!” came involuntarily from the breasts of many;
for though Panna Eva and Panna Zosia were somewhat younger, and
beautiful beyond common measure, still Basia surpassed all. In her
eyes delight and pleasure were flashing. As she swept past the
little knight she thanked him for the entertainment with a smile;
through her open rosy mouth gleamed white teeth, and she shone in
her silver robe, glittering like a sun-ray or a star, and enchanted
the eye and the heart with the beauty of a child, a woman, and a
flower. The split sleeves of her robe fluttered after her like
the wings of a great butterfly; and when, raising her skirt, she
made an obeisance before her partner, you would think that she was
floating on the earth like a vision, or one of those sprites which
on bright nights in summer skip along the edges of ravines.

Outside, the soldiers pressed their stern mustached faces against
the lighted window-panes, and flattening their noses against the
glass peered into the room. It pleased them greatly that their
adored lady surpassed all others in beauty, for they held furiously
to her side; they did not spare jests, therefore, and allusions
to Panna Eva, or Panna Zosia, and greeted with loud hurrahs every
approach that Basia made to the window.

Pan Michael increased like bread-rising, and nodded his head,
keeping time with Basia’s movements; Pan Zagloba, standing near,
held a tankard in his hand, tapped with his foot and dropped liquor
on the floor; but at times he and the little knight turned and
looked at each other with uncommon rapture and puffing.

But Basia glittered and glittered through the whole room, ever
more joyous, ever more charming. Such for her was the Wilderness.
Now a battle, now a hunt, now amusements, dancing and music, and
a crowd of soldiers,--her husband the greatest among them, and he
loving and beloved; Basia felt that all liked and admired her,
gave her homage,--that the little knight was happy through that;
and she herself felt as happy as birds feel when spring has come,
and they rejoice and sing lustily and joyously in the air of May.
The second couple were Azya and Eva Novoveski, who wore a crimson
jacket. The young Tartar, completely intoxicated with the white
vision glittering before him, spoke not one word to Eva; but she,
thinking that emotion had stopped the voice in his breast, tried to
give him courage by pressure of her hand, light at the beginning,
and afterward stronger. Azya, on his part, pressed her hand so
powerfully that hardly could she repress a cry of pain; but he
did this involuntarily, for he thought only of Basia, he saw only
Basia, and in his soul he repeated a terrible vow, that if he had
to burn half Russia she should be his.

At times, when consciousness came to him somewhat, he felt a desire
to seize Eva by the throat, stifle her, and gloat over her, because
she pressed his hand, and because she stood between him and Basia.
At times he pierced the poor girl with his cruel, falcon glance,
and her heart began to beat with more power; she thought that it
was through love that he looked at her so rapaciously.

Pan Adam and Zosia formed the third couple. She looked like a
forget-me-not, and tripped along at his side with downcast eyes; he
looked like a wild horse, and jumped like one. From under his shod
heels splinters were flying; his forelock was soaring upward; his
face was covered with ruddiness; he opened his nostrils wide like a
Turkish charger, and sweeping Zosia around, as a whirlwind does a
leaf, carried her through the air. The soul grew glad in him beyond
measure, since he lived on the edge of the Wilderness whole months
without seeing a woman. Zosia pleased him so much at first glance,
that in a moment he was in love with her to kill. From time to time
he looked at her downcast eyes, at her blooming cheeks, and just
snorted at the pleasant sight; then all the more mightily did he
strike fire with his heels; with greater strength did he hold her,
at the turn of the dance, to his broad breast, and burst into a
mighty laugh from excess of delight, and boiled and loved with more
power every moment.

But Zosia had fear in her dear little heart; still, that fear was
not disagreeable, for she was pleased with that whirlwind of a man
who bore her along and carried her with him,--a real dragon! She
had seen various cavaliers in Yavorov, but such a fiery one she had
not met till that hour; and none danced like him, none swept her on
so. In truth, a real dragon! What was to be done with him, since it
was impossible to resist?

In the next couple, Panna Kaminski danced with a polite cavalier,
and after her came the Armenians,--Pani Kyeremovich and Pani
Neresevich, who, though wives of merchants, were still invited to
the company, for both were persons of courtly manners, and very
wealthy. The dignified Naviragh and the two Anardrats looked with
growing wonder at the Polish dances; the old men at their mead
cups made an increasing noise, like grasshoppers on stubble land.
But the music drowned every voice, and in the middle of the room
delight grew in all hearts.

Meanwhile Basia left her partner, ran panting to her husband, and
clasped her hands before him.

“Michael,” said she, “it is so cold outside the windows for the
soldiers, give command to let them have a keg of gorailka.”

He, being unusually jovial, fell to kissing her hands, and cried,--

“I would not spare blood to please you!”

Then he hurried out himself to tell the soldiers at whose instance
they were to have the keg; for he wished them to thank Basia, and
love her the more.

In answer, they raised such a shout that the snow began to fall
from the roof; the little knight cried in addition, “Let the
muskets roar there as a vivat to the Pani!” Upon his return to the
room he found Basia dancing with Azya. When the Tartar embraced
that sweet figure with his arm, when he felt the warmth coming from
her and her breath on his face, his pupils went up almost into his
skull, and the whole world turned before his eyes; in his soul he
gave up paradise, eternity, and for all the houris he wanted only
this one.

Then Basia, when she noticed in passing the crimson jacket of Eva,
curious to know if Azya had proposed yet, inquired,--

“Have you told her?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“It is not time yet,” said he, with a strange expression.

“But are you greatly in love?”

“To the death, to the death!” answered the Tartar, with a low but
hoarse voice, like the croaking of a raven.

And they danced on, immediately after Pan Adam, who had pushed
to the front. Others had changed partners, but Pan Adam did not
let Zosia go; only at times he seated her on a bench to rest
and recover breath, then he revelled again. At last he stopped
before the orchestra, and holding Zosia with one arm, cried to the
musicians,--

“Play the krakoviak! on with it!”

Obedient to command, they played at once. Pan Adam kept time with
his foot, and sang with an immense voice,--

      “Lost are crystal torrents,
      In the Dniester River;
      Lost in thee, my heart is,
      Lost in thee, O maiden!
                        U-há!”

And that “U-há” he roared out in such Cossack fashion that Zosia
was drooping from fear. The dignified Naviragh, standing near, was
frightened, the two learned Anardrats were frightened; but Pan Adam
led the dance farther. Twice he made the circle of the room, and
stopping before the musicians, sang of his heart again,--

      “Lost, but not to perish,
      Though the current snatch it;
      In the depth ’twill seek out
      And bear back a gold ring.
                        U-há!”

“Very pretty rhymes,” cried Zagloba; “I am skilled in the matter,
for I have made many such. Bark away, cavalier, bark away; and when
you find the ring I will continue in this sense,--

      “Flint are all the maidens,
      Steel are all the young men;
      You’ll have sparks in plenty
      If you strike with will.
                        U-há!”

“Vivat! vivat Pan Zagloba!” cried the officers, with a mighty
voice, so that the dignified Naviragh was frightened, and the two
learned Anardrats were frightened, and began to look at one another
with exceeding amazement.

But Pan Adam went around twice more, and seated his partner at
last on the bench, panting, and astonished at the boldness of her
cavalier. He was very agreeable to her, so valiant and honest, a
regular conflagration; but just because she had not met such a man
hitherto, great confusion seized her,--therefore, dropping her eyes
still lower, she sat in silence, like a little innocent.

“Why are you silent; are you grieving for something?” asked Pan
Adam.

“I am; my father is in captivity,” answered Zosia, with a thin
voice.

“Never mind that,” said the young man; “it is proper to dance!
Look at this room; here are some tens of officers, and most likely
no one of them will die his own death, but from arrows of Pagans
or in bonds,--this one to-day, that to-morrow. Each man on these
frontiers has lost some one, and we make merry lest God might think
that we murmur at our service. That is it. It is proper to dance.
Laugh, young lady! show your eyes, for I think that you hate me!”

Zosia did not raise her eyes, it is true; but she began to raise
the corners of her mouth, and two dimples were formed in her rosy
cheeks.

“Do you love me a little bit?” asked he.

And Zosia, in a still lower voice, said, “Yes; but--”

When he heard this. Pan Adam started up, and seizing Zosia’s hands,
began to cover them with kisses, and cry,--

“Lost! No use in talking; I love you to death! I don’t want any one
but you, my dearest beauty! Oh, save me, how I love you! In the
morning I’ll fall at your mother’s feet. What?--in the morning!
I’ll fall to-night, so as to be sure that you are mine!”

A tremendous roar of musketry outside the window drowned Zosia’s
answer. The delighted soldiers were firing, as a vivat for Basia;
the window-panes rattled, the walls trembled. The dignified
Naviragh was frightened a third time; the two learned Anardrats
were frightened; but Zagloba, standing near, began to pacify them.

“With the Poles,” said he to them, “there is never rejoicing
without outcry and clamor.”

In truth, it came out that all were just waiting for that firing
from muskets to revel in the highest degree. The usual ceremony of
nobles began now to give way to the wildness of the steppe. Music
thundered again; dances burst out anew, like a storm; eyes were
flashing and fiery; mist rose from the forelocks. Even the oldest
went into the dance; loud shouts were heard every moment; and they
drank and frolicked,--drank healths from Basia’s slipper; fired
from pistols at Eva’s boot-heels. Hreptyoff shouted and roared and
sang till daybreak, so that the beasts in the neighboring wilds hid
from fear in the deepest thickets.

Since that was almost on the eve of a terrible war with the Turkish
power, and over all these people terror and destruction were
hanging, the dignified Naviragh wondered beyond measure at those
Polish soldiers, and the two learned Anardrats wondered no less.




CHAPTER XXXV.


All slept late next morning, except the soldiers on guard and the
little knight, who never neglected service for pleasure. Pan Adam
was on his feet early enough, for Panna Zosia seemed still more
charming to him after his rest. Arraying himself handsomely, he
went to the room in which they had danced the previous evening
to listen whether there was not some movement or bustle in the
adjoining chambers where the ladies were.

In the chamber occupied by Pani Boski movement was to be heard; but
the impatient young man was so anxious to see Zosia that he seized
his dagger and fell to picking out the moss and clay between the
logs, so that, God willing, he might look through the chink with
one eye at Zosia.

Zagloba, who was just passing with his beads in his hand, found him
at this work, and knowing at once what the matter was, came up on
tiptoe and began to belabor with the sandalwood beads the shoulders
of the knight.

Pan Adam slipped aside and squirmed as if laughing; but he was
greatly confused, and the old man pursued him and struck him
continually.

“Oh, such a Turk! oh, Tartar! here it is for you; here it is for
you! I exorcise you! Where are your morals? You want to see a
woman? Here it is for you; here it is for you!”

“My benefactor,” cried Pan Adam, “it is not right to make a whip
out of holy beads. Let me go, for I had no sinful intention.”

“You say it is not right to strike with a rosary? Not true! The
palm on Palm Sunday is holy, and still people strike with it. Ha!
these were Pagan beads once and belonged to Suban Kazi; but I took
them from him at Zbaraj, and afterward the apostolic nuncio blessed
them. See, they are genuine sandalwood!”

“If they are real sandalwood, they have an odor.”

“Beads have an odor for me, and a girl for you. I must dress your
shoulders well yet, for there is nothing to drive out the Devil
like a chaplet.”

“I had no sinful intention; upon my health I had not!”

“Was it only through piety that you were opening a chink?”

“Not through piety, but through love, which is so wonderful that
I’m not sure that I shall not burst from it, as a bomb bursts. What
is the use in pretending, when it is true? Flies do not trouble a
horse in autumn as this affection troubles me.”

“See that this is not sinful desire; for when I came in here you
could not stand still, but were striking heel against heel as if
you were standing on a firebrand.”

“I saw nothing, as I love God sincerely, for I had only just begun
to pick at the chink.”

“Ah, youth! blood is not water! I, too, must at times even yet
repress myself, for in me there is a lion seeking whom he may
devour. If you have honorable intentions, you are thinking of
marriage.”

“Thinking of marriage? God of might! of what should I be thinking?
Not only am I thinking, but ’tis as if some one were pricking me
with an awl. Is it not known to your grace that I made a proposal
to Panna Boski last evening, and I have the consent of my father?”

“The boy is of sulphur and powder! Hangman take thee! If that is
the case, then the affair is quite different; but tell me, how was
it?”

“Last evening Pani Boski went to her room to bring a handkerchief
for Zosia, I after her. She turns around: ‘Who is there?’ And I,
with a rush to her feet: ‘Beat me, mother, but give me Zosia,--my
happiness, my love!’ But Pani Boski, when she recovered herself,
said: ‘All people praise you and think you a worthy cavalier;
still, I will not give an answer to-day, nor to-morrow, but later;
and you need the permission of your father.’ She went out then,
thinking that I was under the influence of wine. In truth, I had a
little in my head.”

“That is nothing; all had some in their heads. Did you not see the
pointed caps sidewise on the heads of Naviragh and the Anardrats
toward the end?”

“I did not notice them, for I was settling in my mind how to get my
father’s consent in the easiest way.”

“Well, did it come hard?”

“Toward morning we both went to our room; and because it is well
to hammer iron while it is hot, I thought to myself at once that
it was necessary to feel, even from afar, how my father would look
at the matter. ‘Listen, father: I want Zosia terribly, and I want
your consent; and if you don’t give it, then, as God lives, I’ll go
to the Venetians to serve, and that’s all you’ll hear of me.’ Then
did not he fall on me with great rage: ‘Oh, such a son!’ said he;
‘you can do without permission! Go to the Venetians, or take the
girl,--only I tell you this, that I will not give you a copper, not
only of my own, but of your mother’s money, for it is all mine.’”

Zagloba thrust out his under-lip. “Oh, that is bad!”

“But wait. When I heard that, I said: ‘But am I asking for money,
or do I need it? I want your blessing, nothing more; for the
property of Pagans that came to my sabre is enough to rent a good
estate or purchase a village. What belongs to mother, let that be a
dower for Eva; I will add one or two handfuls of turquoise and some
silk and brocade, and if a bad year comes, I’ll help my father with
ready money.’ My father became dreadfully curious then. ‘Have you
such wealth?’ asked he. ‘In God’s name, where did you get it? Was
it from plunder, for you went away as poor as a Turkish saint?’

“‘Fear God, father,’ answered I. ‘It is eleven years since I began
to bring down this fist, and, as they say, it is not of the worst,
and shouldn’t it collect something? I was at the storming of rebel
towns in which ruffiandom and the Tartars had piled up the finest
plunder; I fought against murzas and robber bands: booty came and
came. I took only what was recognized as mine without injustice to
any; but it increased, and if a man didn’t frolic, I should have
had twice as much property as you got from your father.’”

“What did the old man say to that?” asked Zagloba, rejoicing.

“My father was amazed, for he had not expected this, and began
straightway to complain of my wastefulness. ‘There would be,’ said
he, ‘an increase, but that this scatterer, this haughty fellow who
loves only to plume himself and puts on the magnate, squanders
all, saves nothing.’ Then curiosity conquered him, and he began
to ask particularly what I have; and seeing that I could travel
quickly by smearing with that tar, I not only concealed nothing,
but lied a little, though usually I will not over-color, for I
think thus to myself: ‘Truth is oats, and lying chopped straw.’ My
father bethought himself, and now for plans: ‘This or that [land]
might have been bought,’ said he; ‘this or that lawsuit might have
been kept up,’ said he; ‘we might have lived at each side of the
same boundary, and when you were away I could have looked after
everything.’ And my worthy father began to cry. ‘Adam,’ said he,
‘that girl has pleased me terribly; she is under the protection of
the hetman,--there may be some profit out of that, too; but do you
respect this my second daughter, and do not squander what she has,
for I should not forgive you at my death-hour.’ And I, my gracious
benefactor, just roared at the very suspicion of injustice to
Zosia. My father and I fell into each other’s embraces, and wept
till the first cockcrow, precisely.”

“The old rogue!” muttered Zagloba, then he added aloud: “Ah, there
may be a wedding soon, and new amusements in Hreptyoff, especially
since it is carnival time.”

“There would be one to-morrow if it depended on me,” cried Pan
Adam, abruptly; “but this is what: My leave will end soon, and
service is service, so I must return to Rashkoff. Well, Pan
Rushchyts will give me another leave, I know. But I am not certain
that there will not be delays on the part of the ladies. For when
I push up to the old one, she says, ‘My husband is in captivity.’
When I speak to the daughter, she says, ‘Papa is in captivity.’
What of that? I do not keep that papa in bonds, do I? I’m terribly
afraid of these obstacles; if it were not for that, I would take
Father Kaminski by the soutane and wouldn’t let him go till he had
tied Zosia and me. But when women get a thing into their heads you
can’t draw it out with nippers. I’d give my last copper, I’d go in
person for ‘papa,’ but I’ve no way of doing it. Besides, no one
knows where he is; maybe he is dead, and there is the work for you!
If they ask me to wait for him, I might have to wait till the Day
of Judgment!”

“Pyotrovich, Naviragh, and the Anardrats will take the road
to-morrow; there will be tidings soon.”

“Jesus save us! Am I to wait for tidings? There can be nothing
before spring; meanwhile I shall wither away, as God is dear to me!
My benefactor, all have faith in your wit and experience; knock
this waiting out of the heads of these women. My benefactor, in the
spring there will be war. God knows what will happen. Besides, I
want to marry Zosia, not ‘papa;’ why must I sigh to him?”

“Persuade the women to go to Rashkoff and settle. There it will be
easier to get tidings, and if Pyotrovich finds Boski, he will be
near you. I will do what I can, I repeat; but do you ask Pani Basia
to take your part.”

“I will not neglect that, I will not neglect, for devil--”

With that the door squeaked, and Pani Boski entered. But before
Zagloba could look around, Pan Adam had already thundered down with
his whole length at her feet, and occupying an enormous extent of
the floor with his gigantic body, began to cry:--

“I have my father’s consent. Give me Zosia, mother! Give me Zosia,
give me Zosia, mother!”

“Give Zosia, mother,” repeated Zagloba, in a bass voice.

The uproar drew people from the adjacent chambers; Basia came
in, Pan Michael came from his office, and soon after came Zosia
herself. It did not become the girl to seem to surmise what the
matter was; but her face grew purple at once, and putting one hand
in the other quickly she dropped them before her, pursed her mouth,
and stood at the wall with downcast eyes. Pan Michael ran for old
Novoveski. When he came he was deeply offended that his son had not
committed the function to him, and had not left the affair to his
eloquence, still he upheld the entreaty.

Pani Boski, who lacked, indeed, every near guardianship in the
world, burst into tears at last, and agreed to Pan Adam’s request
to go to Rashkoff and wait there for her husband. Then, covered
with tears, she turned to her daughter.

“Zosia,” asked she, “are the plans of Pan Adam to your heart?”

All eyes were turned to Zosia. She was standing at the wall, her
eyes fixed on the floor as usual, and only after some silence did
she say, in a voice barely audible,--

“I will go to Rashkoff.”

“My beauty!” roared Pan Adam, and springing to the maiden he caught
her in his arms. Then he cried till the walls trembled, “Zosia is
mine! She is mine, she is mine!”




CHAPTER XXXVI.


Pan Adam started for Rashkoff immediately after his betrothal,
to find and furnish quarters for Pani and Panna Boski; two weeks
after his departure a whole caravan of Hreptyoff guests left the
fortalice. It was composed of Naviragh, the two Anardrats, the
Armenian women (Kyeremovich and Neresevich), Seferevich, Pani and
Panna Boski, the two Pyotroviches, and old Pan Novoveski, without
counting a number of Armenians from Kamenyets, and numerous
servants, as well as armed attendants to guard wagons, draft
horses, and pack animals. The Pyotroviches and the delegation
of the patriarch of Echmiadzin were to rest simply at Rashkoff,
receive news there concerning their journey, and move on toward
the Crimea. The remainder of the company determined to settle in
Rashkoff for a time, and wait, at least till the first thaws, for
the return of the prisoners; namely, Boski, the younger Seferevich,
and the two merchants whose wives were long waiting in sorrow.

That was a difficult road, for it lay through silent wastes and
steep ravines. Fortunately abundant but dry snow formed excellent
sleighing; the presence of commands in Mohiloff, Yampol, and
Rashkoff insured safety. Azba Bey was cut to pieces, the robbers
either hanged or dispersed; and the Tartars in winter, through lack
of grass, did not go out on the usual roads.

Finally, Pan Adam had promised to meet them with a few tens of
horses, if he should receive permission from Pan Rushchyts. They
went, therefore, briskly and willingly; Zosia was ready to go to
the end of the world for Pan Adam. Pani Boski and the two Armenian
women were hoping for the speedy return of their husbands. Rashkoff
lay, it is true, in terrible wilds on the border of Christendom;
but still they were not going there for a lifetime, nor for a long
stay. In spring war would come; war was mentioned on the borders
everywhere. When their loved ones were found, they must return with
the first warm breeze to save their heads from destruction.

Eva remained at Hreptyoff, detained by Pani Basia. Pan Novoveski
did not insist greatly on taking his daughter, especially as he was
leaving her in the house of such worthy people.

“I will send her most safely, or I will take her myself,” said
Basia, “rather I will take her myself, for I should like to see
once in my life that whole terrible boundary of which I have heard
so much from childhood. In spring, when the roads will be black
from chambuls, my husband would not let me go; but now, if Eva
stays here, I shall have a fair pretext. In a couple of weeks I
shall begin to insist, and in three I shall have permission surely.”

“Your husband, I hope, will not let you go in winter unless with a
good escort.”

“If he can go, he will go with me; if not, Azya will escort us with
a couple of hundred or more horses, for I hear that he is to be
sent to Rashkoff in every case.”

The conversation ended with this, and Eva remained in Hreptyoff.
Basia, however, had other calculations besides the reasons given to
Pan Novoveski. She wished to lighten for Azya an approach to Eva,
for the young Tartar was beginning to disquiet her. As often as he
met Basia he answered her queries, it is true, by saying that he
loved Eva, that his former feeling had not died; but when he was
with Eva he was silent. Meanwhile the girl had fallen in love with
him to desperation in that Hreptyoff desert. His wild but splendid
beauty, his childhood passed under the strong hand of Novoveski,
his princely descent, and that prolonged mystery which had weighed
upon him, finally his military fame, had enchanted her thoroughly.
She was waiting merely for the moment to open to him her heart,
burning as a flame, and to say to him, “Azya, I have loved thee
from childhood,” to fall into his arms and vow love to him till
death. Meanwhile he closed his teeth and was silent.

Eva herself thought at first that the presence of her father
and brother restrained Azya from a confession. Later, disquiet
seized her too, for if obstacles arose unavoidably on the part
of her father and brother, especially before Azya had received
naturalization, still he might open his heart to her, and he was
bound to do so the more speedily and sincerely the more obstacles
were rising on their road.

But he was silent.

Doubt crept at last into the maiden’s heart, and she began to
complain of her misfortune to Basia, who pacified her, saying:--

“I do not deny that he is a strange man, and wonderfully secretive;
but I am certain that he loves you, for he has told me so
frequently, and besides he looks on you not as on others.”

To this Eva, shaking her head, answered gloomily: “Differently,
that is certain; but I know not whether there is love or hatred in
that gaze.”

“Dear Eva, do not talk folly; why should he hate you?”

“But why should he love me?”

Here Basia began to pass her small hands over the maiden’s face.
“But why does Michael love me? And why did your brother, when he
had barely seen Zosia, fall in love with her?”

“Adam has always been hasty.”

“Azya is haughty, and dreads refusal, especially from your father;
your brother, having been in love himself, would understand more
quickly the torture of that feeling. This is how it is. Be not
foolish, Eva; have no fear. I will stir up Azya well, and you’ll
see how courageous he’ll be.”

In fact, Basia had an interview with Azya that very day, after
which she rushed in great haste to Eva.

“It is all over!” cried she on the threshold.

“What?” asked Eva, flushing.

“Said I to him, ‘What are you thinking of, to feed me with
ingratitude? I have detained Eva purposely that you might take
advantage of the occasion; but if you do not, know that in two,
or at furthest three weeks, I will send her to Rashkoff. I may
go myself with her, and you’ll be left in the lurch.’ His face
changed when he heard of the journey to Rashkoff, and he began to
beat with his forehead to my feet. I asked him then what he had on
his mind, and he answered: ‘On the road I will confess what I have
in my breast. On the road,’ said he, ‘will be the best occasion;
on the road will happen what is to happen, what is predestined. I
will confess all, I will disclose all, for I cannot live longer in
this torment.’ His lips began to quiver, so anxious was he before,
for he has received some unfavorable letters from Kamenyets. He
told me that he must go to Rashkoff in every event, that there is
an old command of the hetman to my husband touching that matter;
but the period is not mentioned in the command, for it depends on
negotiations which he is carrying on there with the captains. ‘But
now,’ said he, ‘the time is approaching, and I must go to them
beyond Rashkoff, so that at the same time I can conduct your grace
and Panna Eva.’ I told him in answer that it was unknown whether I
should go or not, for it would depend on Michael’s permission. When
he heard this he was frightened greatly. Ai, you are a fool, Eva!
You say that he doesn’t love you, but he fell at my feet; and when
he implored me to go, I tell you he just whined, so that I had a
mind to shed tears over him. Do you know why he did that? He told
me at once. ‘I,’ said he, ‘will confess what I have in my heart;
but without the prayers of your grace I shall do nothing with the
Novoveskis, I shall only rouse anger and hatred in them against
myself. My fate is in the hands of your grace, my suffering, my
salvation; for if your grace will not go, then better that the
earth swallowed me, or that living fire burned me.’ That is how he
loves you. Simply terrible to think of! And if you had seen how he
looked at that moment you would have been frightened.”

“No, I am not afraid of him,” answered Eva, and she began to
kiss Basia’s hands. “Go with us; go with us!” repeated she, with
emotion; “go with us! You alone can save us; you alone will not
fear to tell my father; you alone can effect something. Go with us!
I will fall at the feet of Pan Volodyovski to get leave for you.
Without you, father and Azya will spring at each other with knives.
Go with us; go with us!” And saying this, she dropped to Basia’s
knees and began to embrace them with tears.

“God grant that I go!” said Basia. “I will lay all before Michael,
and will not cease to torment him. It is safe now to go even
alone, and what will it be with such a numerous retinue! Maybe
Michael himself will go; if not, he has a heart, and will give me
permission. At first he will cry out against it; but just let me
grow gloomy, he will begin to walk around me at once, look into my
eyes, and give way. I should prefer to have him go too, for I shall
be terribly lonely without him; but what is to be done? I will go
anyhow to give you some solace. In this case it is not a question
of my wishes, but of the fate of you and Azya. Michael loves you
both,--he will consent.”

After that interview with Basia, Azya flew to his own room, as full
of delight and consolation as if he had gained health after a sore
illness. A while before wild despair had been tearing his soul;
that very morning he had received a dry and brief letter from Pan
Bogush of the following contents:--

    MY BELOVED AZYA,--I have halted in Kamenyets, and to
    Hreptyoff I will not go this time; first, because fatigue
    has overcome me, and secondly, because I have no reason to
    go. I have been in Yavorov. The hetman not only refuses to
    grant you permission by letter to cover your mad designs
    with his dignity, but he commands you sternly, and under
    pain of losing his favor, to drop them at once. I, too,
    have decided that what you have told me is worthless. It
    would be a sin for a refined, Christian people to enter
    into such intrigues with Pagans; and it would be a disgrace
    before the whole world to grant the privileges of nobility
    to malefactors, robbers, and shedders of innocent blood.
    Moderate yourself in this matter, and do not think of the
    office of hetman, since it is not for you, though you are
    Tugai Bey’s son. But if you wish to re-establish promptly
    the favor of the hetman, be content with your office, and
    hasten especially that work with Krychinski, Adurovich,
    Tarasovski, and others, for thus you will render best
    service.

    The hetman’s statement of what you are to do, I send with
    this letter, and an official command to Pan Volodyovski,
    that there be no hindrance to you in going and coming with
    your men. You’ll have to go on a sudden to meet those
    captains, of course; only hurry, and report to me carefully
    at Kamenyets, what you hear on the other bank. Commending
    you herewith to the favor of God, I remain, with unchanging
    good wishes,

  MARTSIN BOGUSH OF ZYEMBLYTS,
  UNDER-CARVER OF NOVGROD.

When the young Tartar received this letter, he fell into a terrible
fury. First he crushed the letter in his hand into bits; then
he stabbed the table time after time with his dagger; next he
threatened his own life and that of the faithful Halim, who on his
knees begged him to undertake nothing till he had recovered from
rage and despair. That letter was a cruel blow to him. The edifices
which his pride and ambition had reared, were as if blown up with
powder; his plans were destroyed. He might have become the third
hetman in the Commonwealth, and held its fate in his hand; and now
he sees that he must remain an obscure officer, for whom the summit
of ambition would be naturalization. In his fiery imagination he
had seen crowds bowing down daily before him; and now it will
come to him to bow down before others. It is no good for him
either that he is the son of Tugai Bey, that the blood of reigning
warriors flows in his veins, that great thoughts are born in his
soul--nothing--all nothing! He will live unrecognized and die in
some distant little fortalice forgotten. One word broke his wing;
one “no” brought it about, that, henceforward, he will not be free
to soar like an eagle to the firmament, but must crawl like a worm
on the ground.

But all this is nothing yet, in comparison with the happiness which
he has lost. She for the possession of whom he would have given
blood and eternity; she for whom he was flaming like fire; she
whom he loved with eyes, hearty soul, blood,--would never be his.
That letter took from him her, as well as the baton of a hetman.
Hmelnitski might carry off Chaplinski’s wife; Azya, a hetman, might
carry off another man’s wife, and defend himself even against the
whole Commonwealth, but how could that Azya take her,--Azya, a
lieutenant of Lithuanian Tartars, serving under command of her
husband?

When he thought of this, the world grew black before his
eyes,--empty, gloomy; and the son of Tugai Bey was not sure but
he would better die, than live without a reason to live, without
happiness, without hope, without the woman he loved. This pressed
him down the more terribly since he had not looked for such a
blow; nay, considering the condition of the Commonwealth, he had
become more convinced every day that the hetman would confirm
those plans. Now his hopes were blown apart like mist before a
whirlwind. What remained to him? To renounce glory, greatness,
happiness; but he was not the man to do that. At the first moment
the madness of anger and despair carried him away. Fire was passing
through his bones and burning him fiercely; hence he howled and
gnashed his teeth, and thoughts equally fiery and vengeful were
flying through his head. He wanted revenge on the Commonwealth, on
the hetman, on Pan Michael, even on Basia. He wanted to rouse his
Tartars, cut down the garrison, all the officers, all Hreptyoff,
kill Pan Michael, carry off Basia, go with her beyond the Moldavian
boundary, and then down to the Dobrudja, and farther on, even to
Tsargrad itself, even to the deserts of Asia.

But the faithful Halim watched over him, and he himself, when he
had recovered from his first fury and despair, recognized all
the impossibility of those plans. Azya in this too resembled
Hmelnitski; as in Hmelnitski, so in him, a lion and a serpent dwelt
in company. Should he attack Hreptyoff with his faithful Tartars,
what would come of that? Would Pan Michael, who is as watchful as a
stork, let himself be surprised; and even if he should, would that
famous partisan let himself be slaughtered, especially as he had at
hand more and better soldiers? Finally, suppose that Azya should
finish Volodyovski, what would he do then? If he moves along the
river toward Yagorlik, he must rub out the commands at Mohiloff,
Yampol, and Rashkoff; if he crosses to the Moldavian bank, the
perkulabs are there, friends of Volodyovski, and Habareskul of
Hotin himself, his sworn friend. If he goes to Doroshenko, there
are Polish commands at Bratslav; and the steppe, even in winter,
is full of scouts. In view of all this, Tugai Bey’s son felt his
helplessness, and his malign soul belched forth flames first,
and then buried itself in deep despair, as a wounded wild beast
buries itself in a dark den of a cliff, and remained quiet. And
as uncommon pain kills itself and ends in torpidity, so he became
torpid at last.

Just then it was announced to him that the wife of the commandant
wished to speak to him.

Halim did not recognize Azya when he returned from that
conversation. Torpor had vanished from the Tartar’s face, his eyes
danced like those of a wild-cat, his face was gleaming, and his
white teeth glittered from under his mustaches; in his wild beauty
he was like the terrible Tugai Bey.

“My lord,” inquired Halim, “in what way has God comforted thy soul?”

“Halim,” said Azya, “God forms bright day after dark night, and
commands the sun to rise out of the sea.” Here he seized the old
Tartar by the shoulders. “In a month she will be mine for the ages!”

And such a gleam issued from his dark face that he was beautiful,
and Halim began to make obeisances.

“Oh, son of Tugai Bey, thou art great, mighty, and the malice of
the unbeliever cannot overcome thee!”

“Listen!” said Azya.

“I am listening, son of Tugai Bey.”

“I will go beyond the blue sea, where the snows lie only on the
mountains, and if I return again to these regions it will be at
the head of chambuls like the sands of the sea, as innumerable
as the leaves in those wildernesses, and I will bring fire and
sword. But thou, Halim, son of Kurdluk, wilt take the road to-day,
wilt find Krychinski, and tell him to hasten with his men to the
opposite bank over against Rashkoff. And let Adurovich, Moravski,
Aleksandrovich, Groholski, Tarasovski, with every man living of
the Lithuanian Tartars and Cheremis, threaten the troops. Let them
notify the chambuls that are in winter quarters with Doroshenko
to cause great alarm from the side of Uman, so that the Polish
commands may go far into the steppe from Mohiloff, Yampol, and
Rashkoff. Let there be no troops on that road over which I go, so
that when I leave Rashkoff there will remain behind me only ashes
and burned ruins.”

“God aid thee, my lord!” answered Halim.

And he began to make obeisances, and Tugai Bey’s son bent over him
and repeated a number of times yet,--

“Hasten the messengers, hasten the messengers, for only a month’s
time is left!”

He dismissed Halim then, and remaining alone began to pray, for he
had a breast filled with happiness and gratitude to God.

And while praying he looked involuntarily through the window at
his men, who were leading out their horses just then to water
them at the wells; the square was black there was such a crowd.
The Tartars, while singing their monotonous songs in a low voice,
began to draw the squeaking well-sweeps and to pour water into the
trough. Steam rose in two pillars from the nostrils of each horse
and concealed his face. All at once Pan Michael, in a sheepskin
coat and cowhide boots, came out of the main building, and,
approaching the men, began to say something. They listened to him,
straightening themselves and removing their caps in contradiction
to Eastern custom. At sight of him Azya ceased praying, and
muttered,--

“You are a falcon, but you will not fly whither I fly; you will
remain in Hreptyoff in grief and in sorrow.”

After Pan Michael had spoken to the soldiers, he returned to the
building, and on the square was heard again the songs of Tartars,
the snorting of horses, and the plaintive and shrill sound of
well-sweeps.




CHAPTER XXXVII.


The little knight, as Basia had foreseen, cried out against her
plans at once when he learned them, said he never would agree to
them, for he could not go himself and he would not let her go
without him; but on all sides began then prayers and insistence
which were soon to bend his decision.

Basia insisted less, indeed, than he expected, for she wished
greatly to go with her husband, and without him the journey lost
a part of its charm; but Eva knelt before the little knight, and
kissing his hands implored him by his love for Basia to permit her
to go.

“No other will dare approach my father,” said she, “and mention
such an affair,--neither I, nor Azya, nor even my brother. Basia
alone can do it, for he refuses her nothing.”

“Basia is no matchmaker,” said Pan Michael, “and, besides, you must
come back here; let her do this at your return.”

“God knows what will happen before the return,” answered Eva, with
weeping,--“it is certain only that I shall die of suffering; but
for such an orphan for whom no one has pity, death is best of all.”

The little knight had a heart tender beyond measure, hence he began
to walk up and down in the room. He wished above all not to part
with his Basia, even for a day, and what must it be for two weeks!
Still, it was clear that the prayers moved him deeply, for in a
couple of days after those attacks he said one evening,--

“If I could only go with you! But that cannot be, for service
detains me.”

Basia sprang to him, and putting her rosy mouth to his cheek began
to cry,--

“Go, Michael, go, go!”

“It is not possible by any means,” answered Pan Michael, with
decision.

And again two days passed. During this time the little knight asked
advice of Zagloba as to what he ought to do; but Zagloba refused to
give advice.

“If there are no other obstacles but your feelings,” said he,
“what have I to say? Decide yourself. The house will be empty here
without the haiduk. Were it not for my age and the hard road, I
would go myself, for there is no life without her.”

“But you see there is really no hindrance: the weather is a little
frosty, that is all; for the rest, it is quiet, there are commands
along the road everywhere.”

“In that case decide for yourself.”

After that conversation Pan Michael began to hesitate again, and
to weigh two things. He was sorry for Eva. He paused also over
this,--is it proper to send the girl alone with Azya on such a long
road? and still more over another point,--is it proper to withhold
help from devoted people when the opportunity to give it is so
easy? For what was the real difficulty? Basia’s absence for two or
three weeks. Even if it were only a question of pleasing Basia,
by letting her see Mohiloff, Yampol, and Rashkoff, why not please
her? Azya, in one event or another, must go with his squadron to
Rashkoff; hence there would be a strong and even a superfluous
guard in view of the destruction of the robbers, and the quiet
during winter from the horde.

The little knight yielded more and more, seeing which the ladies
renewed their insistence,--one representing the affair as a good
deed and a duty, the other weeping and lamenting. Finally Azya
bowed down before the commandant. He knew, he said, that he was
unworthy of such a favor, but still he had shown so much devotion
and attachment to the Volodyovskis that he made bold to beg for
it. He owed much gratitude to both, since they did not permit men
to insult him, even when he was not known as the son of Tugai Bey.
He would never forget that the wife of the commandant had dressed
his wounds, and had been to him not only a gracious lady, but as it
were a mother. He had given proofs of his gratitude recently in the
battle with Azba Bey, and with God’s help in future he would lay
down his head and shed the last drop of his blood for the life of
the lady, if need be.

Then he began to tell of his old and unfortunate love for Eva. He
could not live without that maiden; he had loved her through whole
years of separation, though without hope, and he would never cease
to love her. But between him and old Pan Novoveski there was an
ancient hatred, and the previous relation of servant and master
separated them, as it were, by a broad ravine. The lady alone could
reconcile them to each other; and if she could not do that, she
could at least shelter the dear girl from her father’s tyranny,
from confinement and the lash.

Pan Michael would have preferred, perhaps, that Basia had not
interfered in the matter; but as he himself loved to do good to
people, he did not wonder at his wife’s heart. Still, he did not
answer Azya affirmatively yet; he resisted even additional tears
from Eva; but he locked himself up in the chancery and fell to
thinking.

At last he came out to supper on a certain evening with an
agreeable expression of face, and after supper he asked Azya
suddenly, “Azya, when is it time for you to go?”

“In a week, your great mightiness,” answered the Tartar, unquietly.
“Halim, it must be, will have concluded negotiations with
Krychinski by that time.”

“Give orders to repair the great sleigh, for you must take two
ladies to Rashkoff.”

When she heard this, Basia began to clap her hands, and rushed
headlong to her husband. After her hurried Eva; after Eva, Azya
bowed down to the little knight’s knees with a wild outburst of
delight, so that Pan Michael had to free himself.

“Give me peace!” said he; “what is there wonderful? When it’s
possible to help people, it is hard not to help them, unless one is
altogether heartless; and I am no tyrant. But do you, Basia, return
quickly, my love; and do you, Azya, guard her faithfully; in this
way you will thank me best. Well, well, give me peace!”

Here his mustaches began to quiver, and then he said more joyously,
to give himself courage,--

“The worst are those tears of women; when I see tears there is
nothing left of me. But you, Azya, must thank not only me and my
wife, but this young lady, who has followed me like a shadow,
exhibiting her sorrow continually before my eyes. You must pay her
for such affection.”

“I will pay her; I will pay her!” said Azya, with a strange voice;
and seizing Eva’s hands, he kissed them so violently that it might
be thought he wished rather to bite them.

“Michael!” cried Zagloba, suddenly, pointing to Basia, “what shall
we do here without her?”

“Indeed it will be grievous,” said the little knight, “God knows it
will!” Then he added more quietly: “But the Lord God may bless my
good action later. Do you understand?”

Meanwhile Basia pushed in between them her bright head full of
curiosity.

“What are you saying?”

“Nothing,” replied Zagloba; “we said that in spring the storks
would come surely.”

Basia began to rub her face to her husband’s like a real cat.
“Michael dear! I shall not stay long,” said she, in a low voice.

After this conversation new councils were held during several days
touching the journey. Pan Michael looked after everything himself,
gave orders to arrange the sleigh in his presence, and line it with
skins of foxes killed in autumn. Zagloba brought his own lap-robe,
so that she might have wherewith to cover her feet on the road.
Sleighs were to go with a bed and provisions; and Basia’s pony was
to go, so that she might leave her sleigh in dangerous places; for
Pan Michael had a particular fear of the entrance to Mohiloff,
which was really a breakneck descent. Though there was not the
slightest likelihood of an attack, the little knight commanded
Azya to take every precaution: to send men always a couple of
furlongs in advance, and never pass the night on the road but in
places where there were commands; to start at daylight, and not to
loiter on the way. To such a degree did the little knight think of
everything, that with his own hand he loaded the pistols for the
holsters in Basia’s saddle.

The moment of departure came at last. It was still dark when two
hundred horse of the Lithuanian Tartars were standing ready on
the square. In the chief room of the commandant’s house movement
reigned also. In the chimneys pitchy sticks were shooting up
bright flames. The little knight, Pan Zagloba, Pan Mushalski,
Pan Nyenashinyets, Pan Hromyka, and Pan Motovidlo, and with them
officers from the light squadrons, had come to say farewell. Basia
and Eva, warm yet and ruddy from sleep, were drinking heated wine
for the road. Pan Michael, sitting by his wife, had his arm around
her waist; Zagloba poured out to her, repeating at each addition,
“Take more, for the weather is frosty.” Basia and Eva were dressed
in male costume, for women travelled generally in that guise on
the frontiers. Basia had a sabre; a wild-cat skin shuba bound with
weasel-skin; an ermine cap with earlaps; very wide trousers looking
like a skirt; and boots to her knees, soft and lined. To all this
were to be added warm cloaks and shubas with hoods to cover the
faces. Basia’s face was uncovered yet, and astonished people as
usual with its beauty. Some, however, looked appreciatively at Eva,
who had a mouth formed as it were for kisses; and others did not
know which to prefer, so charming seemed both to the soldiers, who
whispered in one another’s ears,--

“It is hard for a man to live in such a desert! Happy commandant,
happy Azya! Uh!”

The fire crackled joyfully in the chimneys; the crowing of cocks
began; day approached gradually, rather frosty and clear; the roofs
of the sheds and the quarters of the soldiers, covered with deep
snow, took on a bright rose color.

From the square was heard the snorting of horses and the squeaking
steps of soldiers and dragoons who had assembled from the sheds and
lodgings to take farewell of Basia and the Tartars.

“It is time!” said Pan Michael at last.

Hearing this, Basia sprang from her place and fell into her
husband’s arms. He pressed his lips to hers, then held her with
all his strength to his breast, kissed her eyes and forehead, and
again her mouth. That moment was long, for they loved each other
immensely.

After the little knight the turn came to Zagloba; then the other
officers approached to kiss her hand, and she repeated with her
childish voice, resonant as silver,--

“Be in good health, gentlemen; be in good health!”

She and Eva put on cloaks with openings instead of sleeves, and
then shubas with hoods, and the two vanished altogether under these
robes. The broad door was thrown open, a frosty steam rushed in,
then the whole assembly found itself on the square.

Outside everything was becoming more and more visible from the snow
and daylight.

Hoar-frost had settled on the hair of the horses and the sheepskin
coats of the men; it seemed as though the whole squadron were
dressed in white, and were sitting on white horses.

Basia and Eva took their seats in the fur-lined sleigh. The
dragoons and the soldiers shouted for a happy journey to the
departing.

At that sound a numerous flock of crows and ravens, which a severe
winter had driven in near the dwellings of people, flew from the
roofs, and with low croaking began to circle in the rosy air.

The little knight bent over the sleigh and hid his face in the hood
covering the face of his wife. Long was that moment; at last he
tore himself away from Basia, and, making the sign of the cross,
exclaimed,--

“In the name of God!”

Now Azya rose in the stirrups; his wild face was gleaming from
delight and the dawn. He waved his whirlbat, so that his burka rose
like the wings of a bird of prey, and he cried with a piercing
voice:--

“Move on!”

The hoofs squeaked on the snow; abundant steam came from the
nostrils of the horses. The first rank moved slowly; after that the
second, the third, and the fourth, then the sleigh, then the ranks
of the whole detachment began to move across the sloping square to
the gate.

The little knight blessed them with the Holy Cross; at last, when
the sleigh had passed the gate, he put his hands around his mouth,
and called, “Be well, Basia!”

But only the voices of muskets and the loud cawing of the dark
birds gave him answer.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.


A detachment of Cheremis, some twenty in number, marched five
miles in advance to examine the road and notify commandants of
Pani Volodyovski’s journey, so that quarters might be ready for
her in each place. After this detachment came the main force of
the Lithuanian Tartars, the sleigh with Basia and Eva, and another
sleigh with servant-women; a small detachment closed the march.
The road was heavy enough because of snowdrifts. Pine woods,
which in winter do not lose their needle-like leaves, permit less
snow to fall to the earth; but that forest along the bank of the
Dniester, formed for the most part of oaks and other deciduous
trees, stripped now of their natural covering, was packed halfway
to the lower branches with snow. Snow had filled also the narrowest
ravines; in places it had been lifted into waves whose curling
summits seemed as if ready to tumble in an instant and be lost in
the general white expanse. During the passage of difficult ravines
and declivities the Tartars held the sleighs back with ropes; only
on the lofty plains, where the wind had smoothed the snow surface,
did they drive quickly in the track of the caravan, which with
Naviragh and the two learned Anardrats had started earlier from
Hreptyoff.

Travelling was difficult; not so difficult, however, as sometimes
in those wild regions full of chasms, rivers, streams, and gullies.
The ladies were rejoiced, therefore, that before deep night came
they would be able to reach the precipitous ravine in the bottom
of which stood Mohiloff; besides, there was promise of continued
fair weather. After a ruddy dawn the sun rose, and all at once the
plains, the ravines, and the forests were gleaming in its rays; the
branches of the trees seemed coated with sparks; sparks glittered
on the snow till the eyes ached from the brightness. From high
points one could see out through open spaces, as through windows in
that wilderness, the gaze reaching down to Moldavia was lost on a
horizon white and blue, but flooded with sunlight.

The air was dry and sharp. In such an atmosphere men as well as
beasts feel strength and health; in the ranks the horses snorted
greatly, throwing rolls of steam from their nostrils; and the
Tartars, though the frost so pinched their legs that they drew them
under their skirts continually, sang joyful songs.

At last the sun rose to the very summit of the pavilion of the
sky, and warmed the world somewhat. It was too hot for Basia and
Eva under the fur in the sleigh. They loosened the covering on
their heads, pushed back their hoods, showed their rosy faces to
the light, and began to look around,--Basia on the country, and
Eva searching for Azya. He was not near the sleigh; he was riding
in advance with that detachment of Cheremis who were examining the
road, and clearing away snow when necessary. Eva frowned because of
this; but Basia, knowing military service through and through, said
to console her:--

“They are all that way; when there is service, it is service. My
Michael will not even look at me when military duty comes; and it
would be ill were it otherwise, for if you are to love a soldier,
let him be a good one.”

“But will he be with us at the resting-place?” asked Eva.

“See lest you have too much of him. Did you not notice how joyful
he was when we started? Light was beaming from him.”

“I saw that he was very glad.”

“But what will he be when he receives permission from your father?”

“Oi, what is in waiting for me? The will of God be done! though
the heart dies in me when I think of father. If he shouts, if he
becomes wilful and refuses permission, I shall have a fine life
when I go home.”

“Do you know, Eva, what I think?”

“What is it?”

“There is no trifling with Azya. Your brother might oppose with his
force; but your father has no command. I think that if your father
resists, Azya will take you anyhow.”

“How is that?”

“Why, carry you off simply. There is no trifling with him, people
say,--Tugai Bey’s blood. You will be married by the first priest
on the road. In another place it would be necessary to have banns,
certificates, license; but here it is a wild country, all things
are a little in Tartar fashion.”

Eva’s face brightened. “This is what I dread. Azya is ready for
anything; this is what I dread,” said she.

But Basia, turning her head, looked at her quickly, and burst out
suddenly with her resonant, childlike laugh.

“You dread that just as a mouse dreads bacon. Oh, I know you!”

Eva, flushed already from the cold air, flushed still more, and
said:--

“I should fear my father’s curse, and I know that Azya is ready to
disregard everything.”

“Be of good courage,” answered Basia, “besides me, you have your
brother to help you. True love always comes to its own. Pan Zagloba
told me that when Michael wasn’t even dreaming of me.”

Conversation once begun, they vied with each other in talking,--one
about Azya, the other about Michael. Thus a couple of hours passed,
till the caravan halted for the first refreshment at Yaryshoff. Of
a hamlet, wretched enough at all times, there remained, after the
peasant incursion, only one public house, which was restored from
the time that the frequent passage of soldiers began to promise
certain profit. Basia and Eva found in it a passing Armenian
merchant of Mohiloff origin, who was taking morocco to Kamenyets.

Azya wished to hurl him out of doors with the Wallachians and
Tartars who were with him; but the women permitted him to remain,
only his guard had to withdraw. When the merchant learned that the
travelling lady was Pani Volodyovski, he began to bow down before
her and praise her husband to the skies. Basia listened to the
man with great delight. At last he went to his packs, and when he
returned offered her a package of special sweetmeats and a little
box full of odorous Turkish herbs good for various ailments.

“I bring this through gratitude,” said he. “Till now we have not
dared to thrust our heads out of Mohiloff, because Azba Bey ravaged
so terribly, and so many robbers infested on this side all the
ravines and on the Moldavian bank the meadows; but now the road is
safe, and trading secure. Now we travel again. May God increase the
days of the commandant of Hreptyoff, and make each day long enough
for a journey from Mohiloff to Kamenyets, and let every hour be
extended so as to seem a day! Our commandant, the field secretary,
prefers to sit in Warsaw; but the commandant of Hreptyoff watched,
and swept out the robbers, so that death is dearer to them now than
the Dniester.”

“Then is Pan Revuski not in Mohiloff?” asked Basia.

“He only brought the troops; I do not know if he remained three
days. Permit, your great mightiness, here are raisins in this
packet, and at this edge of it fruit such as is not found even in
Turkey; it comes from distant Asia, and grows there on palms. The
secretary is not in the town; but now there is no cavalry at all,
for yesterday they went on a sudden toward Bratslav. But here are
dates; may they be to the health of your great mightiness! Only Pan
Gorzenski has remained with infantry.”

“It is a wonder to me that all the cavalry have gone,” said Basia,
with an inquiring glance at Azya.

“They moved so the horses might not get out of training,” answered
Azya, calmly.

“In the town, people say that Doroshenko advanced unexpectedly,”
said the merchant.

Azya laughed. “But with what will he feed his horses, with snow?”
said he to Basia.

“Pan Gorzenski will explain best to your great mightiness,” added
the merchant.

“I do not believe that it is anything,” said Basia, after a
moment’s thought; “for if it were, my husband would be the first to
know.”

“Without doubt the news would be first in Hreptyoff,” said Azya;
“let your grace have no fear.”

Basia raised her bright face to the Tartar, and her nostrils
quivered.

“I have fear! That is excellent; what is in your head? Do you hear,
Eva?--I have fear!”

Eva could not answer; for being by nature fond of dainties, and
loving sweets beyond measure, she had her mouth full of dates,
which did not prevent her, however, from looking eagerly at Azya;
but when she had swallowed the fruit, she said,--

“Neither have I any fear with such an officer.”

Then she looked tenderly and significantly into the eyes of
young Tugai Bey; but from the time that she had begun to be an
obstacle, he felt for her only secret repulsion and anger. He stood
motionless, therefore, and said with downcast eyes,--

“In Rashkoff it will be seen if I deserve confidence.”

And there was in his voice something almost terrible; but as
the two women knew so well that the young Tartar was thoroughly
different in word and deed from other men, this did not rouse
their attention. Besides, Azya insisted at once on continuing
the journey, because the mountains before Mohiloff were abrupt,
difficult of passage, and should be crossed during daylight.

They started without delay, and advanced very quickly till they
reached those mountains. Basia wished then to sit on her horse;
but at Azya’s persuasion she stayed with Eva in the sleigh, which
was steadied with lariats, and let down from the height with the
greatest precaution. All this time Azya walked near the sleigh;
but occupied altogether with their safety, and in general with the
command, he spoke scarcely a word either to Basia or Eva. The sun
went down, however, before they succeeded in passing the mountains;
but the detachment of Cheremis, marching in advance, made fires
of dry branches. They went down then among the ruddy fires and
the wild figures standing near them. Beyond those figures were,
in the gloom of the night and in the half-light of the flames,
the threatening declivities in uncertain, terrible outlines. All
this was new, curious; all had the appearance of some kind of
dangerous and mysterious expedition,--wherefore Basia’s soul was
in the seventh heaven, and her heart rose in gratitude to her
husband for letting her go on this journey to unknown regions, and
to Azya because he had been able to manage the journey so well.
Basia understood now, for the first time, the meaning of those
military marches of which she had heard so much from soldiers, and
what precipitous and winding roads were. A mad joyousness took
possession of her. She would have mounted her pony assuredly, were
it not that, sitting near Eva, she could talk with her and terrify
her. Therefore when moving in a narrow, short turn the detachment
in advance vanished from the eye and began to shout with wild
voices, the stifled echo of which resounded among overhanging
cliffs, Basia turned to Eva, and seizing her hands, cried,--

“Oh, ho! robbers from the meadows, or the horde!”

But Eva, when she remembered Azya, the son of Tugai Bey, was calm
in a moment.

“The robbers in the horde respect and fear Azya,” answered she. And
later, bending to Basia’s ear, she said, “Even to Belgrod, even to
the Crimea, if with him!”

The moon had risen high in heaven when they were issuing from the
mountains. Then they beheld far down, and, as it were, at the
bottom of a precipice, a collection of lights.

“Mohiloff is under our feet,” said a voice behind Basia and Eva.

They looked around; it was Azya standing behind the sleigh.

“But does the town lie like that at the bottom of the ravine?”
asked Basia.

“It does. The mountains shield it completely from winter winds,”
answered Azya, pushing his head between their heads. “Notice, your
grace, that there is another climate here; it is warmer and calmer.
Spring comes here ten days earlier than on the other side of the
mountains, and the trees put forth their leaves sooner. That gray
on the slopes is a vineyard; but the ground is under snow yet.”

Snow was lying everywhere, but really the air was warmer and
calmer. In proportion as they descended slowly toward the valley,
lights showed themselves one after another, and increased in number
every moment.

“A respectable place, and rather large,” said Eva.

“It is because the Tartars did not burn it at the time of the
peasant incursion. The Cossack troops wintered here, and Poles have
scarcely ever visited the place.”

“Who live here?”

“Tartars, who have their wooden mosque; for in the Commonwealth
every man is free to profess his own faith. Wallachians live here,
also Armenians and Greeks.”

“I have seen Greeks once in Kamenyets,” said Basia; “for though
they live far away, they go everywhere for commerce.”

“This town is composed differently from all others,” said Azya;
“many people of various nations come here to trade. That settlement
which we see at a distance on one side is called Serby.”

“We are entering already,” said Basia.

They were, in fact, entering. A strange odor of skins and acid
met their nostrils at once. That was the odor of morocco, at
the manufacture of which all the inhabitants of Mohiloff worked
somewhat, but especially the Armenians. As Azya had said, the
place was different altogether from others. The houses were built
in Asiatic fashion; they had windows covered with thick wooden
lattice; in many houses there were no windows on the street, and
only in the yards was seen the glitter of fires. The streets were
not paved, though there was no lack of stone in the neighborhood.
Here and there were buildings of strange form with latticed,
transparent walls; those were drying-houses, in which fresh grapes
were turned into raisins. The odor of morocco filled the whole
place.

Pan Gorzenski, who commanded the infantry, had been informed by the
Cheremis of the arrival of the wife of the commandant of Hreptyoff,
and rode out on horseback to meet her. He was not young, and he
stuttered; he lisped also, for his face had been pierced by a
bullet from a long-barrelled janissary gun; therefore when he began
to speak (stuttering every moment) of the star “which had risen in
the heavens of Mohiloff,” Basia came near bursting into laughter.
But he received her in the most hospitable manner known to him.
In the “fortalice” a supper was waiting for her, and a supremely
comfortable bed on fresh and clean down, which he had taken by a
forced loan from the wealthiest Armenians. Pan Gorzenski stuttered,
it is true, but during the evening he related at the supper things
so curious that it was worth while to listen.

According to him a certain disquieting breeze had begun to blow
suddenly and unexpectedly from the steppes. Reports came that a
strong chambul of the Crimean horde, stationed with Doroshenko,
had moved all at once toward Haysyn and the country above that
point; with the chambuls went some thousands of Cossacks. Besides,
a number of other alarming reports had come from indefinite places.
Pan Gorzenski did not attach great faith to these rumors, however.
“For it is winter,” said he; “and since the Lord God has created
this earthly circle the Tartars move only in spring; then they form
no camp, carry no baggage, take no food for their horses in any
place. We all know that war with the Turkish power is held in the
leash by frost alone, and that we shall have guests at the first
grass; but that there is anything at present I shall never believe.”

Basia waited patiently and long till Pan Gorzenski should finish.
He stuttered, meanwhile, and moved his lips continually, as if
eating.

“What do you think yourself of the movement of the horde toward
Haysyn?” asked she at last.

“I think that their horses have pawed out all the grass from under
the snow, and that they wish to make a camp in another place.
Besides, it may be that the horde; living near Doroshenko’s men,
are quarrelling with them; it has always been so. Though they are
allies and are fighting together, only let encampments stand side
by side, and they fall to quarrelling at once in the pastures and
at the bazaars.”

“That is the case surely,” said Azya.

“And there is another point,” continued Pan Gorzenski; “the reports
did not come directly through partisans, but peasants brought
them; the Tartars here began to talk without evident reason. Three
days ago Pan Yakubovich brought in from the steppes the first
informants who confirmed the reports, and all the cavalry marched
out immediately.”

“Then you are here with infantry only?” inquired Azya.

“God pity us!--forty men! There is hardly any one to guard the
fortalice; and if the Tartars living here in Mohiloff were to rise,
I know not how I could defend myself.”

“But why do they not rise against you?” inquired Basia.

“They do not, because they cannot in any way. Many of them live
permanently in the Commonwealth with their wives and children, and
they are on our side. As to strangers, they are here for commerce,
not for war; they are good people.”

“I will leave your grace fifty horse from my force,” said Azya.

“God reward! You will oblige me greatly by this, for I shall have
some one to send out to get intelligence. But can you leave them?”

“I can. We shall have in Rashkoff the parties of those captains
who in their time went over to the Sultan, but now wish to resume
obedience to the Commonwealth. Krychinski will bring three hundred
horse certainly; and perhaps Adurovich, too, will come; others will
arrive later. I am to take command over all by order of the hetman,
and before spring a whole division will be assembled.”

Pan Gorzenski inclined before Azya. He had known him for a long
time, but had had small esteem for him, as being a man of doubtful
origin. But knowing now that he was the son of Tugai Bey, for
an account of this had been brought by the recent caravan in
which Naviragh was travelling, Gorzenski honored in the young
Tartar the blood of a great though hostile warrior; he honored
in him, besides, an officer to whom the hetman had confided such
significant functions.

Azya went out to give orders, and calling the sotnik David, said,--

“David, son of Skander, thou wilt remain in Mohiloff with fifty
horse. Thou wilt see with thy eyes and hear with thy ears what is
happening around thee. If the Little Falcon in Hreptyoff sends
letters to me, thou wilt stop his messenger, take the letters from
him, and send them with thy own man. Thou wilt remain here till I
send an order to withdraw. If my messenger says, ‘It is night,’
thou wilt go out in peace; but if he says, ‘Day is near,’ thou
wilt burn the place, cross to the Moldavian bank, and go whither I
command thee.”

“Thou hast spoken,” answered David; “I will see with my eyes and
hear with my ears; I will stop messengers from the Little Falcon,
and when I have taken letters from them I will send those letters
through our man to thee. I will remain till I receive an order; and
if the messenger says to me, ‘It is night,’ I will go out quietly;
if he says, ‘Day is near,’ I will burn the place, cross to the
Moldavian bank, and go whither the command directs.”

Next morning the caravan, less by fifty horse, continued the
journey. Pan Gorzenski escorted Basia beyond the ravine of
Mohiloff. There, after he had stuttered forth a farewell oration,
he returned to Mohiloff, and they went on toward Yampol very
hurriedly. Azya was unusually joyful, and urged his men to a degree
that astonished Basia.

“Why are you in such haste?” inquired she.

“Every man hastens to happiness,” answered Azya, “and mine will
begin in Rashkoff.”

Eva, taking these words to herself, smiled tenderly, and collecting
courage, answered, “But my father?”

“Pan Novoveski will obstruct me in nothing,” answered the Tartar,
and gloomy lightning flashed through his face.

In Yampol they found almost no troops. There had never been any
infantry there, and nearly all the cavalry had gone; barely a few
men remained in the castle, or rather in the ruins of it. Lodgings
were prepared, but Basia slept badly, for those rumors had begun to
disturb her. She pondered over this especially,--how alarmed the
little knight would be should it turn out that one of Doroshenko’s
chambuls had advanced really; but she strengthened herself with
the thought that it might be untrue. It occurred to her whether
it would not be better to return, taking for safety a part of
Azya’s soldiers; but various obstacles presented themselves. First,
Azya, having to increase the garrison at Rashkoff, could give only
a small guard, hence, in case of real danger, that guard might
prove insufficient; secondly, two thirds of the road was passed
already; in Rashkoff there was an officer known to her, and a
strong garrison, which, increased by Azya’s detachment and by the
companies of those captains, might grow to a power quite important.
Taking all this into consideration, Basia determined to journey
farther.

But she could not sleep. For the first time during that journey
alarm seized her, as if unknown danger were hanging over her head.
Perhaps lodging in Yampol had its share in those alarms, for
that was a bloody and a terrible place; Basia knew it from the
narratives of her husband and Pan Zagloba. Here had been stationed
in Hmelnitski’s time the main forces of the Podolian cut-throats
under Burlai; hither captives had been brought and sold for the
markets of the East, or killed by a cruel death; finally, in the
spring of 1651, during the time of a crowded fair, Pan Stanislav
Lantskoronski, the voevoda of Bratslav, had burst in and made a
dreadful slaughter, the memory of which was fresh throughout the
whole borderland of the Dniester.

Hence, there hung everywhere over the whole settlement bloody
memories; hence, here and there were blackened ruins, and from the
walls of the half-destroyed castle seemed to gaze white faces of
slaughtered Poles and Cossacks. Basia was daring, but she feared
ghosts; it was said that in Yampol itself, at the mouth of the
Shumilovka, and on the neighboring cataracts of the Dniester, great
wailing was heard at midnight and groans, and that the water became
red in the moonlight as if colored with blood. The thought of this
filled Basia’s heart with bitter alarm. She listened, in spite of
herself, to hear in the still night, in the sounds of the cataract,
weeping and groans. She heard only the prolonged “watch call” of
the sentries. Then she remembered the quiet room in Hreptyoff, her
husband, Pan Zagloba, the friendly faces of Pan Nyenashinyets,
Mushalski, Motovidlo, Snitko, and others, and for the first time
she felt that she was far from them, very far, in a strange region;
and such a homesickness for Hreptyoff seized her that she wanted
to weep. It was near morning when she fell asleep, but she had
wonderful dreams. Burlai, the cut-throats, the Tartars, bloody
pictures of massacre, passed through her sleeping head; and in
those pictures she saw continually the face of Azya,--not the same
Azya, however, but as it were a Cossack, or a wild Tartar, or Tugai
Bey himself.

She rose early, glad that night and the disagreeable visions
had ended. She had determined to make the rest of the journey
on horseback,--first, to enjoy the movement; second, to give an
opportunity for free speech to Azya and Eva, who, in view of the
nearness of Rashkoff, needed, of course, to settle the way of
declaring everything to old Pan Novoveski, and to receive his
consent. Azya held the stirrup with his own hand; he did not sit,
however, in the sleigh with Eva, but went without delay to the head
of the detachment, and remained near Basia.

She noticed at once that again the cavalry were fewer in number
than when they came to Yampol; she turned therefore to the young
Tartar and said, “I see that you have left some men in Yampol?”

“Fifty horse, the same as in Mohiloff,” answered Azya.

“Why was that?”

He laughed peculiarly; his lips rose as those of a wicked dog do
when he shows his teeth, and he answered only after a while.

“I wished to have those places in my power, and to secure the
homeward road for your grace.”

“If the troops return from the steppes, there will be forces there
then.”

“The troops will not come back so soon.”

“Whence do you know that?”

“They cannot, because first they must learn clearly what Doroshenko
is doing; that will occupy about three or four weeks.”

“If that is the case you did well to leave those men.”

They rode a while in silence. Azya looked from time to time at the
rosy face of Basia, half concealed by the raised collar of her
mantle and her cap, and after every glance he closed his eyes, as
if wishing to fix that charming picture more firmly in his mind.

“You ought to talk with Eva,” said Basia, renewing the
conversation. “You talk altogether too little with her; she knows
not what to think. You will stand before the face of Pan Novoveski
soon; alarm even seizes me. You and she should take counsel
together, and settle how you are to begin.”

“I should like to speak first with your grace,” said Azya, with a
strange voice.

“Then why not speak at once?”

“I am waiting for a messenger from Rashkoff; I thought to find him
in Yampol. I expect him every moment.”

“But what,” said Basia, “has the messenger to do with our
conversation?”

“I think that he is coming now,” said the Tartar, avoiding an
answer. And he galloped forward, but returned after a while. “No;
that is not he.”

In his whole posture, in his speech, in his look, in his voice,
there was something so excited and feverish that unquietude was
communicated to Basia; still the least suspicion had not risen in
her head yet. Azya’s unrest could be explained perfectly by the
nearness of Rashkoff and of Eva’s terrible father; still, something
oppressed Basia, as if her own fate were in question. Approaching
the sleigh, she rode near Eva for a number of hours, speaking
with her of Rashkoff, of old Pan Novoveski, of Pan Adam, of Zosia
Boski, finally of the region about them, which was becoming a
wilder and more terrible wilderness. It was, in truth, a wilderness
immediately beyond Hreptyoff; but there at least a column of smoke
rose from time to time on the horizon, indicating some habitation.
Here there were no traces of man; and if Basia had not known that
she was going to Rashkoff, where people were living, and a Polish
garrison was stationed, she might have thought that they were
taking her somewhere into an unknown desert, into strange lands at
the end of the world.

Looking around at the country, she restrained her horse
involuntarily, and was soon left in the rear of the sleighs and
horsemen. Azya joined her after a while; and since he knew the
region well, he began to show her various places, mentioning their
names.

This did not last very long, however, for the earth began to be
smoky; evidently the winter had not such power in that southern
region as in woody Hreptyoff. Snow was lying somewhat, it is true,
in the valleys, on the cliffs, on the edges of the rocks, and also
on the hillsides turned northward; but in general the earth was not
covered, and looked dark with groves, or gleamed with damp withered
grass. From that grass rose a light whitish fog, which, extending
near the earth, formed in the distance the counterfeit of great
waters, filling the valleys and spreading widely over the plains;
then that fog rose higher and higher, till at last it hid the
sunshine, and turned a clear day into a foggy and gloomy one.

“There will be rain to-morrow,” said Azya.

“If not to-day. How far is it to Rashkoff?”

Azya looked at the nearest place, barely visibly through the fog,
and said,--

“From that point it is nearer to Rashkoff than to Yampol.” And he
breathed deeply, as if a great weight had fallen from his breast.

At that moment the tramp of a horse was heard from the direction of
the cavalry, and some horseman was seen indistinctly in the fog.

“Halim! I know him,” cried Azya.

Indeed, it was Halim, who, when he had rushed up to Azya and Basia,
sprang from his horse and began to beat with his forehead toward
the stirrup of the young Tartar.

“From Rashkoff?” inquired Azya.

“From Rashkoff, my lord,” answered Halim.

“What is to be heard there?”

The old man raised toward Basia his ugly head, emaciated from
unheard of toils, as if wishing to inquire whether he might speak
in her presence; but Tugai Bey’s son said at once,--

“Speak boldly. Have the troops gone out?”

“They have. A handful remained.”

“Who led them?”

“Pan Novoveski.”

“Have the Pyotroviches gone to the Crimea?”

“Long ago. Only two women remained, and old Pan Novoveski with
them.”

“Where is Krychinski?”

“On the other bank of the river; he is waiting.”

“Who is with him?”

“Adurovich with his company; both beat with the forehead to
thy stirrup, O son of Tugai Bey, and give themselves under thy
hand,--they, and all those who have not come yet.”

“’Tis well!” said Azya, with fire in his eyes. “Fly to Krychinski
at once, and give the command to occupy Rashkoff.”

“Thy will, lord.”

Halim sprang on his horse in a moment, and vanished like a phantom
in the fog. A terrible, ominous gleam issued from the face of Azya.
The decisive moment had come,--the moment waited for, the moment of
greatest happiness for him; but his heart was beating as if breath
were failing him. He rode for a time in silence near Basia; and
only when he felt that his voice would not deceive him did he turn
toward her his eyes, inscrutable but bright, and say,--

“Now I will speak to your grace with sincerity.”

“I listen,” said Basia, scanning him carefully, as if she wished to
read his changed countenance.




CHAPTER XXXIX.


Azya urged his horse up so closely to Basia’s pony that his stirrup
almost touched hers. He rode forward a few steps in silence; during
this time he strove to calm himself finally, and wondered why
calmness came to him with such effort, since he had Basia in his
hands, and there was no human power which could take her from him.
But he did not know that in his soul, despite every probability,
despite every evidence, there glimmered a certain spark of hope
that the woman whom he desired would answer with a feeling like his
own. If that hope was weak, the desire for its object was so strong
that it shook him as a fever. The woman would not open her arms,
would not cast herself into his embrace, would not say those words
over which he had dreamed whole nights: “Azya, I am thine;” she
would not hang with her lips on his lips,--he knew this. But how
would she receive his words? What would she say? Would she lose all
feeling, like a dove in the claws of a bird of prey, and let him
take her, just as the hapless dove yields itself to the hawk? Would
she beg for mercy tearfully, or would she fill that wilderness
with a cry of terror? Would there be something more, or something
less, of all this? Such questions were storming in the head of
the Tartar. But in every case the hour had come to cast aside
feigning, pretences, and show her a truthful, a terrible face. Here
was his fear, here his alarm. One moment more, and all would be
accomplished.

Finally this mental alarm became in the Tartar that which alarm
becomes most frequently in a wild beast,--rage; and he began to
rouse himself with that rage. “Whatever happens,” thought he, “she
is mine, she is mine altogether; she will be mine to-morrow, and
then will not return to her husband, but will follow me.”

At this thought wild delight seized him by the hair, and he said
all at once in a voice which seemed strange to himself, “Your grace
has not known me till now.”

“In this fog your voice has so changed,” answered Basia, somewhat
alarmed, “that it seems to me really as if another were speaking.”

“In Mohiloff there are no troops, in Yampol none, in Rashkoff none.
I alone am lord here,--Krychinski, Adurovich, and those others are
my slaves; for I am a prince, I am the son of a ruler. I am their
vizir, I am their highest murza; I am their leader, as Tugai Bey
was; I am their khan; I alone have authority; all here is in my
power.”

“Why do you say this to me?”

“Your grace has not known me hitherto. Rashkoff is not far away. I
wished to become hetman of the Tartars and serve the Commonwealth;
but Sobieski would not permit it. I am not to be a Lithuanian
Tartar any longer; I am not to serve under any man’s command,
but to lead great chambuls myself, against Doroshenko, or the
Commonwealth, as your grace wishes, as your grace commands.”

“How as I command? Azya, what is the matter with you?”

“This, that here all are my slaves, and I am yours. What is the
hetman to me? I care not whether he has permitted or not. Say a
word, your grace, and I will put Akkerman at your feet; and the
Dobrudja, and those hordes which have villages there, and those
which wander in the Wilderness, and those who are everywhere in
winter quarters will be your slaves, as I am your slave. Command,
and I will not obey the Khan of the Crimea, I will not obey the
Sultan; I will make war on them with the sword, and aid the
Commonwealth. I will form new hordes in these regions, and be khan
over them, and you will be alone over me; to you alone will I bow
down, beg for your favor and love.”

When he had said this, he bent in the saddle, and, seizing the
woman, half terrified, and, as it were, stunned by his words, he
continued to speak in a hurried, hoarse voice; “Have you not seen
that I love only you? Ah, but I have suffered my share! I will take
you now! You are mine, and you will be mine! No one will tear you
from my hands in this place--you are mine, mine, mine!”

“Jesus, Mary!” cried Basia.

But he pressed her in his arms as if wishing to smother her.
Hurried breathing struggled from his lips, his eyes grew misty; at
last he drew her out of the stirrups, off the saddle, put her in
front of him, pressed her breast to his own, and his bluish lips,
opening greedily, like the mouth of a fish, began to seek her mouth.

She uttered no cry, but began to resist with unexpected strength;
between them rose a struggle in which only the panting of their
breaths was to be heard. His violent movements and the nearness of
his face restored her presence of mind. An instant of such clear
vision came to Basia as comes to the drowning; she felt everything
at once with the greatest vividness. Hence she felt first of all
that the earth was vanishing from under her feet, and a bottomless
ravine opening, to which he was dragging her; she saw his desire,
his treason, her own dreadful fate, her weakness and helplessness;
she felt alarm, and a ghastly pain and sorrow, and at the same time
there burst forth in her a flame of immense indignation, rage,
and revenge. Such was the courage and spirit of that daughter of
a knight, that chosen wife of the most gallant soldier of the
Commonwealth, that in that awful moment she thought first of all,
“I will have revenge,” then “I will save myself.” All the faculties
of her mind were strained, as hair is straightened with terror on
the head; and that clearness of vision as in drowning became in her
almost miraculous. While struggling her hands began to seek for
weapons, and found at last the ivory butt of an Eastern pistol;
but at the same time she had presence of mind to think of this
also,--that even if the pistol were loaded, even if she should cock
it, before she could bend her hand, before she could point the
barrel at his head, he would seize her hand without fail, and take
from her the last means of salvation. Hence she resolved to strike
in another way.

All this lasted one twinkle of an eye. He indeed foresaw the
attack, and put out his hand with the speed of a lightning flash;
but he did not succeed in calculating her movement. The hands
passed each other, and Basia, with all the despairing strength of
her young and vigorous arm, struck him with the ivory butt of the
pistol between the eyes.

The blow was so terrible that Azya was not able even to cry, and he
fell backward, drawing her after him in his fall.

Basia raised herself in a moment, and, springing on her horse, shot
off like a whirlwind in the direction opposite the Dnieper, toward
the broad steppes.

The curtain of fog closed behind her. The horse, dropping his ears,
rushed on at random among the rocks, clefts, ravines, and breaches.
Any moment he might run into some cleft, any moment he might crush
himself and his rider against a rocky corner; but Basia looked at
nothing; for her the most terrible danger was Azya and the Tartars.
A wonderful thing it was, that now, when she had freed herself
from the hands of the robber, and when he was lying apparently
dead among the rocks, dread mastered all her feelings. Lying with
her face to the mane of the horse, shooting on in the fog, like a
deer chased by wolves, she began to fear Azya more than when she
was in his arms; and she felt terror and weakness and that which a
helpless child feels, which, wandering where it wished, has gone
astray, and is alone and deserted. Certain weeping voices rose in
her heart, and began, with groaning, with timidity, with complaint,
and with pity, to call for protection: “Michael, save me! Michael,
save me!”

The horse rushed on and on; led by a wonderful instinct, he
sprang over breaches, avoided with quick movement prominent cliff
corners, until at last the stony ground ceased to sound under his
feet; evidently he had come to one of those open “meadows” which
stretched here and there among the ravines.

Sweat covered the horse, his nostrils were rattling loudly, but he
ran and ran.

“Whither can I go?” thought Basia. And that moment she answered
herself: “To Hreptyoff.”

But new alarm pressed her heart at thought of that long road lying
through terrible wildernesses. Quickly too she remembered that Azya
had left detachments of his men in Mohiloff and Yampol. Doubtless
these were all in the conspiracy; all served Azya, and would seize
her surely, and take her to Rashkoff; she ought, therefore, to ride
far into the steppe, and only then turn northward, thus avoiding
the settlements on the Dniester.

She ought to do this all the more for the reason that if men were
sent to pursue her, beyond doubt they would go near the river; and
meanwhile it might be possible to meet some of the Polish commands
in the wide steppes, on their way to the fortresses.

The speed of the horse decreased gradually. Basia, being an
experienced rider, understood at once that it was necessary to give
him time to recover breath, otherwise he would fall; she felt also
that without a horse in those deserts she was lost.

She restrained, therefore, his speed, and went some time at a walk.
The fog was growing thin, but a cloud of hot steam rose from the
poor beast.

Basia began to pray.

Suddenly she heard the neighing of a horse amid the fog a few
hundred yards behind.

Then the hair rose on her head.

“Mine will fall dead, but so will that one!” said she, aloud; and
again she shot on.

For some time her horse rushed forward with the speed of a dove
pursued by a falcon, and he ran long, almost to the last of his
strength; but the neighing was heard continually behind in the
distance. There was in that neighing which came out of the fog
something at once of immeasurable yearning and threatening; still,
after the first alarm had passed, it came to Basia’s mind that if
some one were sitting on that horse he would not neigh, for the
rider, not wishing to betray the pursuit, would stop the neighing.

“Can it be that that is only Azya’s horse following mine?” thought
Basia.

For the sake of precaution she drew both pistols out of the
holsters; but the caution was needless. After a while something
seemed black in the thinning mist, and Azya’s horse ran up with
flowing mane and distended nostrils. Seeing the pony, he began to
approach him, giving out short and sudden neighs; and the pony
answered immediately.

“Horse, horse!” cried Basia.

The animal, accustomed to the human hand, drew near and let itself
be taken by the bridle. Basia raised her eyes to Heaven, and said:--

“The protection of God!”

In fact, the seizure of Azya’s horse was a circumstance for her in
every way favorable. To begin with, she had the two best horses
in the whole detachment; secondly, she had a horse to change;
and thirdly, the presence of the beast assured her that pursuit
would not start soon. If the horse had run to the detachment, the
Tartars, disturbed at sight of him, would have turned surely and at
once to seek their leader; now it will not come to their heads that
anything could befall him, and they will go back to look for Azya
only when they are alarmed at his too prolonged absence.

“By that time I shall be far away,” concluded Basia in her mind.

Here she remembered for the second time that Azya’s detachments
were stationed in Yampol and Mohiloff. “It is necessary to go past
through the broad steppe, and not approach the Dniester until in
the neighborhood of Hreptyoff. That terrible man has disposed his
troops cunningly, but God will save me.”

Thus thinking, she collected her spirits and prepared to continue
her journey. At the pommel of Azya’s saddle she found a musket, a
horn with powder, a box of bullets, a box of hemp-seed which the
Tartar had the habit of chewing continually. Basia, shortening the
stirrups of Azya’s saddle to her own feet, thought to herself that
during the whole way she would live, like a bird, on those seeds,
and she kept them carefully near her.

She determined to avoid people and farms; for in those wildernesses
more evil than good was to be looked for from every man. Fear
oppressed her heart when she asked herself, “How shall I feed the
horses?” They would dig grass out from under the snow, and pluck
moss from the crevices of rocks, but might they not die from bad
food and excessive travelling? Still, she could not spare them.

There was another fear: Would she not go astray in the desert?
It was easy to avoid that by travelling along the Dniester, but
she could not take that road. What would happen were she to enter
gloomy wildernesses, immense and roadless? How would she know
whether she was going northward, or in some other direction, if
foggy days were to come, days without sunshine, and nights without
stars? The forests were swarming with wild beasts; she cared less
for that, having courage in her brave heart and having weapons.
Wolves, going in packs, might be dangerous, it is true, but in
general she feared men more than beasts, and she feared to go
astray most of all.

“Ah, God will show me the way, and will let me return to Michael,”
said she, aloud. Then she made the sign of the cross, wiped with
her sleeve her face free from the moisture which made her pale
cheeks cold, looked with quick eyes around the country, and urged
her horse on to a gallop.




CHAPTER XL.


No one thought of searching for Tugai Bey’s son; therefore he
lay on the ground until he recovered consciousness. When he had
come to his senses, he sat upright, and wishing to know what was
happening to him, began to look around. But he saw the place as if
in darkness; then he discovered that he was looking with only one
eye, and badly with that one. The other was either knocked out, or
filled with blood.

Azya raised his hands to his face. His fingers found icicles of
blood stiff on his mustaches; his mouth too was full of blood which
was suffocating him so that he had to cough and spit it out a
number of times; a terrible pain pierced his face at this spitting;
he put his fingers above his mustaches, but snatched them away with
a groan of suffering.

Basia’s blow had crushed the upper part of his nose, and injured
his cheek-bone. He sat for a time without motion; then he began to
look around with that eye in which some sight remained, and seeing
a streak of snow in a cleft he crept up to it, seized a handful and
applied it to his broken face.

This brought great relief straightway; and while the melting
snow flowed down in red streaks over his mustaches, he collected
another handful and applied it again. Besides, he began to eat snow
eagerly, and that also brought relief to him. After a time the
immense weight which he felt on his head became so much lighter
that he called to mind all that had happened. But at the first
moment he felt neither rage, anger, nor despair; bodily pain had
deadened all other feelings, and left but one wish,--the wish to
save himself quickly.

Azya, when he had eaten a number of handfuls more of snow, began
to look for his horse; the horse was not there; then he understood
that if he did not wish to wait till his men came to look for him,
he must go on foot. Supporting himself on the ground with his
hands, he tried to rise, but howled from pain and sat down again.

He sat perhaps an hour, and again began to make efforts. This time
he succeeded in so far that he rose, and, resting his shoulders
against the cliff, was able to remain on his feet; but when he
remembered that he must leave the support and make one step, then a
second and a third in the empty expanse, a feeling of weakness and
fear seized him so firmly that he almost sat down again.

Still he mastered himself, drew his sabre, leaned on it, and pushed
forward; he succeeded. After some steps he felt that his body and
feet were strong, that he had perfect command of them, only his
head was, as it were, not his own, and like an enormous weight was
swaying now to the right, now to the left, now to the front. He
had a feeling also as if he were carrying that head, shaky and too
heavy, with extraordinary care, and with extraordinary fear that he
would drop it on the stones and break it.

At times, too, the head turned him around, as if it wished him to
go in a circle. At times it became dark in his one eye; then he
supported himself with both hands on the sabre. The dizziness of
his head passed away gradually; but the pain increased always,
and bored, as it were, into his forehead, into his eyes, into his
whole head, till whining was forced from his breast. The echoes of
the rocks repeated his groans, and he went forward in that desert,
bloody, terrible, more like a vampire than a man.

It was growing dark when he heard the tramp of a horse in front.

It was the orderly coming for commands.

That evening Azya had strength to order pursuit; but immediately
after he lay down on skins, and for three days could see no one
except the Greek barber[25] who dressed his wounds, and Halim,
who assisted the barber. Only on the fourth day did he regain his
speech, and with it consciousness of what had happened.

Straightway his feverish thoughts followed Basia. He saw her
fleeing among rocks and in wild places; she seemed to him a bird
that was flying away forever; he saw her nearing Hreptyoff, saw
her in the arms of her husband, and at that sight a pain carried
him away which was more savage than his wound, and with the pain
sorrow, and with the sorrow shame for the defeat which he had
suffered.

“She has fled, she has fled!” repeated he, continually; and rage
stifled him so that at times presence of mind seemed to be leaving
him again.

“Woe!” answered he, when Halim tried to pacify him, and give
assurance that Basia could not escape pursuit; and he kicked the
skins with which the old Tartar had covered him, and with his
knife threatened him and the Greek. He howled like a wild beast,
and tried to spring up, wishing to fly himself to overtake her, to
seize her, and then from anger and wild love stifle her with his
own hands.

At times he was wandering in delirium, and summoned Halim to
bring the head of the little knight quickly, and to confine the
commandant’s wife, bound, there in that chamber. At times he talked
to her, begged, threatened; then he stretched out his hands to
draw her to him. At last he fell into a deep sleep, and slept for
twenty-four hours; when he woke the fever had left him entirely,
and he was able to see Krychinski and Adurovich.

They were anxious, for they knew not what to do. The troops which
had gone out under young Novoveski were not to return, it is true,
before two weeks; but some unexpected event might hasten their
coming, and then it was necessary to know what position to take.
It is true that Krychinski and Adurovich were simply feigning a
return to the service of the Commonwealth; but Azya was managing
the whole affair: he alone could give them directions what to
do in emergency; he alone could explain on which side was the
greatest profit, whether to return to the dominions of the Sultan
or to pretend, or how long to pretend, that they were serving the
Commonwealth. They both knew well that in the end of ends Azya
intended to betray the Commonwealth; but they supposed that he
might command them to wait for the war before disclosing their
treason, so as to betray most effectively. His indications were
to be a command for them; for he had put himself on them as a
leader, as the head of the whole affair, the most crafty, the most
influential, and, besides, renowned among all the hordes as the son
of Tugai Bey.

They came hurriedly, therefore, to his bed, and bowed before him.
With a bandaged face and only one eye, he was still weak, but his
health was restored.

“I am sick,” began he, at once. “The woman that I wished to take
with me tore herself out of my hands, after wounding me with the
butt of a pistol. She was the wife of Volodyovski, the commandant;
may pestilence fall on him and all his race!”

“May it be as thou hast said!” answered the two captains.

“May God grant you, faithful men, happiness and success!”

“And to thee also, oh, lord!” answered the captains. Then they
began to speak of what they ought to do.

“It is impossible to delay, or to defer the Sultan’s service
till war begins,” said Azya; “after what has happened with this
woman they will not trust us, and will attack us with sabres.
But before they attack, we will fall upon this place and burn
it, for the glory of God. The handful of soldiers we will seize;
the townspeople, who are subjects of the Commonwealth, we will
take captive, divide the goods of the Wallachians, Armenians, and
Greeks, and go beyond the Dniester to the land of the Sultan.”

Krychinski and Adurovich had lived as nomads among the wildest
hordes for a long time, had robbed with them, and grown wild
altogether; their eyes lighted up therefore.

“Thanks to you,” said Krychinski, “we were admitted to this place,
which God now gives to us.”

“Did Novoveski make no opposition?” asked Azya.

“Novoveski knew that we were passing over to the Commonwealth, and
knew that you were coming to meet us; he looks on us as his men,
because he looked on you as his man.”

“We remained on the Moldavian bank,” put in Adurovich; “but
Krychinski and I went as guests to him. He received us as nobles,
for he said: ‘By your present acts you extinguish former offence;
and since the hetman forgives you on Azya’s security, ’tis not
proper for me to look askance at you.’ He even wished us to enter
the town; but we said: ‘We will not till Azya, Tugai Bey’s son,
brings the hetman’s permission.’ But when he was going away he gave
us another feast, and begged us to watch over the town.”

“At that feast,” added Krychinski, “we saw his father, and the old
woman who is searching for her captive husband, and that young lady
whom Novoveski intends to marry.”

“Ah!” said Azya, “I did not think that they were all here, and I
brought Panna Novoveski.”

He clapped his hands; Halim appeared at once, and Azya said to him:
“When my men see the flames in the place, let them fall on those
soldiers in the fortalice, and cut their throats; let them bind the
women and the old noble, and guard them till I give the order.”

He turned to Krychinski and Adurovich,--

“I will not assist myself, for I am weak; still, I will mount my
horse and look on. But, dear comrades, begin, begin!”

Krychinski and Adurovich rushed through the doorway at once. Azya
went out after them, and gave command to lead a horse to him; then
he rode to the stockade to look from the gate of the high fortalice
on what would happen in the town.

Many of his men had begun to climb the wall to look through the
stockade and sate their eyes with the sight of the slaughter. Those
of Novoveski’s soldiers who had not gone to the steppe, seeing the
Lithuanian Tartars assembling, and thinking there was something to
look at in the town, mixed with them without a shadow of fear or
suspicion. Moreover, there were barely twenty of those soldiers;
the rest were dispersed in the dram-shops.

Meanwhile the bands of Krychinski and Adurovich scattered through
the place in the twinkle of an eye. The men in those bands were
almost exclusively Lithuanian Tartars and Cheremis, therefore
former inhabitants of the Commonwealth, for the greater part
nobles; but since they had left its borders long before, during
that time of wandering they had become much like wild Tartars.
Their former clothing had gone to pieces, and they were dressed in
sheepskin coats with the wool outside. These coats they wore next
to their bodies, which were embrowned from the winds of the steppe
and from the smoke of fires; but their weapons were better than
those of wild Tartars,--all had sabres, all had bows seasoned in
fire, and many had muskets. Their faces expressed the same cruelty
and thirst for blood as those of their Dobrudja, Belgrod, or
Crimean brethren.

Now scattering through the town, they began to run about in various
directions, shouting shrilly, as if wishing by those shouts to
encourage one another, and excite one another to slaughter and
plunder. But though many of them had put knives in their mouths in
Tartar fashion, the people of the place, composed as in Yampol of
Wallachians, Armenians, Greeks, and partly of Tartar merchants,
looked on them without any distrust. The shops were open; the
merchants, sitting in front of their shops in Turkish fashion on
benches, slipped their beads through their fingers. The cries of
the Lithuanian Tartars merely caused men to look at them with
curiosity, thinking that they were playing some game.

But all at once smoke rose from the corners of the market square,
and from the mouth of all the Tartars came a howling so terrible
that pale fear seized the Wallachians, Armenians, and Greeks, and
all their wives and children.

Straightway a shower of arrows rained on the peaceful inhabitants.
Their cries, the noise of doors and windows closed in a hurry, were
mingled with the tramp of horses and the howling of the plunderers.

The market was covered with smoke. Cries of “Woe, woe!” were
raised. At the same time the Tartars fell to breaking open shops
and houses, dragging out terrified women by the hair; hurling
into the street furniture, morocco, merchandise, beds from which
feathers went up in a cloud; the groans of slaughtered men were
heard, lamentation, the howling of dogs, the bellowing of cattle
caught by fire in rear buildings; red tongues of flame, visible
even in the daytime on the black rolls of smoke, were shooting
higher and higher toward the sky.

In the fortalice Azya’s cavalry-men hurled themselves at the very
beginning on the infantry, who were defenceless for the greater
part.

There was no struggle whatever; a number of knives were buried
in each Polish breast without warning; then the heads of the
unfortunates were cut off and borne to the hoofs of Azya’s horse.

Tugai Bey’s son permitted most of his men to join their brethren in
the bloody work; but he himself stood and looked on.

Smoke hid the work of Krychinski and Adurovich; the odor of burnt
flesh rose to the fortalice. The town was burning like a great
pile, and smoke covered the view; only at times in the smoke was
heard the report of a musket, like thunder in a cloud, or a fleeing
man was seen, or a crowd of Tartars pursuing.

Azya stood still and looked on with delight in his heart; a stern
smile parted his lips, under which the white teeth were gleaming:
this smile was the more savage because it was mingled with pain
from the drying wounds. Besides delight, pride, too, rose in the
heart of Azya. He had cast from his breast that burden of feigning,
and for the first time he gave rein to his hatred, concealed for
long years; now he felt that he was himself, felt that he was the
real Azya, the son of Tugai Bey. But at the same time there rose
in him a savage regret that Basia was not looking at that fire, at
that slaughter; that she could not see him in his new occupation.
He loved her, but a wild desire for revenge on her was tearing him.
“She ought to be standing right here by my horse,” thought he, “and
I would hold her by the hair; she would grasp at my feet, and then
I would seize her and kiss her on the mouth, and she would be mine,
mine!--my slave!”

Only the hope that perhaps that detachment sent in pursuit, or
those which he left on the road, would bring her back, restrained
him from despair. He clung to that hope as a drowning man to a
plank, and that gave him strength; he could not think of losing
her, for he was thinking too much of the moment in which he would
find her and take her.

He remained at the gate till the slaughtered town had grown still.
Stillness came soon, for the bands of Krychinski and Adurovich
numbered almost as many heads as the town; therefore the burning
outlasted the groans of men and roared on till evening. Azya
dismounted and went with slow steps to a spacious room in the
middle of which sheepskins were spread; on these he sat and awaited
the coming of the two captains.

They came soon, and with them the sotniks. Delight was on the faces
of all, for the booty had surpassed expectation; the town had grown
much since the time of the peasant incursion, and was wealthy. They
had taken about a hundred young women, and a crowd of children of
ten years old and upward; these could be sold with profit in the
markets of the East. Old women, and children too small and unfit
for the road, were slaughtered. The hands of the Tartars were
streaming with human blood, and their sheepskin coats had the odor
of burning flesh. All took their seats around Azya.

“Only a pile of glowing embers behind us,” said Krychinski. “Before
the command returns we might go to Yampol; there is as much wealth
of every kind there as in Rashkoff,--perhaps more.”

“No,” answered Azya, “men of mine are in Yampol who will burn the
place; but it is time for us to go to the lands of the Khan and the
Sultan.”

“At thy command! We will return with glory and booty,” said the
captains and the sergeants.

“There are still women here in the fortalice, and that noble who
reared me,” said Azya. “A just reward belongs to them.”

He clapped his hands and gave command to bring the prisoners.

They were brought without delay,--Pani Boski in tears; Zosia, pale
as a kerchief; Eva and her father. Old Pan Novoveski’s hands and
feet were bound with ropes. All were terrified, but still more
astonished at what had taken place. Eva was lost in conjectures as
to what had become of Pani Volodyovski, and wondered why Azya had
not shown himself. She, not knowing why there was slaughter in the
town, nor why she and her friends were bound as captives, concluded
that it was a question of carrying her away; that Azya, not wishing
in his pride to beg her hand of her father, had fallen into a rage
simply out of love for her, and had determined to take her by
violence. This was all terrible in itself; but Eva, at least, was
not trembling for her own life.

The prisoners did not recognize Azya, for his face was nearly
concealed; but all the more did terror seize the knees of the women
at the first moment, for they judged that wild Tartars had in some
incomprehensible manner destroyed the Lithuanian Tartars and gained
possession of Rashkoff. But the sight of Krychinski and Adurovich
convinced them that they were still in the hands of Lithuanian
Tartars.

They looked at one another some time in silence; at last old Pan
Novoveski asked, with an uncertain but powerful voice,--

“In whose hands are we?”

Azya began to unwind the bandages from his head, and from beneath
them his face soon appeared, beautiful on a time, though wild,
deformed now forever, with a broken nose and a black-and-blue spot
instead of an eye,--a face dreadful, collected in cold vengeance
and with a smile like convulsive contortions. He was silent for a
moment, then fixed his burning eye on the old man and said,--

“In mine,--in the hands of Tugai Bey’s son.”

But old Novoveski knew him before he spoke; and Eva also knew him,
though the heart was straitened in her from terror and disgust at
sight of that ghastly visage. The maiden covered her eyes with her
unbound hands; and the noble, opening his mouth, began to blink
with astonishment and repeat,--

“Azya! Azya!”

“Whom your lordship reared, to whom you were a father, and whose
back streamed with blood under your parental hand.”

Blood rushed to the noble’s head.

“Traitor,” said he, “you shall answer for your deeds before a
judge. Serpent! I have a son yet.”

“And you have a daughter,” answered Azya, “for whose sake you gave
command to flog me to death; and this daughter I will give now to
the last of the horde, so that he may have service and pleasure
from her.”

“Leader, give her to me!” cried Adurovich, on a sudden.

“Azya! Azya!” cried Eva, throwing herself at his feet, “I have
always--”

But he kicked her away with one foot, and Adurovich seized her by
the arms and began to drag her along the floor. Pan Novoveski from
purple became blue; the ropes squeaked on his arms, as he twisted
them, and from his mouth came unintelligible words. Azya rose from
the skins and went toward him, at first slowly, then more quickly,
like a wild beast preparing to bound on its prey. At last he came
near, seized with the contorted fingers of one hand the mustaches
of old Novoveski, and with the other fell to beating him without
mercy on face and head.

A hoarse bellow was rent from his throat when the noble fell to the
floor; Azya knelt on Novoveski’s breast, and suddenly the bright
gleam of a knife shone in the room.

“Mercy! rescue!” screamed Eva. But Adurovich struck her on the
head, and then put his broad hand on her mouth; meanwhile Azya was
cutting the throat of Pan Novoveski.

The spectacle was so ghastly that it chilled even the breasts of
the Tartars; for Azya, with calculated cruelty, drew his knife
slowly across the neck of the ill-fated noble, who gasped and
choked awfully. From his open veins the blood spurted more and
more violently on the hands of the murderer and flowed in a stream
along the floor. Then the rattling and gurgling ceased by degrees;
finally air was wheezing in the severed throat, and the feet of the
dying man dug the floor in convulsive quivers.

Azya rose; his eyes fell now on the pale and sweet face of Zosia
Boski, who seemed dead, for she was hanging senseless on the arm of
a Tartar who was holding her, and he said,--

“I will keep this girl for myself, till I give her away or sell
her.”

Then he turned to the Tartars: “Now only let the pursuit return,
and we will go to the lands of the Sultan.”

The pursuit returned two days later, but with empty hands. Tugai
Bey’s son went, therefore, to the land of the Sultan with despair
and rage in his heart, leaving behind him a gray and bluish pile of
ruins.




CHAPTER XLI.


The towns through which Basia passed in going from Hreptyoff to
Rashkoff were separated from each other by ten or twelve Ukraine
miles,[26] and that road by the Dniester was about thirty miles
long. It is true that they started each morning in the dark, and
did not stop till late in the evening; still, they made the whole
journey, including time for refreshment, and in spite of difficult
crossings and passages, in three days. People of that time and
troops did not make such quick journeys usually; but whoso had the
will, or was put to it, could make them. In view of this, Basia
calculated that the journey back to Hreptyoff ought to take less
time, especially as she was making it on horseback, and as it was a
flight in which salvation depended on swiftness.

But she noted her error the first day, for unable to escape on the
road by the Dniester, she went through the steppes and had to make
broad circuits. Besides she might go astray, and it was probable
that she would; she might meet with thawed rivers, impassable,
dense forests, swamps not freezing even in winter; she might come
to harm from people or beasts,--therefore, though she intended
to push on continually, even at night, she was confirmed in the
conviction in spite of herself that, even if all went well with
her, God knew when she would be in Hreptyoff.

She had succeeded in tearing herself from the arms of Azya; but
what would happen farther on? Doubtless anything was better than
those infamous arms; still, at thought of what was awaiting her the
blood became icy in her veins.

It occurred at once to her that if she spared the horses she might
be overtaken by Azya’s men, who knew those steppes thoroughly; and
to hide from discovery, from pursuit, was almost impossible. They
pursued Tartars whole days even in spring and summer when horses’
hoofs left no trace on the snow or in soft earth; they read the
steppe as an open book; they gazed over those plains like eagles;
they knew how to sniff a trail in them like hunting dogs; their
whole life was passed in pursuing. Vainly had Tartars gone time and
again in the water of streams so as not to leave traces; Cossacks,
Lithuanian Tartars, and Cheremis, as well as Polish raiders of
the steppe, knew how to find them, to answer their “methods” with
“methods,” and to attack as suddenly as if they had sprung up
through the earth. How was she to escape from such people unless
to leave them so far in the rear that distance itself would make
pursuit impossible? But in such an event her horses would fall.

“They will fall dead without fail, if they continue to go as they
have gone so far,” thought Basia, with terror, looking at their
wet, steaming sides, and at the foam which was falling in flakes to
the ground.

Therefore she slackened their speed from time to time and listened;
but in every breath of wind, in the rustling of leaves on the edge
of ravines, in the dry rubbing of the withered steppe reeds against
one another, in the noise made by the wings of a passing bird, even
in the silence of the wilderness, which was sounding in her ears,
she heard voices of pursuit, and terrified urged on her horses
again, and ran with wild impetus till their snorting declared that
they could not continue at that speed.

The burden of loneliness and weakness pressed her down more and
more. Ah! what an orphan she felt herself; what regret, as immense
as unreasoning, rose in her heart for all people, the nearest and
dearest, who had so forsaken her! Then she thought that surely
it was God punishing her for her passion for adventures, for her
hurrying to every hunt, to expeditions, frequently against the will
of her husband; for her giddiness and lack of sedateness.

When she thought of this she wept, and raising her head began to
repeat, sobbing,--

“Chastise, but do not desert me! Do not punish Michael! Michael is
innocent.”

Meanwhile night was approaching, and with it cold, darkness,
uncertainty of the road, and alarm. Objects had begun to efface
themselves, grow dim, lose definite forms, and also to become,
as it were, mysteriously alive and expectant. Protuberances on
lofty rocks looked like heads in pointed and round caps,--heads
peering out from behind gigantic walls of some kind, and gazing in
silence and malignity to see who was passing below. Tree branches,
stirred by the breeze, made motions like people: some of these
beckoned to Basia as if wishing to call her and confide to her
some terrible secret; others seemed to speak and give warning: “Do
not come near!” The trunks of uprooted trees seemed like monstrous
creatures crouching for a spring. Basia was daring, very daring,
but, like all people of that period, she was superstitious. When
darkness came down completely, the hair rose on her head, and
shivers passed through her body at thought of the unclean powers
that might dwell in those regions. She feared vampires especially;
belief in them was spread particularly in the Dniester country by
reason of nearness to Moldavia, and just the places around Yampol
and Rashkoff were ill-famed in that regard. How many people there
left the world day by day through sudden death, without confession
or absolution! Basia remembered all the tales which the knights had
told at Hreptyoff, on evenings at the fireside,--stories of deep
valleys in which, when the wind howled, sudden groans were heard
of “Jesus, Jesus!” of pale lights in which something was snorting;
of laughing cliffs; of pale children, suckling infants with green
eyes and monstrous heads,--infants which implored to be taken on
horseback, and when taken began to suck blood; finally, of heads
without bodies, walking on spider legs; and most terrible of all
those ghastlinesses, vampires of full size, or brukolaki, so called
in Wallachia, who hurled themselves on people directly.

Then she began to make the sign of the cross, and she did not
stop till her hand had grown weak; but even then she repeated the
litany, for no other weapons were effective against unclean powers.

The horses gave her consolation, for they showed no fear, snorting
briskly. At times she patted her pony, as if wishing in that way to
convince herself that she was in a real world.

The night, very dark at first, became clearer by degrees, and at
last the stars began to glimmer through the thin mist. For Basia
this was an uncommonly favorable circumstance,--first, because her
fear decreased; and secondly, because by observing the Great Bear,
she could turn to the north, or in the direction of Hreptyoff.
Looking on the region about, she calculated that she had gone a
considerable distance from the Dniester; for there were fewer
rocks, more open country, more hills covered with oak groves, and
frequently broad plains. Time after time, however, she was forced
to cross ravines, and she went down into them with fear in her
heart, for in the depths of those places it was always dark, and
a harsh, piercing cold was there. Some were so steep that she was
forced to go around them; from this came great loss of time and an
addition to the journey.

It was worse, however, with streams and rivers, and a whole system
of these flowed from the East to the Dniester. All were thawed, and
the horses snorted with fear when they went at night into strange
water of unknown depth. Basia crossed only in places where the
sloping bank allowed the supposition that the water, widely spread
there, was shallow. In fact, it was so in most cases; at some
crossings, however, the water reached halfway to the backs of her
horses: Basia then knelt, in soldier fashion, on the saddle, and,
holding to the pommel, tried not to wet her feet. But she did not
succeed always in this, and soon a piercing cold seized her from
feet to knees.

“God give me daylight, I will go more quickly,” repeated she, from
time to time.

At last she rode out onto a broad plain with a sparse forest,
and seeing that the horses were barely dragging their legs, she
halted for rest. Both stretched their necks to the ground at the
same time, and putting forward one foot, began to pluck moss and
withered grass eagerly. In the forest there was perfect silence,
unbroken save by the sharp breathing of the horses and the
crunching of the grass in their powerful jaws.

When they had satisfied, or rather deceived, their first hunger,
both horses wished evidently to roll, but Basia might not indulge
them in that. She dared not loosen the girths and come to the
ground herself, for she wished to be ready at every moment for
further flight.

She sat on Azya’s horse, however, for her own had carried her from
the last resting-place, and though strong, and with noble blood in
his veins, he was more delicate than the other.

When she had changed horses, she felt a hunger after the thirst
which she had quenched a number of times while crossing the rivers;
she began therefore to eat the seeds which she had found in the bag
at Azya’s saddle-bow. They seemed to her very good, though a little
bitter; she ate, thanking God for the unlooked-for refreshment.

But she ate sparingly, so that they might last to Hreptyoff. Soon
sleep began to close her eyelids with irresistible power; and
when the movement of the horse ceased to give warmth, a sharp
cold pierced her. Her feet were perfectly stiff; she felt also an
immeasurable weariness in her whole body, especially in her back
and shoulders, strained with struggling against Azya. A great
weakness seized her, and her eyes closed.

But after a while she opened them with effort. “No! In the daytime,
in time of journeying, I will sleep,” thought she; “but if I sleep
now I shall freeze.”

But her thoughts grew more confused, or came helter-skelter,
presenting disordered images,--in which the forest, flight and
pursuit, Azya, the little knight, Eva, and the last event were
mingled together half in a dream, half in clear vision. All this
was rushing on somewhere as waves rush driven by the wind; and she,
Basia, runs with them, without fear, without joy, as if she were
travelling by contract. Azya, as it were, was pursuing her, but
at the same time was talking to her, and anxious about the horse;
Pan Zagloba was angry because supper would get cold; Michael was
showing the road; and Eva was coming behind in the sleigh, eating
dates.

Then those persons became more and more effaced, as if a foggy
curtain or darkness had begun to conceal them, and they vanished
by degrees; there remained only a certain strange darkness, which,
though the eye did not pierce it, seemed still to be empty, and to
extend an immeasurable distance. This darkness penetrated every
place, penetrated Basia’s head, and quenched in it all visions, all
thoughts, as a blast of wind quenches torches at night in the open
air.

Basia fell asleep; but fortunately for her, before the cold could
stiffen the blood in her veins, an unusual noise roused her. The
horses started on a sudden; evidently something uncommon was
happening in the forest.

Basia, regaining consciousness in one moment, grasped Azya’s
musket, and bending on the horse, with collected attention and
distended nostrils, began to listen. Hers was a nature of such kind
that every peril roused wariness at the first twinkle of an eye,
daring and readiness for defence.

The noise which roused her was the grunting of wild pigs. Whether
beasts were stealing up to the young pigs, or the old boars were
going to fight, it is enough that the whole forest resounded
immediately. That uproar took place beyond doubt at a distance; but
in the stillness of night, and the general drowsiness, it seemed
so near that Basia heard not only grunting and squeals, but the
loud whistle of nostrils breathing heavily. Suddenly a breaking
and tramp, the crash of broken twigs, and a whole herd, though
invisible to Basia, rushed past in the neighborhood, and sank in
the depth of the forest.

But in that incorrigible Basia, notwithstanding her terrible
position, the feeling of a hunter was roused in a twinkle, and she
was sorry that she had not seen the herd rushing by.

“One would like to see a little,” said she, in her mind; “but no
matter! Riding in this way through forests, surely I shall see
something yet.”

And only after that thought did she push on, remembering that it
was better to see nothing and flee with all speed.

It was impossible to halt longer, because the cold seized her more
acutely, and the movement of the horse warmed her a good deal,
while wearying her comparatively little. But the horses, having
snatched merely some moss and frozen grass, moved very reluctantly,
and with drooping heads. The hoar-frost in time of halting had
covered their sides, and it seemed that they barely dragged their
legs forward. They had gone, moreover, since the afternoon rest
almost without drawing breath.

When she had crossed the plain, with her eyes fixed on the Great
Bear in the heavens, Basia disappeared in the forest, which was
not very dense, but in a hilly region intersected with narrow
ravines. It became darker too; not only because of the shade cast
by spreading trees, but also because a fog rose from the earth and
hid the stars. She was forced to go at random. The ravines alone
gave some indication that she was taking the right course, for she
knew that they all extended from the east toward the Dniester, and
that by crossing new ones, she was going continually toward the
north. But in spite of this indication, she thought, “I am ever in
danger of approaching the Dniester too nearly, or of going too far
from it. To do either is perilous; in the first case, I should make
an enormous journey; in the second, I might come out at Yampol,
and fall into the hands of my enemies.” Whether she was yet before
Yampol, or just on the heights above it, or had left that place
behind, of this she had not the faintest idea.

“There is more chance to know when I pass Mohiloff,” said she;
“for it lies in a great ravine, which extends far; perhaps I shall
recognize it.”

Then she looked at the sky and thought: “God grant me only to go
beyond Mohiloff; for there Michael’s dominion begins; there nothing
will frighten me.”

Now the night became darker. Fortunately snow was lying in the
forest, and on the white ground she could distinguish the dark
trunks of trees, see the lower limbs and avoid them. But Basia had
to ride more slowly; therefore that terror of unclean powers fell
on her soul again,--that terror which in the beginning of the night
had chilled her blood as if with ice.

“But if I see gleaming eyes low down,” said she to her frightened
soul, “that’s nothing! it will be a wolf; but if at the height of a
man--” At that moment, she cried aloud, “In the name of the Father,
Son--”

Was that, perhaps, a wild-cat sitting on a limb? It is sufficient
that Basia saw clearly a pair of gleaming eyes, at the height of a
man.

From fear, her eyes were covered with a mist; but when she looked
again there was nothing to be seen, and nothing heard beyond a
rustle among the branches, but her heart beat as loudly as if it
would burst open her bosom.

And she rode farther; long, long, she rode, sighing for the light
of day; but the night stretched out beyond measure. Soon after, a
river barred her road again. Basia was already far enough beyond
Yampol, on the bank of the Rosava; but without knowledge of where
she was, she thought merely that if she continued to push forward
to the north, she would soon meet a new river. She thought too that
the night must be near its end; for the cold increased sensibly,
the fog fell away, and stars appeared again, but dimmer, beaming
with uncertain light.

At length darkness began to pale. Trunks of trees, branches, twigs,
grew more visible. Perfect silence reigned in the forest,--the dawn
had come.

After a certain time Basia could distinguish the color of the
horses. At last in the east, among the branches of the trees, a
bright streak appeared,--the day was there, a clear day.

Basia felt weariness immeasurable. Her mouth opened in continual
yawning, and her eyes closed soon after; she slept soundly but a
short time, for a branch, against which her head came, roused her.
Happily the horses were going very slowly, nipping moss by the way;
hence the blow was so slight that it caused her no harm. The sun
had risen, and was pale; its beautiful rays broke through leafless
branches. At sight of this, consolation entered Basia’s heart;
she had left between her and pursuit so many steppes, mountains,
ravines, and a whole night.

“If those from Yampol, or Mohiloff, do not seize me, others will
not come up,” said she to herself.

She reckoned on this too,--that in the beginning of her flight she
had gone by a rocky road, therefore hoofs could leave no traces.
But doubt began to seize her again. The Lithuanian Tartars will
find tracks even on stones, and will pursue stubbornly, unless
their horses fall dead; this last supposition was most likely. It
was sufficient for Basia to look at her own beasts; their sides had
fallen in, their heads were drooping, their eyes dim. While moving
along, they dropped their heads to the ground time after time, to
seize moss, or nip in passing red leaves withering here and there
on the low oak bushes. It must be too that fever was tormenting
Basia, for at all crossings she drank eagerly.

Nevertheless, when she came out on an open plain between two
forests, she urged the wearied horses forward at a gallop, and went
at that pace to the next forest.

After she had passed that forest she came to a second plain, still
wider and more broken; behind hills at a distance of a mile or
more smoke was rising, as straight as a pine-tree, toward the sky.
That was the first inhabited place that Basia had met; for that
country, excepting the river-bank itself, was a desert, or rather
had been turned into a desert, not only in consequence of Tartar
attacks, but by reason of continuous Polish-Cossack wars. After
the last campaign of Pan Charnetski, to whom Busha fell a victim,
the small towns came to be wretched settlements, the villages were
overgrown with young forests; but after Charnetski, there were so
many expeditions, so many battles, so many slaughters, down to the
most recent times, in which the great Sobieski had wrested those
regions from the enemy. Life had begun to increase; but that one
tract through which Basia was fleeing was specially empty,--only
robbers had taken refuge there, but even they had been well-nigh
exterminated by the commands at Rashkoff, Yampol, and Hreptyoff.

Basia’s first thought at sight of this smoke was to ride toward
it, find a house or even a hut, or if nothing more, a simple fire,
warm herself and gain strength. But soon it occurred to her that in
those regions it was safer to meet a pack of wolves than to meet
men; men there were more merciless and savage than wild beasts.
Nay, it behooved her to urge forward her horses, and pass that
forest haunt of men with all speed, for only death could await her
in that place.

At the very edge of the opposite forest Basia saw a small stack
of hay; so, paying no attention to anything, she stopped at it to
feed her horses. They ate greedily, thrusting their heads at once
to their ears in the hay, and drawing out great bunches of it.
Unfortunately their bits hindered them greatly; but Basia could not
unbridle them, reasoning correctly in this way:--

“Where smoke is there must be a house; as there is a stack
here, they must have horses there on which they could follow
me,--therefore I must be ready.”

She spent, however, about an hour at the stack, so that the horses
ate fairly well; and she herself ate some seeds. She then moved on,
and when she had travelled a number of furlongs, all at once she
saw before her two persons carrying bundles of twigs on their backs.

One was a man not old, but not in his first youth, with a face
pitted with small-pox, and with crooked eyes, ugly, repulsive, with
a cruel, ferocious expression of face; the other, a stripling, was
idiotic. This was to be seen at the first glance, by his stupid
smile and wandering look.

Both threw down their bundles of twigs at sight of the armed
horseman, and seemed to be greatly alarmed. But the meeting was so
sudden, and they were so near, that they could not flee.

“Glory be to God!” said Basia.

“For the ages of ages.”

“What is the name of this farm?”

“What should its name be? There is the cabin.”

“Is it far to Mohiloff?”

“We know not.”

Here the man began to scrutinize Basia’s face carefully. Since she
wore man’s apparel he took her for a youth; insolence and cruelty
came at once to his face instead of the recent timidity.

“But why are you so young, Pan Knight?”

“What is that to you?”

“And are you travelling alone?” asked the peasant, advancing a step.

“Troops are following me.”

He halted, looked over the immense plain, and answered,--

“Not true. There is no one.”

He advanced two steps; his crooked eyes gave out a sullen gleam,
and arranging his mouth he began to imitate the call of a quail,
evidently wishing to summon some one in that way.

All this seemed to Basia very hostile, and she aimed a pistol at
his breast without hesitation,--

“Silence, or thou’lt die!”

The man stopped, and, what is more, threw himself flat on the
ground. The idiot did the same, but began to howl like a wolf
from terror; perhaps he had lost his mind on a time from the same
feeling, for now his howling recalled the most ghastly terror.

Basia urged forward her horses, and shot on like an arrow.
Fortunately there was no undergrowth in the forest, and trees were
far apart. Soon a new plain appeared, narrow, but very long. The
horses had gained fresh strength from eating at the stack, and
rushed like the wind.

“They will run home, mount their horses, and pursue me,” thought
Basia.

Her only solace was that the horses travelled well, and that the
place where she met the men was rather far from the house.

“Before they can reach the house and bring out the horses, I,
riding in this way, shall be five miles or more ahead.”

That was the case; but when some hours had passed, and Basia,
convinced that she was not followed, slackened speed, great fear,
great depression, seized her heart, and tears came perforce to her
eyes.

This meeting showed her what people in those regions were, and what
might be looked for from them. It is true that this knowledge was
not unexpected. From her own experience, and from the narratives
at Hreptyoff, she knew that the former peaceful settlers had gone
from those wilds, or that war had devoured them; those who remained
were living in continual alarm, amid terrible civil disturbance and
Tartar attacks, in conditions in which one man is a wolf toward
another; they were living without churches or faith, without other
principles than those of bloodshed and burning, without knowing
any right but that of the strong hand; they had lost all human
feelings, and grown wild, like the beasts of the forest. Basia knew
this well; still, a human being, astray in the wilderness, harassed
by cold and hunger, turns involuntarily for aid first of all to
kindred beings. So did Basia when she saw that smoke indicating a
habitation of people; following involuntarily the first impulse
of her heart, she wished to rush to it, greet the inhabitants
with God’s name, and rest her wearied head under their roof. But
cruel reality bared its teeth at her quickly, like a fierce dog.
Hence her heart was filled with bitterness; tears of sorrow and
disappointment came to her eyes.

“Help from no one but God,” thought she; “may I meet no person
again.” Then she fell to thinking why that man had begun to imitate
a quail. “There must be others there surely, and he wanted to
call them.” It came to her head that there were robbers in that
tract, who, driven out of the ravines near the river, had betaken
themselves to the wilds farther off in the country, where the
nearness of broad steppes gave them more safety and easier escape
in case of need.

“But what will happen,” inquired Basia, “if I meet a number of men,
or more than a dozen? The musket,--that is one; two pistols,--two;
a sabre,--let us suppose two more; but if the number is greater
than this, I shall die a dreadful death.”

And as in the previous night with its alarms she had wished day to
come as quickly as possible, so now she looked with yearning for
darkness to hide her more easily from evil eyes.

Twice more, during persistent riding, did it seem to her that she
was passing near people. Once she saw on the edge of a high plain
a number of cabins. Maybe robbers by vocation were not living in
them, but she preferred to pass at a gallop, knowing that even
villagers are not much better than robbers; another time she heard
the sound of axes cutting wood.

The wished-for night covered the earth at last. Basia was so
wearied that when she came to a naked steppe, free from forest, she
said to herself,--

“Here I shall not be crushed against a tree; I will sleep right
away, even if I freeze.”

When she was closing her eyes it seemed to her that far off in the
distance, in the white snow, she saw a number of black points which
were moving in various directions. For a while longer she overcame
her sleep. “Those are surely wolves,” muttered she, quietly.

Before she had gone many yards, those points disappeared; then she
fell asleep so soundly that she woke only when Azya’s horse, on
which she was sitting, neighed under her.

She looked around; she was on the edge of a forest, and woke in
time, for if she had not waked she might have been crushed against
a tree.

Suddenly she saw that the other horse was not near her.

“What has happened?” cried she, in great alarm.

But a very simple thing had happened. Basia had tied, it is true,
the reins of her horse’s bridle to the pommel of the saddle on
which she was sitting; but her stiffened hands served her badly,
and she was not able to knot the straps firmly; afterward the reins
fell off, and the wearied horse stopped to seek food under the snow
or lie down.

Fortunately Basia had her pistol at her girdle, and not in the
holsters; the powder-horn and the bag with the rest of the seeds
were also with her. Finally the misfortune was not too appalling;
for Azya’s horse, though he yielded to hers in speed, surpassed
him undoubtedly in endurance of cold and labor. Still, Basia was
grieved for her favorite horse, and at the first moment determined
to search for him.

She was astonished, however, when she looked around the steppe and
saw nothing of the beast, though the night was unusually clear.

“He has stopped behind,” thought she,--“surely not gone ahead; but
he must have lain down in some hollow, and that is why I cannot see
him.”

Azya’s horse neighed a second time, shaking himself somewhat and
putting back his ears; but from the steppe he was answered by
silence.

“I will go and find him,” said Basia.

And she turned, when a sudden alarm seized her, and a voice
precisely as if human called,--

“Basia, do not go back!”

That moment the silence was broken by other and ill-omened voices
near, and coming, as it were, from under the earth, howling,
coughing, whining, groaning, and finally a ghastly squeal, short,
interrupted. This was all the more terrible since there was nothing
to be seen on the steppe. Cold sweat covered Basia from head to
foot; and from her blue lips was wrested the cry,--

“What is that? What has happened?”

She divined at once, it is true, that wolves had killed her horse;
but she could not understand why she did not see him, since,
judging by the sounds, he was not more than five hundred yards
behind.

There was no time to fly to the rescue, for the horse must be torn
to pieces already; besides, she needed to think of her own life.
Basia fired the pistol to frighten the wolves, and moved forward.
While going she pondered over what had happened, and after a while
it shot through her head that perhaps it was not wolves that had
taken her horse, since those voices seemed to come from under the
ground. At this thought a cold shiver went along her back; but
dwelling on the matter more carefully, she remembered that in her
sleep it had seemed to her that she was going down and then going
up again.

“It must be so,” said she; “I must have crossed in my sleep some
ravine, not very steep. There my horse remained; and there the
wolves found him.”

The rest of the night passed without accident. Having eaten hay
the morning before, the horse went with great endurance, so that
Basia herself was amazed at his strength. That was a Tartar
horse,--a “wolf hunter” of great stock, and of endurance almost
without limit. During the short halts which Basia made, he ate
everything without distinction,--moss, leaves; he gnawed even the
bark of trees, and went on and on. Basia urged him to a gallop on
the plains. Then he began to groan somewhat, and to breathe loudly
when reined in; he panted, trembled, and dropped his head low from
weariness, but did not fall. Her horse, even had he not perished
under the teeth of the wolves, could not have endured such a
journey. Next morning Basia, after her prayers, began to calculate
the time.

“I broke away from Azya on Tuesday in the afternoon,” said she
to herself, “I galloped till night; then one night passed on the
road; after that a whole day; then again a whole night, and now the
third day has begun. A pursuit, even had there been one, must have
returned already, and Hreptyoff ought to be near, for I have not
spared the horses.”

After a while she added, “It is time; it is time! God pity me!”

At moments a desire seized her to approach the Dniester, for at
the bank it would be easier to learn where she was; but when she
remembered that fifty of Azya’s men had remained with Pan Gorzenski
in Mohiloff, she was afraid. It occurred to her that because she
had made such a circuit she might not have passed Mohiloff yet. On
the road, in so far as sleep had not closed her eyes, she tried,
it is true, to note carefully whether she did not come on a very
wide ravine, like that in which Mohiloff was situated; but she did
not see such a place. However, the ravine in the interior might be
narrow and altogether different from what it was at Mohiloff; might
have come to an end or contracted at some furlongs beyond the town;
in a word, Basia had not the least idea of where Mohiloff was.

Only she implored God without ceasing that it might be near, for
she felt that she could not endure toil, hunger, sleeplessness, and
cold much longer. During three days she had lived on seeds alone,
and though she had spared them most carefully, still she had eaten
the last kernel that morning, and there was nothing in the bag.

Now she could only nourish and warm herself with the hope that
Hreptyoff was near. In addition to hope, fever was warming her.
Basia felt perfectly that she had a fever; for though the air was
growing colder, and it was even freezing, her hands and feet were
as hot then as they had been cold at the beginning of the journey;
thirst too tormented her greatly.

“If only I do not lose my presence of mind,” said she to herself;
“if I reach Hreptyoff, even with my last breath, see Michael, and
then let the will of God be done.”

Again she had to pass numerous streams or rivers, but these were
either shallow or frozen; on some water was flowing, and there was
ice underneath, firm and strong. But she dreaded these crossings
most of all because the horse, though courageous, feared them
evidently. Going into the water or onto the ice he snorted, put
forward his ears, sometimes resisted, but when urged went warily,
putting foot before foot slowly, and sniffing with distended
nostrils. It was well on in the afternoon when Basia, riding
through a thick pine-wood, halted before some river larger than
others, and above all much wider. According to her supposition this
might be the Ladava or the Kalusik. At sight of this her heart beat
with gladness. In every case Hreptyoff must be near; had she passed
it even, she might consider herself saved, for the country there
was more inhabited and the people less to be feared. The river,
as far as her eye could reach, had steep banks; only in one place
was there a depression, and the water, dammed by ice, had gone
over the bank as if poured into a flat and wide vessel. The banks
were frozen thoroughly; in the middle a broad streak of water was
flowing, but Basia hoped to find the usual ice under it.

The horse went in, resisting somewhat, as at every crossing, with
head inclined, and smelling the snow before him. When she came to
running water Basia knelt on the saddle, according to her custom,
and held the saddle-bow with both hands. The water plashed under
his hoofs. The ice was really firm; his hoof struck it as stone.
But evidently the shoes had grown blunt on the long road, which
was rocky in places, for the horse began to slip; his feet went
apart, as if flying from under him. All at once he fell forward,
and his nostrils sank in the water; then he rose, fell on his rump,
rose again, but being terrified, began to struggle and strike
desperately with his feet. Basia grasped the bridle, and with that
a dull crack was heard; both hind legs of the horse sank through
the ice as far as the haunches.

“Jesus, Jesus!” cried Basia.

The beast, with fore legs still on firm ice, made desperate
efforts; but evidently the pieces on which he was resting began to
move from under his feet, for he fell deeper, and began to groan
hoarsely.

Basia had still time sufficient and presence of mind to seize the
mane of the horse and reach the unbroken ice in front of him. She
fell and was wet in the water; but rising and feeling firm ground
under foot, she knew that she was saved. She wished to save the
horse, and bending forward caught the bridle; and going toward the
bank she pulled it with all her might.

But the horse sank deeper, could not free even his fore legs to
grapple the ice, which was still unmoved. The reins were pulled
harder every instant; but he sank more and more. He began to groan
with a voice almost human, baring his teeth the while; his eyes
looked at Basia with indescribable sadness, as if wishing to say to
her: “There is no rescue for me; drop the reins ere I drag thee in!”

There was, in truth, no rescue for him, and Basia had to drop the
reins.

When the horse disappeared beneath the ice she went to the bank,
sat down under a bush without leaves, and sobbed like a child.

Her energy was thoroughly broken for the moment. And besides
that, the bitterness and pain which, after meeting with people,
had filled her heart, overflowed it now with still greater force.
Everything was against her,--uncertain roads, darkness, the
elements, men, beasts; the hand of God alone had seemed to watch
over her. In that kind, fatherly care she had put all her childlike
trust; but now even that hand had failed her. This was a feeling
to which Basia had not given such clear expression; but if she had
not, she felt it all the more strongly in her heart.

What remained to her? Complaint and tears! And still she had
shown all the valor, all the courage, all the endurance which
such a poor, weak creature could show. Now, see, her horse is
drowned,--the last hope of rescue, the last plank of salvation,
the only thing living that was with her! Without that horse she
felt powerless against the unknown expanse which separated her from
Hreptyoff, against the pine woods, ravines, and steppes; not only
defenceless against the pursuit of men and beasts, but she felt far
more lonely and deserted than before. She wept till tears failed
her. Then came exhaustion, weariness, and a feeling of helplessness
so great that it was almost equal to rest. Sighing deeply once and
a second time, she said to herself,--

“Against the will of God I am powerless. I will die where I am.”

And she closed her eyes, aforetime so bright and joyous, but now
hollow and sunken.

In its own way, though her body was becoming more helpless every
moment, thought was still throbbing in her head like a frightened
bird, and her heart was throbbing also. If no one in the world
loved her, she would have less regret to die; but all loved her so
much.

And she pictured to herself what would happen when Azya’s treason
and his flight would become known: how they would search for her;
how they would find her at last,--blue, frozen, sleeping the
eternal sleep under a bush at the river. And all at once she called
out,--

“Oh, but poor Michael will be in despair! Ei, ei!”

Then she implored him, saying that it was not her fault.

“Michael,” said she, putting her arms around his neck, mentally, “I
did all in my power; but, my dear, it was difficult. The Lord God
did not will it.”

And that moment such a heartfelt love for Michael possessed her,
such a wish even to die near that dear head, that, summoning every
force she had, she rose from the bank and walked on.

At first it was immensely difficult. Her feet had become
unaccustomed to walking during the long ride; she felt as if she
were going on stilts. Happily she was not cold; she was even warm
enough, for the fever had not left her for a moment.

Sinking in the forest, she went forward persistently, remembering
to keep the sun on her left hand. It had gone, in fact, to the
Moldavian side; for it was the second half of the day,--perhaps
four o’clock. Basia cared less now for approaching the Dniester,
for it seemed to her always that she was beyond Mohiloff.

“If only I were sure of that; if I knew it!” repeated she, raising
her blue, and at the same time inflamed, face to the sky. “If some
beast or some tree would speak and say, ‘It is a mile to Hreptyoff,
two miles,’--I might go there perhaps.”

But the trees were silent; nay more, they seemed to her unfriendly,
and obstructed the road with their roots. Basia stumbled frequently
against the knots and curls of those roots covered with snow. After
a time she was burdened unendurably; she threw the warm mantle from
her shoulders and remained in her single coat. Relieving herself
in this way, she walked and walked still more hurriedly,--now
stumbling, now falling at times in deeper snow. Her fur-lined
morocco boots without soles, excellent for riding in a sleigh or on
horseback, did not protect her feet well against clumps or stones;
besides, soaked through repeatedly at crossings, and kept damp by
the warmth of her feet now inflamed from fever, these boots were
torn easily in the forest.

“I will go barefoot to Hreptyoff or to death!” thought Basia.

And a sad smile lighted her face, for she found comfort in this,
that she went so enduringly; and that if she should be frozen on
the road, Michael would have nothing to cast at her memory.

Therefore she talked now continually with her husband, and said
once,--

“Ai, Michael dear! another would not have done so much; for
example, Eva.”

Of Eva she had thought more than once in that time of flight; more
than once had she prayed for Eva. It was clear to her now, seeing
that Azya did not love the girl, that her fate, and the fate of all
the other prisoners left in Rashkoff, would be dreadful.

“It is worse for them than for me,” repeated she, from moment to
moment, and that thought gave fresh strength to her.

But when one, two, and three hours had passed, this strength
decreased at every step. Gradually the sun sank behind the
Dniester, and flooding the sky with a ruddy twilight, was quenched;
the snow took on a violet reflection. Then that gold and purple
abyss of twilight began to grow dark, and became narrower every
moment, from a sea covering half the heavens it was changed to a
lake, from a lake to a river, from a river to a stream, and finally
gleaming as a thread of light stretched on the west, yielded to
darkness.

Night came.

An hour passed. The pine-wood became black and mysterious; but,
unmoved by any breath, it was as silent as if it had collected
itself, and were meditating what to do with that poor, wandering
creature. But there was nothing good in that torpor and silence;
nay, there was insensibility and callousness.

Basia went on continually, catching the air more quickly with her
parched lips; she fell, too, more frequently, because of darkness
and her lack of strength.

She had her head turned upward; but not to look for the directing
Great Bear, for she had lost altogether the sense of position. She
went so as to go; she went because very clear and sweet visions
before death had begun to fly over her.

For example, the four sides of the wood begin to run together
quickly, to join and form a room,--the room at Hreptyoff. Basia is
in it; she sees everything clearly. In the chimney a great fire
is burning, and on the benches officers are sitting as usual: Pan
Zagloba is chaffing Pan Snitko; Pan Motovidlo is sitting in silence
looking into the flames, and when something hisses in the fire he
says, in his drawling voice, “Oh, soul in purgatory, what needst
thou?” Pan Mushalski and Pan Hromyka are playing dice with Michael.
Basia comes up to them and says: “Michael, I will sit on the bench
and nestle up to you a little, for I am not myself.” Michael puts
his arm around her. “What is the matter, kitten? But maybe--” And
he inclines to her ear and whispers something. But she answers,
“Ai, how I am not myself!” What a bright and peaceful room that is,
and how beloved is that Michael! But somehow Basia is not herself,
so that she is alarmed.

Basia is not herself to such a degree that the fever has left
her suddenly, for the weakness before death has overcome it. The
visions disappear; presence of mind returns, and with it memory.

“I am fleeing before Azya,” said Basia to herself; “I am in the
forest at night. I cannot go to Hreptyoff. I am dying.”

After the fever, cold seizes her quickly, and goes through her body
to the bones. The legs bend under her, and she kneels at last on
the snow before a tree.

Not the least cloud darkens her mind now. She is terribly sorry to
lose life, but she knows perfectly that she is dying; and wishing
to commend her soul to God, she begins to say, in a broken voice,--

“In the name of the Father and the Son--”

Suddenly certain strange, sharp, shrill, squeaking voices interrupt
further prayer; they are disagreeable and piercing in the stillness
of the night.

Basia opens her mouth. The question, “What is that?” is dying on
her lips. For a moment she places her trembling fingers to her
face, as if not wishing to lend belief, and from her mouth a sudden
cry is wrested,--

“O Jesus, O Jesus! Those are the well-sweeps; that is Hreptyoff! O
Jesus!”

Then that being who was dying a little before springs up, and
panting, trembling, with eyes full of tears, and with swelling
bosom runs through the forest, falls, rises again, repeating,--

“They are watering the horses! That is Hreptyoff! Those are
our well-sweeps! Even to the gate, even to the gate! O Jesus!
Hreptyoff--Hreptyoff!”

But here the forest grows thin, the snow-fields open, and with them
the slope, from which a number of glittering eyes are looking on
the running Basia.

But those were not wolves’ eyes,--ah, those were Hreptyoff
windows looking with sweet, bright, and saving light! That is the
“fortalice” there on the eminence, just that eastern side turned to
the forest!

There was still a distance to go, but Basia did not know when
she passed it. The soldiers standing at the gate on the village
side did not know her in the darkness; but they admitted her,
thinking her a boy sent on some message, and returning to the
commandant. She rushed in with her last breath, ran across the
square near the wells where the dragoons, returning just before
from a reconnoissance, had watered their horses for the night,
and stood at the door of the main building. The little knight and
Zagloba were sitting just then astride a bench before the fire, and
drinking krupnik.[27] They were talking of Basia, thinking that
she was down there somewhere, managing in Rashkoff. Both were sad,
for it was terribly dreary without her, and every day they were
discussing about her return.

“God ward off sudden thaws and rains. Should they come. He alone
knows when she would return,” said Zagloba, gloomily.

“The winter will hold out yet,” said the little knight; “and in
eight or ten days I shall be looking toward Mohiloff for her every
hour.”

“I wish she had not gone. There is nothing for me here without her
in Hreptyoff.”

“But why did you advise the journey?”

“Don’t invent, Michael! That took place with your head.”

“If only she comes back in health.”

Here the little knight sighed, and added,--

“In health, and as soon as possible.”

With that the door squeaked, and a small, pitiful, torn creature,
covered with snow, began to pipe plaintively at the threshold:--

“Michael, Michael!”

The little knight sprang up, but he was so astonished at the first
moment that he stopped where he stood, as if turned to stone; he
opened his arms, began to blink, and stood still.

“Michael!--Azya betrayed--he wanted to carry me away; but I fled,
and--save--rescue!”

When she had said this, she tottered and fell as if dead, on the
floor; Pan Michael sprang forward, raised her in his arms as if she
had been a feather, and cried shrilly,--

“Merciful Christ!”

But her poor head hung without life on his shoulder. Thinking that
he held only a corpse in his arms, he began to cry with a ghastly
voice,--

“Basia is dead!--dead! Rescue!”




CHAPTER XLII.


News of Basia’s arrival flew like a thunderbolt through Hreptyoff;
but no one except the little knight, Pan Zagloba, and the
serving-women saw her that evening, or the following evenings.
After that swoon on the threshold she recovered presence of mind
sufficiently to tell in a few words at least what had happened, and
how it had happened; but suddenly a new fit of fainting set in, and
an hour later, though they used all means to revive her, though
they warmed her, gave her wine, tried to give her food, she did not
know even her husband, and there was no doubt that for her a long
and grievous illness was beginning.

Meanwhile excitement rose in all Hreptyoff. The soldiers, learning
that “the lady” had come home half alive, rushed out to the square
like a swarm of bees; all the officers assembled, and whispering
in low voices were waiting impatiently for news from the bedroom
where Basia was lying. For a long time, however, it was impossible
to learn anything. It is true that at times waiting-women hurried
past, one to the kitchen for hot water, another to the dispensary
for plasters, ointments, and herbs; but they let no one detain
them. Uncertainty was weighing like lead on all hearts. Increasing
crowds, even from the village, collected on the square; inquiries
passed from mouth to mouth; men described Azya’s treason, and said
that “the lady” had saved herself by flight, had fled a whole
week without food or sleep. At these tidings the breasts of all
swelled with rage. At last a wonderful and terrible frenzy seized
the assembly of soldiers; but they repressed it through fear of
injuring the sick woman by an outburst.

At last, after long waiting, Pan Zagloba went out to the officers,
his eyes red, and the remnant of the hair on his head standing up;
they sprang to him in a crowd, and covered him at once with anxious
questions in low tones.

“Is she alive; is she alive?”

“She is alive,” said the old man; “but God knows whether she will
live an hour.”

Here the voice stuck in his throat; his lower lip quivered. Seizing
his head with both hands, he dropped heavily on the bench, and
suppressed sobbing heaved his breast.

At sight of this, Pan Mushalski caught in his embrace Pan
Nyenashinyets, though he cared not much for him ordinarily, and
began to moan quietly; Pan Nyenashinyets seconded him at once. Pan
Motovidlo stared as if he were trying to swallow something, but
could not; Pan Snitko fell to unbuttoning his coat with quivering
fingers; Pan Hromyka raised his hands, and walked through the room.
The soldiers, seeing through the windows these signs of despair,
and judging that the lady had died already, began an outcry and
lamentation. Hearing this, Zagloba fell into a sudden fury, and
shot out like a stone from a sling to the square.

“Silence, you scoundrels! may the thunderbolts split you!” cried
he, in a suppressed voice.

They were silent at once, understanding that the time for
lamentation had not come yet; but they did not leave the square.
Zagloba returned to the room, quieted somewhat, and sat again on
the bench.

At that moment a waiting-woman appeared again at the door of the
room.

Zagloba sprang toward her.

“How is it there?”

“She is sleeping.”

“Is she sleeping? Praise be to God!”

“Maybe the Lord will grant--”

“What is the Pan Commandant doing?”

“The Pan Commandant is at her bedside.”

“That is well. Go now for what you were sent.”

Zagloba turned to the officers and said, repeating the words of the
woman,--

“May the Most High God have mercy! She is sleeping! Some hope is
entering me--Uf!”

And they sighed deeply in like manner. Then they gathered around
Zagloba in a close circle and began to inquire,--

“For God’s sake, how did it happen? What happened? How did she
escape on foot?”

“At first she did not escape on foot,” whispered Zagloba, “but with
two horses, for she threw that dog from his saddle,--may the plague
slay him!”

“I cannot believe my ears!”

“She struck him with the butt of a pistol between the eyes; and as
they were some distance behind no one saw them, and no one pursued.
The wolves ate one horse, and the other was drowned under the ice.
O Merciful Christ! She went, the poor thing, alone through forests,
without eating, without drinking.”

Here Pan Zagloba burst out crying again, and stopped his narrative
for a time; the officers too sat down on benches, filled with
wonder and horror and pity for the woman who was loved by all.

“When she came near Hreptyoff,” continued Zagloba, after a while,
“she did not know the place, and was preparing to die; just then
she heard the squeak of the well-sweeps, knew that she was near us,
and dragged herself home with her last breath.”

“God guarded her in such straits,” said Pan Motovidlo, wiping his
moist mustaches. “He will guard her further.”

“It will be so! You have touched the point,” whispered a number of
voices.

With that a louder noise came in from the square; Zagloba sprang up
again in a rage, and rushed out through the doorway.

Head was thrust up to head on the square; but at sight of Zagloba
and two other officers the soldiers pushed back into a half-circle.

“Be quiet, you dog souls!” began Zagloba, “or I’ll command--”

But out of the half-circle stepped Zydor Lusnia,--a sergeant of
dragoons, a real Mazovian, and one of Pan Michael’s favorite
soldiers. This man advanced a couple of steps, straightened himself
out like a string, and said with a voice of decision,--

“Your grace, since such a son has injured our lady, as I live, we
cannot but move on him and take vengeance; all beg to do this. And
if the colonel cannot go, we will go under another command, even to
the Crimea itself, to capture that man; and remembering our lady,
we will not spare him.”

A stubborn, cold, peasant threat sounded in the voice of the
sergeant; other dragoons and attendants in the accompanying
squadrons began to grit their teeth, shake their sabres, puff, and
murmur. This deep grumbling, like the grumbling of a bear in the
night, had in it something simply terrible.

The sergeant stood erect waiting for an answer; behind him whole
ranks were waiting, and in them was evident such obstinacy and rage
that in presence of it even the ordinary obedience of soldiers
disappeared.

Silence continued for a while; all at once some voice in a remoter
line called out,--

“The blood of that one is the best medicine for ‘the lady.’”

Zagloba’s anger fell away, for that attachment of the soldiers to
Basia touched him; and at that mention of medicine another plan
flashed up in his head,--namely, to bring a doctor to Basia. At the
first moment in that wild Hreptyoff no one had thought of a doctor;
but nevertheless there were many of them in Kamenyets,--among
others a certain Greek, a famous man, wealthy, the owner of a
number of stone houses, and so learned that he passed everywhere
as almost skilled in the black art. But there was a doubt whether
he, being wealthy, would be willing to come at any price to such a
desert,--he to whom even magnates spoke with respect.

Zagloba meditated for a short time, and then said,--

“A fitting vengeance will not miss that arch hound, I promise you
that; and he would surely prefer to have his grace, the king, swear
vengeance against him than to have Zagloba do it. But it is not
known whether he is alive yet; for the lady, in tearing herself out
of his hands, struck him with the butt of her pistol right in the
brain. But this is not the time to think of him, for first we must
save the lady.”

“We should be glad to do it, even with our own lives,” answered
Lusnia.

And the crowd muttered again in support of the sergeant.

“Listen to me,” said Zagloba. “In Kamenyets lives a doctor named
Rodopul. You will go to him; you will tell him that the starosta
of Podolia has sprained his leg at this place and is waiting for
rescue. And if he is outside the wall, seize him, put him on a
horse, or into a bag, and bring him to Hreptyoff without stopping.
I will give command to have horses disposed at short distances
apart, and you will go at a gallop. Only be careful to bring him
alive, for we have no business with dead doctors.”

A mutter of satisfaction was heard on every side; Lusnia moved his
stern mustaches and said,--

“I will bring him surely, and I will not lose him till we come to
Hreptyoff.”

“Move on!”

“I pray your grace--”

“What more?”

“But if he should die of fright?”

“He will not. Take six men and move.”

Lusnia shot away. The others were glad to do something for the
lady; they ran to saddle the horses, and in a few “Our Fathers” six
men were racing to Kamenyets. After them others took additional
horses, to be disposed along the road.

Zagloba, satisfied with himself, returned to the house.

After a while Pan Michael came out of the bedroom, changed, half
conscious, indifferent to words of sympathy and consolation. When
he had informed Zagloba that Basia was sleeping continually, he
dropped on the bench, and gazed with wandering look on the door
beyond which she was lying. It seemed to the officers that he was
listening; therefore all restrained their breathing, and a perfect
stillness settled down in the room.

After a certain time Zagloba went on tiptoe to the little knight.

“Michael,” said he, “I have sent to Kamenyets for a doctor; but
maybe it is well to send for some one else?”

Volodyovski was collecting his thoughts, and apparently did not
understand.

“For a priest,” said Zagloba. “Father Kaminski might come by
morning.”

The little knight closed his eyes, turned toward the fire, his face
as pale as a kerchief, and said in a hurried voice,--

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!”

Zagloba inquired no further, but went out and made arrangements.
When he returned, Pan Michael was no longer in the room. The
officers told Zagloba that the sick woman had called her husband,
it was unknown whether in a fever or in her senses.

The old noble convinced himself soon, by inspection, that it was in
a fever.

Basia’s cheeks were bright red; her eyes, though glittering, were
dull, as if the pupils had mingled with the white; her pale hands
were searching for something before her, with a monotonous motion,
on the coverlet. Pan Michael was lying half alive at her feet.

From time to time the sick woman muttered something in a low voice,
or uttered uncertain phrases more loudly; among them “Hreptyoff”
was repeated most frequently: evidently it seemed to her at times
that she was still on the road. That movement of her hands on the
coverlet disturbed Zagloba especially, for in its unconscious
monotony he saw signs of coming death. He was a man of experience,
and many people had died in his presence; but never had his heart
been cut with such sorrow as at sight of that flower withering so
early.

Understanding that God alone could save that quenching life, he
knelt at the bed and began to pray, and to pray earnestly.

Meanwhile Basia’s breath grew heavier, and changed by degrees to a
rattling. Volodyovski sprang up from her feet; Zagloba rose from
his knees. Neither said a word to the other; they merely looked
into each other’s eyes, and in that look there was terror. It
seemed to them that she was dying, but it seemed so only for some
moments; soon her breathing was easier and even slower.

Thenceforth they were between fear and hope. The night dragged
on slowly. Neither did the officers go to rest; they sat in the
room, now looking at the door of the bedroom, now whispering among
themselves, now dozing. At intervals a boy came in to throw wood on
the fire; and at each movement of the latch they sprang from the
bench, thinking that Volodyovski or Zagloba was coming, and they
would hear the terrible words, “She is living no longer!”

At last the cocks crowed, and she was still struggling with the
fever. Toward morning a fierce rain-storm burst forth; it roared
among the beams, howled on the roof; at times the flames quivered
in the chimney, casting into the room puffs of smoke and sparks.
About daylight Pan Motovidlo stepped out quietly, for he had to go
on a reconnoissance. At last day came pale and cloudy, and lighted
weary faces.

On the square the usual movement began. In the whistling of the
storm were heard the tramp of horses on the planking of the stable,
the squeak of the well-sweeps, and the voices of soldiers; but soon
a bell sounded,--Father Kaminski had come.

When he entered, wearing his white surplice, the officers fell on
their knees. It seemed to all that the solemn moment had come,
after which death must follow undoubtedly. The sick woman had not
regained consciousness; therefore the priest could not hear her
confession. He only gave her extreme unction; then he began to
console the little knight, and to persuade him to yield to the will
of God. But there was no effect in that consolation, for no words
could reach his pain.

For a whole day death hovered over Basia. Like a spider, which
secreted in some gloomy corner of the ceiling crawls out at times
to the light, and lets itself down on an unseen web, death seemed
at times to come down right there over Basia’s head; and more than
once it seemed to those present that his shadow was falling on her
forehead, that that bright soul was just opening its wings to fly
away out of Hreptyoff, somewhere into endless space, to the other
side of life. Then again death, like a spider, hid away under the
ceiling, and hope filled their hearts.

But that was merely a partial and temporary hope, for no one dared
to think that Basia would survive the attack. Pan Michael himself
had no hope of her recovery; and this pain of his became so great
that Zagloba, though suffering severely himself, began to be
afraid, and to commend him to the care of the officers.

“For God’s sake, look after him!” said the old man; “he may plunge
a knife into his body.”

This did not come, indeed, to Pan Michael’s head; but in that
rending sorrow and pain he asked himself continually,--

“How am I to stay behind when she goes? How can I let that dearest
love go alone? What will she say when she looks around and does not
find me near her?”

Thinking thus, he wished with all the powers of his soul to die
with her; for as he could not imagine life for himself on earth
without her, in like manner he did not understand that she could
be happy in that life without him, and not yearn for him. In the
afternoon the ill-omened spider hid again in the ceiling. The flush
in Basia’s cheeks was quenched, and the fever decreased to a degree
that some consciousness came back to her.

She lay for a time with closed eyes, then, opening them, looked
into the face of the little knight, and asked,--

“Michael, am I in Hreptyoff?”

“Yes, my love,” answered Volodyovski, closing his teeth.

“And are you really near me?”

“Yes; how do you feel?”

“Ai, well.”

It was clear that she herself was not certain that the fever had
not brought before her eyes deceptive visions; but from that moment
she regained consciousness more and more.

In the evening Lusnia and his men came and shook out of a bag
before the fort the doctor of Kamenyets, together with his
medicines; he was barely alive. But when he learned that he was not
in robber hands, as he thought, but was brought in that fashion to
a patient, after a passing faintness he went to the rescue at once,
especially as Zagloba held before him in one hand a purse filled
with coin, in the other a loaded pistol, and said,--

“Here is the fee for life, and there is the fee for death.”

That same night, about daybreak, the spider of ill-omen hid away
somewhere for good; thereupon the decision of the doctor, “She will
be sick a long time, but she will recover,” sounded with joyful
echo through Hreptyoff. When Pan Michael heard it first, he fell
on the floor and broke into such violent sobbing that it seemed as
though his bosom would burst. Zagloba grew weak altogether from
joy, so that his face was covered with sweat, and he was barely
able to exclaim, “A drink!” The officers embraced one another.

On the square the dragoons assembled again, with the escort and the
Cossacks of Pan Motovidlo; it was hardly possible to restrain them
from shouting. They wanted absolutely to show their delight in some
fashion, and they began to beg for a number of robbers imprisoned
in the cellars of Hreptyoff, so as to hang them for the benefit of
the lady.

But the little knight refused.




CHAPTER XLIII.


Basia suffered so violently for a week yet, that had it not been
for the assurance of the doctor both Pan Michael and Zagloba would
have admitted that the flame of her life might expire at any
moment. Only at the end of that time did she become notably better;
her consciousness returned fully, and though the doctor foresaw
that she would lie in bed a month, or a month and a half, still it
was certain that she would return to perfect health, and gain her
former strength.

Pan Michael during her illness went hardly one step from her
pillow; he loved her after these perils still more, if possible,
and did not see the world beyond her. At times when he sat near
her, when he looked on that face, still thin and emaciated but
joyous, and those eyes, into which the old fire was returning each
day, he was beset by the wish to laugh, to cry, and to shout from
delight:--

“My only Basia is recovering; she is recovering!”

And he rushed at her hands, and sometimes he kissed those poor
little feet which had waded so valiantly through the deep snows
to Hreptyoff; in a word, he loved her and honored her beyond
estimation. He felt wonderfully indebted to Providence, and on a
certain time he said in presence of Zagloba and the officers:--

“I am a poor man, but even were I to work off my arms to the
elbows, I will find money for a little church, even a wooden
one. And as often as they ring the bells in it, I will remember
the mercy of God, and the soul will be melting within me from
gratitude.”

“God grant us first to pass through this Turkish war with success,”
said Zagloba.

“The Lord knows best what pleases Him most,” replied the little
knight: “if He wishes for a church He will preserve me; and if He
prefers my blood, I shall not spare it, as God is dear to me.”

Basia with health regained her humor. Two weeks later she gave
command to open the door of her chamber a little one evening; and
when the officers had assembled in the room, she called out with
her silvery voice:--

“Good-evening, gentlemen! I shall not die this time, aha!”

“Thanks to the Most High God!” answered the officers, in chorus.

“Glory be to God, dear child!” exclaimed Pan Motovidlo, who loved
Basia particularly with a fatherly affection, and who in moments of
great emotion spoke always in Russian.[28]

“See, gentlemen,” continued Basia, “what has happened! Who could
have hoped for this? Lucky that it ended so.”

“God watched over innocence,” called the chorus again through the
door.

“But Pan Zagloba laughed at me more than once, because I have more
love for the sabre than the distaff. Well, a distaff or a needle
would have helped me greatly! But didn’t I act like a cavalier,
didn’t I?”

“An angel could not have done better!”

Zagloba interrupted the conversation by closing the door of the
chamber, for he feared too much excitement for Basia. But she was
angry as a cat at the old man, for she had a wish for further
conversation, and especially to hear more praises of her bravery
and valor. When danger had passed, and was merely a reminiscence,
she was very proud of her action against Azya, and demanded praise
absolutely. More than once she turned to the little knight, and
pushing his breast with her finger said, with the mien of a spoiled
child,--

“Praise for the bravery!”

And he, the obedient, praised her and fondled her, and kissed her
on the eyes and on the hands, till Zagloba, though he was greatly
affected himself in reality, pretended to be scandalized, and
muttered,--

“Ah, everything will be as lax as grandfather’s whip.”

The general rejoicing in Hreptyoff over Basia’s recovery was
troubled only by the remembrance of the injury which Azya’s
treason had wrought in the Commonwealth, and the terrible fate
of old Pan Novoveski, of Pani and Panna Boski, and of Eva. Basia
was troubled no little by this, and with her every one; for the
events at Rashkoff were known in detail, not only in Hreptyoff, but
in Kamenyets and farther on. A few days before, Pan Myslishevski
had stopped in Hreptyoff; notwithstanding the treason of Azya,
Krychinski, and Adurovich, he did not lose hope of attracting to
the Polish side the other captains. After Pan Myslishevski came
Pan Bogush, and later, news directly from Mohiloff, Yampol, and
Rashkoff itself.

In Mohiloff, Pan Gorzenski, evidently a better soldier than orator,
did not let himself be deceived. Intercepting Azya’s orders to
the Tartars whom he left behind, Pan Gorzenski fell upon them,
with a handful of Mazovian infantry, and cut them down or took
them prisoners; besides, he sent a warning to Yampol, through
which that place was saved. The troops returned soon after. So
Rashkoff was the only victim. Pan Michael received a letter from
Pan Byaloglovski himself, giving a report of events there and other
affairs relating to the whole Commonwealth.

    “It is well that I returned,” wrote Pan Byaloglovski, among
    other things, “for Novoveski, my second, is not in a state
    now to do duty. He is more like a skeleton than a man, and
    we shall be sure to lose a great cavalier, for suffering
    has crushed him beyond the measure of his strength. His
    father is slain; his sister, in the last degree of shame,
    given to Adurovich by Azya, who took Panna Boski for
    himself. Nothing can be done for them, even should there
    be success in rescuing them from captivity. We know this
    from a Tartar who sprained his shoulder in crossing the
    river; taken prisoner by our men, he was put on the fire,
    and divulged everything. Azya, Krychinski, and Adurovich
    have gone to Adrianople. Novoveski is struggling to follow
    without fail, saying that he must take Azya, even from the
    centre of the Sultan’s camp, and have vengeance. He was
    always obstinate and daring, and there is no reason now
    to wonder at him, since it is a question of Panna Boski,
    whose evil fate we all bewail with tears, for she was a
    sweet maiden, and I do not know the man whose heart she
    did not win. But I restrain Novoveski, and tell him that
    Azya himself will come to him; for war is certain, and this
    also, that the hordes will move in the vanguard. We have
    news from Moldavia from the perkulabs, and from Turkish
    merchants as well, that troops are assembling already
    near Adrianople,--a great many of the horde. The Turkish
    cavalry, which they call ‘spahis,’ are mustering too; and
    the Sultan himself is to come with the janissaries. My
    benefactor, there will be untold myriads of them; for the
    whole Orient is in movement, and we have only a handful of
    troops. Our whole hope is in the rock of Kamenyets, which,
    God grant, is provisioned properly. In Adrianople it is
    spring; and with us almost spring, for tremendous rains are
    falling and grass is appearing. I am going to Yampol; for
    Rashkoff is only a heap of ashes, and there is no place
    to incline one’s head, or anything to put into the mouth.
    Besides, I think that we shall be withdrawn from all the
    forts.”

The little knight had information of equal and even greater
certainty, since it came from Hotin. He had sent it too a short
time before to the hetman. Still, Byaloglovski’s letter, coming
from the remotest boundary, made a powerful impression on him,
precisely because it confirmed that intelligence. But the little
knight had no fears touching war, his fears were for Basia.

“The order of the hetman to withdraw the garrisons may come any
day,” said he to Zagloba; “and service is service. It will be
necessary to move without delay; but Basia is in bed yet, and the
weather is bad.”

“If ten orders were to come,” said Zagloba, “Basia is the main
question; we will stay here until she recovers completely. Besides,
the war will not begin before the end of the thaws, much less
before the end of winter, especially as they will bring heavy
artillery against Kamenyets.”

“That old volunteer is always sitting within you,” replied the
little knight, with impatience; “you think an order may be delayed
for private matters.”

“Well, if an order is dearer to you than Basia, pack her into a
wagon and march. I know, I know, you are ready at command to put
her in with forks, if it appears that she is unable to sit in the
wagon with her own strength. May the hangman take you with such
discipline! In old times a man did what he could, and what he
couldn’t he didn’t do. You have kindness on your lips, but just let
them cry, ‘Haida on the Turk!’ then you’ll spit out your kindness
as you would a peachstone, and you will take that unfortunate woman
on horseback with a lariat.”

“I without pity for Basia! Fear the wounds of the Crucified!” cried
the little knight.

Zagloba puffed angrily for a time, then looking at the suffering
face of Pan Michael, he said,--

“Michael, you know that I say what I say out of love really
parental for Basia. Otherwise would I be sitting here under the
Turkish axe, instead of enjoying leisure in a safe place, which at
my years no man could take ill of me? But who got Basia for you? If
it shall be seen that it was not I, then command me to drink a vat
of water without a thing to give taste to it.”

“I could not repay you in a lifetime for Basia!” cried the little
knight.

Then they took each other by the shoulders, and the best harmony
began between them.

“I have planned,” said the little knight, “that when war comes, you
will take Basia to Pan Yan’s place. Chambuls do not go that far.”

“I will do so for you, though it would delight me to go against the
Turk; for nothing disgusts me like that swinish nation which does
not drink wine.”

“I fear only one thing: Basia will try to be at Kamenyets, so as to
be near me. My skin creeps at thought of this; but as God is God
she will try.”

“Do not let her try. Has little evil come already, because you
indulge her in everything, and let her go on that expedition to
Rashkoff, though I cried out against it immediately?”

“But that is not true! You said that you would not advise.”

“When I say that I will not advise a thing, that is worse than if I
had spoken against it.”

“Basia ought to be wise now, but she will not. When she sees the
sword over my head she will resist.”

“Do not let her resist, I repeat. For God’s sake, what sort of a
straw husband are you?”

“I confess that when she puts her fists in her eyes and begins to
cry, or just let her pretend to cry, the heart in me is like butter
on a frying-pan. It must be that she has given me some herb. As to
sending her, I will send her, for her safety is dearer to me than
my own life; but when I think that I must torture her so the breath
stops in me from pity.”

“Michael, have God in your heart! Don’t be led by the nose!”

“Bah! don’t be led yourself. Who, if not you, said that I have no
pity for her?”

“What’s that?” asked Zagloba.

“You do not lack ingenuity, but now you are scratching behind your
ear yourself.”

“Because I’m thinking what better argument to use.”

“But if she puts her fists in her eyes at once?”

“She will, as God is dear to me!” said Zagloba, with evident alarm.

And they were perplexed, for, to tell the truth, Basia had measured
both perfectly. They had petted her to the last degree in her
sickness, and loved her so much that the necessity of opposing
her wish and desire filled them with fear. That Basia would not
resist, and would yield with submission to the decree, both knew
well; but not to mention Pan Michael, it would have been pleasanter
for Zagloba to rush himself the third man on a whole regiment of
janissaries, than to see her putting her little fists into her eyes.




CHAPTER XLIV.


On that same day there came to them aid infallible, as they
thought, in the persons of guests unexpected and dear above all.
The Ketlings came toward evening, without any previous intimation.
The delight and astonishment at seeing them in Hreptyoff was
indescribable; and they, learning on the first inquiry that Basia
was returning to health, were comforted in an equal degree. Krysia
rushed at once to the bedroom, and at the same moment exclamations
and cries from there announced Basia’s happiness to the little
knight.

Ketling and Pan Michael embraced each other a long time; now they
put each other out at arm’s length, now they embraced again.

“For God’s sake!” said the little knight. “I should be less pleased
to receive the baton than to see you; but what are you doing in
these parts?”

“The hetman has made me commander of the artillery at Kamenyets,”
said Ketling; “therefore I went with my wife to that place. Hearing
there of the trials that had met you, I set out without delay for
Hreptyoff. Praise be to God, Michael, that all has ended well!
We travelled in great suffering and uncertainty, for we knew not
whether we were coming here to rejoice or to mourn.”

“To rejoice, to rejoice!” broke in Zagloba.

“How did it happen?” asked Ketling.

The little knight and Zagloba vied with each other in narrating;
and Ketling listened, raising his eyes and his hands to heaven in
wonderment at Basia’s bravery.

When they had talked all they wished, the little knight fell to
inquiring of Ketling what had happened to him, and he made a report
in detail. After their marriage they had lived on the boundary of
Courland; they were so happy with each other that it could not be
better in heaven. Ketling in taking Krysia knew perfectly that
he was taking “a being above earth,” and he had not changed his
opinion so far.

Zagloba and Pan Michael, remembering by this expression the former
Ketling who expressed himself always in a courtly and elevated
style, began to embrace him again; and when all three had satisfied
their friendship, the old noble asked,--

“Has there come to that being above earth any earthly case which
kicks with its feet and looks for teeth in its mouth with its
finger?”

“God gave us a son,” said Ketling; “and now again--”

“I have noticed,” interrupted Zagloba. “But here everything is on
the old footing.”

Then he fixed his seeing eye on the little knight, whose mustaches
quivered repeatedly.

Further conversation was interrupted by the coming of Krysia, who
pointed to the door and said,--

“Basia invites you.”

All went to the chamber together, and there new greetings began.
Ketling kissed Basia’s hand, and Pan Michael kissed Krysia’s again;
then all looked at one another with curiosity, as people do who
have not met for a long time.

Ketling had changed in almost nothing, except that he had his
hair cut closely, and that made him seem younger; but Krysia had
changed greatly, at least considering the time. She was not so
slender and willowy as before, and her face was paler, for which
reason the down on her lip seemed darker; but she had the former
beautiful eyes with unusually long lashes, and the former calmness
of countenance. Her features, once so wonderful, had lost, however,
their previous delicacy. The loss might be, it is true, only
temporary; still, Pan Michael, looking at her and comparing her
with his Basia, could not but think,--

“For God’s sake, how could I fall in love with her when both were
together? Where were my eyes?”

On the other hand, Basia seemed beautiful to Ketling; for she was
really beautiful, with her golden, wayward forelock dropping toward
her brows, with her complexion which, losing some of its ruddiness,
had become after her illness like the leaf of a white rose. But
now her face was enlivened somewhat by delight, and her delicate
nostrils moved quickly. She seemed as youthful as if she had not
yet reached maturity; and at the first glance it might be thought
that she was some ten years younger than Ketling’s wife. But her
beauty acted on the sensitive Ketling only in this way, that he
began to think with more tenderness of his wife, for he felt guilty
with regard to her.

Both women related to each other all that could be told in a short
space of time; and the whole company, sitting around Basia’s
bed, began to recall former days. But that conversation did
not move somehow, for there were in those former days delicate
subjects,--the confidences of Pan Michael with Krysia; and the
indifference of the little knight for Basia, loved later, and
various promises and various despairs. Life in Ketling’s house had
a charm for all, and left an agreeable memory behind; but to speak
of it was awkward.

Ketling changed the subject soon after:--

“I have not told you yet that on the road we stopped with Pan Yan,
who would not let us go for two weeks, and entertained us so that
in heaven it could not be better.”

“By the dear God, how are they?” cried Zagloba. “Then you found
them at home?”

“We did; for Pan Yan had returned for a time from the hetman’s with
his three elder sons, who serve in the cavalry.”

“I have not seen Pan Yan nor his family since the time of your
wedding,” said the little knight. “He was here in the Wilderness,
and his sons were with him; but I did not happen to meet them.”

“They are all very anxious to see you,” said Ketling, turning to
Zagloba.

“And I to see them,” replied the old man. “But this is how it is:
if I am here, I am sad without them; if I go there, I shall be sad
without this weasel. Such is human life; if the wind doesn’t blow
into one ear it will into the other. But it is worse for the lone
man, for if I had children I should not be loving a stranger.”

“You would not love your own children more than us,” said Basia.

When he heard this Zagloba was greatly delighted, and casting off
sad thoughts, he fell at once into jovial humor; when he had puffed
somewhat he said,--

“Ha, I was a fool there at Ketling’s; I got Krysia and Basia for
you two, and I did not think of myself. There was still time then.”

Here he turned to the women,--

“Confess that you would have fallen in love with me, both of you,
and either one would have preferred me to Michael or Ketling.”

“Of course we should!” exclaimed Basia.

“Helena, Pan Yan’s wife, too in her day would have preferred me.
Ha! it might have been. I should then have a sedate woman, none of
your tramps, knocking teeth out of Tartars. But is she well?”

“She is well, but a little anxious, for their two middle boys ran
away to the army from school at Lukoff,” said Ketling. “Pan Yan
himself is glad that there is such mettle in the boys; but a mother
is a mother almost always.”

“Have they many children?” inquired Basia, with a sigh.

“Twelve boys, and now the fair sex has begun,” answered Ketling.

“Ha!” cried Zagloba, “the special blessing of God is on that house.
I have reared them all at my own breast, like a pelican. I must
pull the ears of those middle boys, for if they had to run away
why didn’t they come here to Michael? But wait, it must be Michael
and Yasek who ran away. There was such a flock of them that their
own father confounded their names; and you couldn’t see a crow for
three miles around, for the rogues had killed every crow with their
muskets. Bah, bah! you would have to look through the world for
another such woman. ‘Halska,’ I used to say to her, ‘the boys are
getting too big for me, I must have new sport.’ Then she would, as
it were, frown at me; but the time came as if written down. Imagine
to yourself, it went so far that if any woman in the country about
could not get consolation, she borrowed a dress from Halska; and it
helped her, as God is dear to me, it did.”

All wondered greatly, and a moment of silence followed; then the
voice of the little knight was heard on a sudden,--

“Basia, do you hear?”

“Michael, will you be quiet?” answered Basia.

But Michael would not be quiet, for various cunning thoughts were
coming to his head. It seemed to him above all that with that
affair another equally important might be accomplished; hence he
began to talk, as it were to himself, carelessly, as about the
commonest thing in the world,--

“As God lives, it would be well to visit Pan Yan and his wife; but
he will not be at home now, for he is going to the hetman; but she
has sense, and is not accustomed to tempt the Lord God, therefore
she will stay at home.”

Here he turned to Krysia. “The spring is coming, and the weather
will be fine. Now it is too early for Basia, but a little later I
might not be opposed, for it is a friendly obligation. Pan Zagloba
would take you both there; in the fall, when all would be quiet, I
would go after you.”

“That is a splendid idea,” exclaimed Zagloba; “I must go anyhow,
for I have fed them with ingratitude. Indeed, I have forgotten that
they are in the world, until I am ashamed.”

“What do you say to this?” inquired Pan Michael, looking carefully
into Krysia’s eyes.

But she answered most unexpectedly, with her usual calmness,--

“I should be glad, but I cannot; for I will remain with my husband
in Kamenyets, and will not leave him for any cause.”

“In God’s name, what do I hear?” cried Pan Michael. “You will
remain in the fortress, which will be invested surely, and that by
an enemy knowing no moderation? I should not talk if the war were
with some civilized enemy, but this is an affair with barbarians.
But do you know what a captured city means,--what Turkish or Tartar
captivity is? I do not believe my ears!”

“Still, it cannot be otherwise,” replied Krysia.

“Ketling,” cried the little knight, in despair, “is this the way
you let yourself be mastered? O man, have God in your heart!”

“We deliberated long,” answered Ketling, “and this was the end of
it.”

“And our son is in Kamenyets, under the care of a lady, a relative
of mine. Is it certain that Kamenyets must be captured?” Here
Krysia raised her calm eyes: “God is mightier than the Turk,--He
will not betray our confidence; and because I have sworn to my
husband not to leave him till death, my place is with him.”

The little knight was terribly confused, for from Krysia he had
expected something different altogether.

Basia, who from the very beginning of the conversation saw whither
Michael was tending, laughed cunningly. She fixed her quick eyes on
him, and said,--

“Michael, do you hear?”

“Basia, be quiet!” exclaimed the little knight, in the greatest
embarrassment. Then he began to cast despairing glances at Zagloba,
as if expecting salvation from him; but that traitor rose suddenly,
and said,--

“We must think of refreshment, for it is not by word alone that man
liveth.” And he went out of the chamber.

Pan Michael followed quickly, and stopped him.

“Well, and what now?” asked Zagloba.

“Well, and what?”

“But may the bullets strike that Ketling woman! For God’s sake, how
is this Commonwealth not to perish when women are managing it?”

“Cannot you think out something?”

“Since you fear your wife, what can I think out for you? Get the
blacksmith to shoe you,--that’s what!”




CHAPTER XLV.


The Ketlings stayed about three weeks. At the expiration of that
time Basia tried to leave her bed; but it appeared that she could
not stand on her feet yet. Health had returned to her sooner than
strength; and the doctor commanded her to lie till all her vigor
came back to her. Meanwhile spring came. First a strong and warm
wind, rising from the side of the Wilderness and the Black Sea,
rent and swept away that veil of clouds as if it were a robe which
had rotted from age, and then began to gather and scatter those
clouds through the sky, as a shepherd dog gathers and scatters
flocks of sheep. The clouds, fleeing before it, covered the earth
frequently with abundant rain, which fell in drops as large as
berries. The melting remnant of snow and ice formed lakes on the
flat steppe; from the cliffs ribbons of water were falling; along
the beds of ravines streams rose,--and all those waters were flying
with a noise and an outbreak and uproar to the Dniester, just as
children fly with delight to their mother.

Through the rifts between the clouds the sun shone every few
moments,--bright, refreshed, and as it were wet from bathing in
that endless abyss.

Then bright-green blades of grass began to rise through the
softened ground; the slender twigs of trees put forth buds
abundantly, and the sun gave heat with growing power. In the sky
flocks of birds appeared, hence rows of cranes, wild geese, and
storks; then the wind began to bring crowds of swallows; the frogs
croaked in a great chorus in the warmed water; the small birds were
singing madly; and through pine woods and forests and steppes and
ravines went one great outcry, as if all Nature were shouting with
delight and enthusiasm,--

“Spring! U-há! Spring!”

But for those hapless regions spring brought mourning, not
rejoicing; death, not life. In a few days after the departure of
the Ketlings the little knight received the following intelligence
from Pan Myslishevski,--

    “On the plain of Kuchunkaury the conflux of troops
    increases daily. The Sultan has sent considerable sums to
    the Crimea. The Khan is going with fifty thousand of the
    horde to assist Doroshenko. As soon as the floods dry, the
    multitude will advance by the Black Trail and the trail of
    Kuchman. God pity the Commonwealth!”

Volodyovski sent Pyentka, his attendant, to the hetman at once with
these tidings. But he himself did not hasten from Hreptyoff. First,
as a soldier, he could not leave that stanitsa without command of
the hetman; second, he had spent too many years at “tricks” with
the Tartars not to know that chambuls would not move so early.
The waters had not fallen yet; grass had not grown sufficiently;
and the Cossacks were still in winter quarters. The little knight
expected the Turks in summer at the earliest; for though they were
assembling already at Adrianople, such a gigantic tabor, such
throngs of troops, of camp servants, such burdens, so many horses,
camels, and buffaloes, advanced very slowly. The Tartar cavalry
might be looked for earlier,--at the end of April or the beginning
of May. It is true that before the main body, which counted tens of
thousands of warriors, there fell always on the country detached
chambuls and more or less numerous bands, as single drops of rain
come before the great downpour; but the little knight did not fear
these. Even picked Tartar horsemen could not withstand the cavalry
of the Commonwealth in the open field; and what could bands do
which at the mere report that troops were coming scattered like
dust before a whirlwind?

In every event there was time enough; and even if there were not,
Pan Michael would not have been greatly averse to rubbing against
some chambuls in a way which for them would be equally painful and
memorable.

He was a soldier, blood and bone,--a soldier by profession; hence
the approach of a war roused in him thirst for the blood of his
enemy, and brought to him calmness as well. Pan Zagloba was less
calm, though inured beyond most men to great dangers in the course
of his long life. In sudden emergencies he found courage; he had
developed it besides by long though often involuntary practice,
and had gained in his time famous victories; still, the first news
of coming war always affected him deeply. But now when the little
knight explained his own view, Zagloba gained more consolation, and
even began to challenge the whole Orient, and to threaten it.

“When Christian nations war with one another,” said he, “the Lord
Jesus Himself is sad, and all the saints scratch their heads, for
when the Master is anxious the household is anxious; but whoso
beats the Turk gives Heaven the greatest delight. I have it from
a certain spiritual personage that the saints simply grow sick at
sight of those dog brothers; and thus heavenly food and drink does
not go to their profit, and even their eternal happiness is marred.”

“That must be really so,” answered the little knight. “But the
Turkish power is immense, and our troops might be put on the palm
of your hand.”

“Still, they will not conquer the whole Commonwealth. Had Carolus
Gustavus little power? In those times there were wars with the
Northerners and the Cossacks and Rakotsi and the Elector; but where
are they to-day? Besides, we took fire and sword to their hearths.”

“That is true. Personally I should not fear this war, because,
as I said, I must do something notable to pay the Lord Jesus and
the Most Holy Lady for their mercy to Basia; only God grant me
opportunity! But the question for me is this country, which with
Kamenyets may fall into Pagan hands easily, even for a time.
Imagine what a desecration of God’s churches there would be, and
what oppression of Christian people!”

“But don’t talk to me of the Cossacks! The ruffians! They raised
their hands against the mother; let that meet them which they
wished for. The most important thing is that Kamenyets should hold
out. What do you think, Michael, will it hold out?”

“I think that the starosta of Podolia has not supplied it
sufficiently, and also that the inhabitants, secure in their
position, have not done what behooved them. Ketling said that the
regiments of Bishop Trebitski came in very scant numbers. But as
God lives, we held out at Zbaraj behind a mere wretched trench,
against great power; we ought to hold out this time as well, for
that Kamenyets is an eagle’s nest.”

“An eagle’s nest truly; but it is unknown if an eagle is in it,
such as was Prince Yeremi, or merely a crow. Do you know the
starosta of Podolia?”

“He is a rich man and a good soldier, but rather careless.”

“I know him; I know him! More than once have I reproached him with
that; the Pototskis wished at one time that I should go abroad with
him for his education, so that he might learn fine manners from me.
But I said: ‘I will not go because of his carelessness, for never
has he two straps to his boot; he was presented at court in my
boots, and morocco is dear.’ Later, in the time of Marya Ludovika,
he wore the French costume; but his stockings were always down, and
he showed his bare calves. He will never reach as high as Prince
Yeremi’s girdle.”

“Another thing, the shopkeepers of Kamenyets fear a siege greatly;
for trade is stopped in time of it. They would rather belong even
to the Turks, if they could only keep their shops open.”

“The scoundrels!” said Zagloba.

And he and the little knight were sorely concerned, over the coming
fate of Kamenyets; it was a personal question concerning Basia,
who in case of surrender would have to share the fate of all the
inhabitants.

After a while Zagloba struck his forehead: “For God’s sake!”
cried he, “why are we disturbed? Why should we go to that mangy
Kamenyets, and shut ourselves up there? Isn’t it better for you to
stay with the hetman, and act in the field against the enemy? And
in such an event Basia would not go with you to the squadron, and
would have to go somewhere besides Kamenyets,--somewhere far off,
even to Pan Yan’s house. Michael, God looks into my heart and sees
what a desire I have to go against the Pagans; but I will do this
for you and Basia,--I will take her away.”

“I thank you,” said the little knight. “The whole case is this: if
I had not to be in Kamenyets, Basia would not insist; but what’s to
be done when the hetman’s command comes?”

“What’s to be done when the command comes? May the hangman tear
all the commands! What’s to be done? Wait! I am beginning to think
quickly. Here it is: we must anticipate the command.”

“How is that?”

“Write on the spot to Pan Sobieski, as if reporting news to him,
and at the end say that in the face of the coming war you wish,
because of the love which you bear him, to be near his person and
act in the field. By God’s wounds, this is a splendid thought!
For, first of all, it is impossible that they will shut up such a
partisan as you behind a wall, instead of using him in the field;
and secondly, for such a letter the hetman will love you still
more, and will wish to have you near him. He too will need trusty
soldiers. Only listen: if Kamenyets holds out, the glory will fall
to the starosta of Podolia; but what you accomplish in the field
will go to the praise of the hetman. Never fear! the hetman will
not yield you to the starosta. He would rather give some one else;
but he will not give either you or me. Write the letter; remind him
of yourself. Ha! my wit is still worth something, too good to let
hens pick it up on the dust-heap! Michael, let us drink something
on the occasion--or what! write the letter first.”

Volodyovski rejoiced greatly indeed; he embraced Zagloba, and
thinking a while said,--

“And I shall not tempt hereby the Lord God, nor the country, nor
the hetman; for surely I shall accomplish much in the field. I
thank you from my heart! I think too that the hetman will wish to
have me at hand, especially after the letter. But not to abandon
Kamenyets, do you know what I’ll do? I’ll fit up a handful of
soldiers at my own cost, and send them to Kamenyets. I’ll write at
once to the hetman of this.”

“Still better! But, Michael, where will you find the men?”

“I have about forty robbers in the cellars, and I’ll take those.
As often as I gave command to hang some one, Basia tormented me
to spare his life; more than once she advised me to make soldiers
of those robbers. I was unwilling, for an example was needed; but
now war is on our shoulders, and everything is possible. Those are
terrible fellows, who have smelt powder. I will proclaim, too, that
whoso from the ravines or the thickets elects to join the regiment,
will receive forgiveness for past robberies. There will be about a
hundred men; Basia too will be glad. You have taken a great weight
from my heart.”

That same day the little knight despatched a new messenger to the
hetman, and proclaimed life and pardon to the robbers if they
would join the infantry. They joined gladly, and promised to bring
in others. Basia’s delight was unbounded. Tailors were brought
from Ushytsa, from Kamenyets, and from whence ever possible, to
make uniforms. The former robbers were mustered on the square of
Hreptyoff. Pan Michael was rejoiced in heart at the thought that
he would act himself in the field against the enemy, would not
expose his wife to the danger of a siege, and besides would render
Kamenyets and the country noteworthy service.

This work had been going on a number of weeks when one evening the
messenger returned with a letter from Pan Sobieski.

The hetman wrote as follows:--

    BELOVED AND VERY DEAR VOLODYOVSKI,--Because you send all
    news so diligently I cherish gratitude to you, and the
    country owes you thanks. War is certain. I have news
    also from elsewhere that there is a tremendous force in
    Kuchunkaury; counting the horde, there will be three
    hundred thousand. The horde may march any moment. The
    Sultan values nothing so much as Kamenyets. The Tartar
    traitors will show the Turks every road, and inform them
    about Kamenyets. I hope that God will give that serpent,
    Tugai Bey’s son, into your hands, or into Novoveski’s,
    over whose wrong I grieve sincerely. As to this, that
    you be near me, God knows how glad I should be, but it
    is impossible. The starosta of Podolia has shown me, it
    is true, various kindnesses since the election; I wish,
    therefore, to send him the best soldiers, for the rock of
    Kamenyets is to me as my own eyesight. There will be many
    there who have seen war once or twice in their lives, and
    are like a man who on a time has eaten some peculiar food
    which he remembers all his life afterward; a man, however,
    who has used it as his daily bread, and might serve with
    experienced counsel, will be lacking, or if there shall be
    such he will be without sufficient weight. Therefore I will
    send you. Ketling, though a good soldier, is less known;
    the inhabitants will have their eyes turned to you, and
    though the command will remain with another, I think that
    men will obey you with readiness. That service in Kamenyets
    may be dangerous, but with us it is a habit to be drenched
    in that rain from which others hide. There is reward enough
    for us in glory, and a grateful remembrance; but the main
    thing is the country, to the salvation of which I need not
    excite you.

This letter, read in the assembly of officers, made a great
impression; for all wished to serve in the field rather than in a
fortress. Volodyovski bent his head.

“What do you think now, Michael?” asked Zagloba.

He raised his face, already collected, and answered with a voice as
calm as if he had met no disappointment in his hopes,--

“I will go to Kamenyets. What have I to think?”

And it might have seemed that nothing else had ever been in his
head.

After a while his mustaches quivered, and he said,--

“Hei! dear comrades, we will go to Kamenyets, but we will not yield
it.”

“Unless we fall there,” said the officers. “One death to a man.”

Zagloba was silent for some time; casting his eyes on those
present, and seeing that all were waiting for what he would say, he
puffed all at once, and said,--

“I will go with you. Devil take it!”




CHAPTER XLVI.


When the earth had grown dry, and grass was flourishing, the Khan
moved in person, with fifty thousand of the Crimean and Astrachan
hordes, to help Doroshenko and the insurgents. The Khan himself,
and his relatives, the petty sultans, and all the more important
murzas and beys, wore kaftans as gifts from the Padishah, and went
against the Commonwealth, not as they went usually, for booty and
captives, but for a holy war with “fate,” and the “destruction” of
Lehistan (Poland) and Christianity.

Another and still greater storm was gathering at Adrianople, and
against this deluge only the rock of Kamenyets was standing erect;
for the rest of the Commonwealth lay like an open steppe, or like
a sick man, powerless not only to defend himself, but even to rise
to his feet. The previous Swedish, Prussian, Moscow, Cossack,
and Hungarian wars, though victorious finally, had exhausted the
Commonwealth. The army confederations and the insurrections of
Lyubomirski of infamous memory had exhausted it, and now it was
weakened to the last degree by court quarrels, the incapacity of
the king, the feuds of magistrates, the blindness of a frivolous
nobility, and the danger of civil war. In vain did the great
Sobieski forewarn them of ruin,--no one would believe in war. They
neglected means of defence; the treasury had no money, the hetman
no troops. To a power against which alliances of all the Christian
nations were hardly able to stand, the hetman could oppose barely a
few thousand men.

Meanwhile in the Orient, where everything was done at the will
of the Padishah, and nations were as a sword in the hand of
one man, it was different altogether. From the moment that the
great standard of the Prophet was unfurled, and the horse-tail
standard planted on the gate of the seraglio and the tower of the
seraskierat, and the ulema began to proclaim a holy war, half Asia
and all Northern Africa had moved. The Padishah himself had taken
his place in spring on the plain of Kuchunkaury, and was assembling
forces greater than any seen for a long time on earth. A hundred
thousand spahis and janissaries, the pick of the Turkish army,
were stationed near his sacred person; and then troops began to
gather from all the remotest countries and possessions. Those who
inhabited Europe came earliest. The legions of the mounted beys of
Bosnia came with colors like the dawn, and fury like lightning; the
wild warriors of Albania came, fighting on foot with daggers; bands
of Mohammedanized Serbs came; people came who lived on the banks
of the Danube, and farther to the south beyond the Balkans, as far
as the mountains of Greece. Each pasha led a whole army, which
alone would have sufficed to overrun the defenceless Commonwealth.
Moldavians and Wallachians came; the Dobrudja and Belgrod Tartars
came in force; some thousands of Lithuanian Tartars and Cheremis
came, led by the terrible Azya, son of Tugai Bey, and these last
were to be guides through the unfortunate country, which was well
known to them.

After these the general militia from Asia began to flow in. The
pashas of Sivas, Brussa, Aleppo, Damascus, and Bagdad, besides
regular troops, led armed throngs, beginning with men from the
cedar-covered mountains of Asia Minor, and ending with the swarthy
dwellers on the Euphrates and the Tigris. Arabians too rose at
the summons of the Caliph; their burnooses covered as with snow
the plains of Kuchunkaury; among them were also nomads from the
sandy deserts, and inhabitants of cities from Medina to Mecca. The
tributary power of Egypt did not remain at its domestic hearths.
Those who dwelt in populous Cairo, those who in the evening gazed
on the flaming twilight of the pyramids, who wandered through
Theban ruins, who dwelt in those murky regions whence the sacred
Nile issues forth, men whom the sun had burned to the color of
soot,--all these planted their arms on the field of Adrianople,
praying now to give victory to Islam, and destruction to that land
which alone had shielded for ages the rest of the world against the
adherents of the Prophet.

There were legions of armed men; hundreds of thousands of horses
were neighing on the field; hundreds of thousands of buffaloes,
of sheep and of camels, fed near the herds of horses. It might be
thought that at God’s command an angel had turned people out of
Asia, as once he had turned Adam out of paradise, and commanded
them to go to countries in which the sun was paler and the plains
were covered in winter with snow. They went then with their herds,
an innumerable swarm of white, dark, and black warriors. How many
languages were heard there, how many different costumes glittered
in the sun of spring! Nations wondered at nations; the customs of
some were foreign to others, their arms unknown, their methods
of warfare different, and faith alone joined those travelling
generations; only when the muezzins called to prayer did those
many-tongued hosts turn their faces to the East, calling on Allah
with one voice.

There were more servants at the court of the Sultan than troops in
the Commonwealth. After the army and the armed bands of volunteers
marched throngs of shopkeepers, selling goods of all kinds; their
wagons, together with those of the troops, flowed on like a river.

Two pashas of three tails, at the head of two armies, had no other
work but to furnish food for those myriads; and there was abundance
of everything. The sandjak of Sangrytan watched over the whole
supply of powder. With the army went two hundred cannon, and of
these ten were “stormers,” so large that no Christian king had the
like. The Beglerbeys of Asia were on the right wing, the Europeans
on the left. The tents occupied so wide an expanse that in presence
of them Adrianople seemed no very great city. The Sultan’s tents,
gleaming in purple silk, satin, and gold embroidery, formed, as it
were, a city apart. Around them swarmed armed guards, black eunuchs
from Abyssinia, in yellow and blue kaftans; gigantic porters from
the tribes of Kurdistan, intended for bearing burdens; young boys
of the Uzbeks, with faces of uncommon beauty, shaded by silk
fringes; and many other servants, varied in color as flowers of the
steppe. Some of these were equerries, some served at the tables,
some bore lamps, and some served the most important officials.

On the broad square around the Sultan’s court, which in luxury
and wealth reminded the faithful of paradise, stood courts less
splendid, but equal to those of kings,--those of the vizir, the
ulema, the pasha of Anatolia, and of Kara Mustafa, the young
kaimakan, on whom the eyes of the Sultan and all were turned as
upon the coming “sun of war.”

Before the tents of the Padishah were to be seen the sacred guard
of infantry, with turbans so lofty that the men wearing them seemed
giants, They were armed with javelins fixed on long staffs, and
short crooked swords. Their linen dwellings touched the dwellings
of the Sultan. Farther on were the camps of the formidable
janissaries armed with muskets and lances, forming the kernel of
the Turkish power. Neither the German emperor nor the French king
could boast of infantry equal in number and military accuracy.
In wars with the Commonwealth the nations of the Sultan, more
enervated in general, could not measure strength with cavalry in
equal numbers, and only through an immense numerical preponderance
did they crush and conquer. But the janissaries dared to meet even
regular squadrons of cavalry. They roused terror in the whole
Christian world, and even in Tsargrad itself. Frequently the Sultan
trembled before such pretorians, and the chief aga of those “lambs”
was one of the most important dignitaries in the Divan.

After the janissaries came the spahis; after them the regular
troops of the pashas, and farther on the common throng. All this
camp had been for a number of months near Constantinople, waiting
till its power should be completed by legions coming from the
remotest parts of the Turkish dominions until the sun of spring
should lighten the march to Lehistan by sucking out dampness from
the earth.

The sun, as if subject to the will of the Sultan, had shone
brightly. From the beginning of April until May barely a few warm
rains had moistened the meadows of Kuchunkaury; for the rest, the
blue tent of God hung without a cloud over the tent of the Sultan.
The gleams of day played on the white linen, on the turbans, on the
many-colored caps, on the points of the helmets and banners and
javelins, on the camp and the tents and the people and the herds,
drowning all in a sea of bright light. In the evening on a clear
sky shone the moon, unhidden by fog, and guarded quietly those
thousands who under its emblem were marching to win more and more
new lands; then it rose higher in the heaven, and grew pale before
the light of the fires. But when the fires were gleaming in the
whole immeasurable expanse, when the Arab infantry from Damascus
and Aleppo, called “massala djilari,” lighted green, red, yellow,
and blue lamps at the tents of the Sultan and the vizir, it might
seem that a tract of heaven had fallen to the earth, and that those
were stars glittering and twinkling on the plain.

Exemplary order and discipline reigned among those legions. The
pashas bent to the will of the Sultan, like a reed in a storm; the
army bent before them. Food was not wanting for men and herds.
Everything was furnished in superabundance, everything in season.
In exemplary order also were passed the hours of military exercise,
of refreshment, of devotion. When the muezzins called to prayer
from wooden towers, built in haste, the whole army turned to the
East, each man stretched before himself a skin or a mat, and the
entire army fell on its knees, like one man. At sight of that order
and those restraints the hearts rose in the throngs, and their
souls were filled with sure hope of victory.

The Sultan, coming to the camp at the end of April, did not move at
once on the march. He waited more than a month, so that the waters
might dry; during that time he trained the army to camp life,
exercised it, arranged it, received envoys, and dispensed justice
under a purple canopy. The kasseka, his chief wife, accompanied
him on this expedition, and with her too went a court resembling a
dream of paradise.

A gilded chariot bore the lady under a covering of purple silk;
after it came other wagons and white Syrian camels, also covered
with purple, bearing packs; houris and bayaderes sang songs to
her on the road. When, wearied with the road, she was closing the
silky lashes of her eyes, the sweet tones of soft instruments
were heard at once, and they lulled her to sleep. During the
heat of the day fans of peacock and ostrich feathers waved above
her; priceless perfumes of the East burned before her tents in
bowls from Hindostan. She was accompanied by all the treasures,
wonders, and wealth that the Orient and the power of the Sultan
could furnish,--houris, bayaderes, black eunuchs, pages beautiful
as angels, Syrian camels, horses from the desert of Arabia; in a
word, a whole retinue was glittering with brocade, cloth of silver
and gold; it was gleaming like a rainbow from diamonds, rubies,
emeralds, and sapphires. Nations fell prostrate before it, not
daring to look at that face, which the Padishah alone had the
right to see; and that retinue seemed to be either a supernatural
vision or a reality, transferred by Allah himself from the world of
visions and dream-illusions to the earth.

But the sun warmed the world more and more, and at last days of
heat came. On a certain evening, therefore, the banner was raised
on a lofty pole before the Sultan’s tent, and a cannon-shot
informed the army and the people of the march to Lehistan. The
great sacred drum sounded; all the others sounded; the shrill
voices of pipes were heard; the pious, half-naked dervishes began
to howl, and the river of people moved on in the night, to avoid
the heat of the sun during daylight. But the army itself was to
march only in a number of hours after the earliest signal. First
of all went the tabor, then those pashas who provided food for
the troops, then whole legions of handicraftsmen, who had to
pitch tents, then herds of pack animals, then herds destined for
slaughter. The march was to last six hours of that night and the
following nights, and to be made in such order that when soldiers
came to a halt they should always find food and a resting-place
ready.

When the time came at last for the army to move, the Sultan rode
out on an eminence, so as to embrace with his eyes his whole power,
and rejoice at the sight. With him were his vizir, the ulema,
the young kaimakan, Kara Mustafa, the “rising sun of war,” and a
company of the infantry guard. The night was calm and clear; the
moon shone brightly; and the Sultan might embrace with the eye all
his legions, were it not that no eye of man could take them all in
at once,--for on the march, though going closely together, they
occupied many miles.

Still he rejoiced in heart, and passing the beads of odorous
sandalwood through his fingers, raised his eyes to Heaven in thanks
to Allah, who had made him lord of so many armies and so many
nations. All at once, when the front of the tabor had pushed almost
out of sight, he interrupted his prayer, and turning to the young
kaimakan, Kara Mustafa, said,--

“I have forgotten who marches in the vanguard?”

“Light of paradise!” answered Kara Mustafa, “in the vanguard are
the Lithuanian Tartars and the Cheremis; and thy dog Azya, son of
Tugai Bey, is leading them.”




CHAPTER XLVII.


Azya, the son of Tugai Bey, after a long halt on the plain of
Kuchunkaury, was really marching with his men at the head of all
the Turkish forces toward the boundary of the Commonwealth.

After the grievous blow which his plans and his person had received
from the valiant hand of Basia, a fortunate star seemed to shine
on him anew. First of all, he had recovered. His beauty, it is
true, was destroyed forever: one eye had trickled out altogether,
his nose was mashed, and his face, once like the face of a falcon,
had become monstrous and terrible. But just that terror with which
it filled people gave him still more consideration among the wild
Tartars of the Dobrudja. His arrival made a great noise in the
whole camp; his deeds grew in the narratives of men, and became
gigantic. It was said that he had brought all the Lithuanian
Tartars and Cheremis into the service of the Sultan; that he had
outwitted the Poles, as no one had ever outwitted them; that he had
burned whole towns along the Dniester, had cut off their garrisons,
and had taken great booty. Those who were to march now for the
first time to Lehistan; those who, coming from distant corners of
the East, had not tried Polish arms hitherto; those whose hearts
were alarmed at the thought that they would soon stand eye to eye
with the terrible cavalry of the unbeliever,--saw in the young Azya
a warrior who had conquered them, and made a fortunate beginning of
war. The sight of the “hero” filled their hearts straightway with
comfort; besides, as Azya was son of the terrible Tugai Bey, whose
name had thundered through the Orient, all eyes were turned on him
the more.

“The Poles reared him,” said they; “but he is the son of a lion; he
bit them and returned to the Padishah’s service.”

The vizir himself wished to see him; and the “rising sun of war,”
the young kaimakan, Kara Mustafa, enamoured of military glory and
wild warriors, fell in love with him. Both inquired diligently
of him concerning the Commonwealth, the hetman, the armies, and
Kamenyets; they rejoiced at his answers, seeing from them that war
would be easy; that to the Sultan it must bring victory, to the
Poles defeat, and to them the title of Ghazi (conqueror). Hence
Azya had frequent opportunities later to fall on his face to the
vizir, to sit at the threshold of the kaimakan’s tent, and received
from both numerous gifts in camels, horses, and weapons.

The grand vizir gave him a kaftan of silver brocade, the possession
of which raised him in the eyes of all Lithuanian Tartars and
Cheremis. Krychinski, Adurovich, Moravski, Groholski, Tarasovski,
Aleksandrovich,--in a word, all those captains who had once
dwelt in the Commonwealth and served it, but now returned to the
Sultan,--placed themselves without a question under the command of
Tugai Bey’s son, honoring in him both the prince by descent and
the warrior who had received a kaftan. He became, therefore, a
notable murza; and more than two thousand warriors, incomparably
better than the usual Tartars, obeyed his nod. The approaching war,
in which it was easier for the young murza to distinguish himself
than for any one else, might carry him high; he might find in it
dignities, renown, power.

But still Azya bore poison in his soul. To begin with, it
pricked his pride that the Tartars, in comparison with the Turks
themselves, especially the janissaries and spahis, had little more
significance than dogs compared with hunters. He had significance
himself, but the Tartars in general were considered worthless
cavalry. The Turk used them, at times he feared them, but in the
camp he despised them, Azya, noticing this, kept his men apart from
the general Tartar mass, as if they formed a separate, a better
kind of army; but with this he brought on himself straightway the
indignation of the Dobrudja and Belgrod murzas, and was not able
to convince various Turkish officers that the Lithuanian Tartars
were really better in any way than chambuls of the horde. On
the other hand, reared in a Christian country, among nobles and
knights, he could not inure himself to the manners of the East. In
the Commonwealth he was only an ordinary officer and of the last
arm of the service; but still, when meeting superiors or even the
hetman, he was not obliged to humble himself as here, where he was
a murza and the leader of all the companies of Lithuanian Tartars.
Here he had to fall on his face before the vizir; he had to touch
the ground with his forehead in the friendly tent of the kaimakan;
he had to prostrate himself before the pashas, before the ulema,
before the chief aga of the janissaries. Azya was not accustomed to
this. He remembered that he was the son of a hero; he had a wild
soul full of pride, aiming high, as eagles aim; hence he suffered
sorely.

But the recollection of Basia burned him with fire most of all. He
cared not that one weak hand had hurled from his horse him who at
Bratslav, at Kalnik, and a hundred other places had challenged to
combat and stretched in death the most terrible skirmishers of the
Zaporojia; he cared not for the shame, the disgrace! But he loved
that woman beyond measure and thought; he wanted her in his tent,
to look at her, to beat her, to kiss her. If it were in his choice
to be Padishah and rule half the world, or to take her in his arms,
feel with his heart the warmth of her blood, the breath of her
face, her lips with his lips, he would prefer her to Tsargrad, to
the Bosphorus, to the title of Khalif. He wanted her because he
loved her; he wanted her because he hated her. The more she was
foreign to him, the more he wanted her; the more she was pure,
faithful, untainted, the more he wanted her. More than once when he
remembered in his tent that he had kissed those eyes one time in
his life, in the ravine after the battle with Azba Bey, and that
at Rashkoff he had felt her breast on his, the madness of desire
carried him away. He knew not what had become of her, whether she
had perished on the road or not. At times he found solace in the
thought that she had died. At times he thought, “It had been better
not to carry her away, not to burn Rashkoff, not to come to the
service of the Sultan, but to stay in Hreptyoff, and even look at
her.”

But the unfortunate Zosia Boski was in his tent. Her life passed
in low service, in shame and continual terror, for in Azya’s heart
there was not a drop of pity for her. He simply tormented her
because she was not Basia. She had, however, the sweetness and
charm of a field flower; she had youth and beauty: therefore he
sated himself with that beauty; but he kicked her for any cause,
or flogged her white body with rods. In a worse hell she could
not be, for she lived without hope. Her life had begun to bloom
in Rashkoff, to bloom like spring with the flower of love for Pan
Adam. She loved him with her whole soul; she loved that knightly,
noble, and honest nature with all her faculties; and now she was
the plaything and the captive of that one-eyed monster. She had
to crawl at his feet and tremble like a beaten dog, look into his
face, look at his hands to see if they were not about to seize a
club or a whip; she had to hold back her breath and her tears.

She knew well that there was not and could not be mercy for her;
for though a miracle were to wrest her from those terrible hands,
she was no longer that former Zosia, white as the first snows, and
able to repay love with a clean heart. All that had passed beyond
recovery. But since the dreadful disgrace in which she was living
was not due to the least fault of hers,--on the contrary, she had
been hitherto a maiden stainless as a lamb, innocent as a dove,
trusting as a child, simple, loving,--she did not understand why
this fearful injustice was wrought on her, an injustice which could
not be recompensed; why such inexorable anger of God was weighing
upon her; and this mental discord increased her pain, her despair.
And so days, weeks, and months passed. Azya came to the plain
of Kuchunkaury in winter, and the march to the boundary of the
Commonwealth began only in June. All this time passed for Zosia in
shame, in torment, in toil. For Azya, in spite of her beauty and
sweetness, and though he kept her in his tent, not only did not
love her, but rather he hated her because she was not Basia. He
looked on her as a common captive; therefore she had to work like
a captive. She watered his horses and camels from the river; she
carried water for his ablutions, wood for the fire; she spread the
skins for his bed; she cooked his food. In other divisions of the
Turkish armies women did not go out of the tents through fear of
the janissaries, or through custom; but the camp of the Lithuanian
Tartars stood apart, and the custom of hiding women was not common
among them, for having lived formerly in the Commonwealth, they had
grown used to something different. The captives of common soldiers,
in so far as soldiers had captives, did not even cover their faces
with veils. It is true that women were not free to go beyond the
boundaries of the square, for beyond those boundaries they would
have been carried off surely; but on the square itself they could
go everywhere safely, and occupy themselves with camp housekeeping.

Notwithstanding the heavy toil, there was for Zosia even a certain
solace in going for wood, or to the river to water the horses and
camels; for she feared to cry in the tent, and on the road she
could give vent to her tears with impunity. Once, while going
with arms full of wood, she met her mother, whom Azya had given
to Halim. They fell into each other’s arms, and it was necessary
to pull them apart; and though Azya flogged Zosia afterward, not
sparing even blows of rods on her head, still the meeting was dear
to her. Another time, while washing handkerchiefs and foot-cloths
for Azya at the ford, Zosia saw Eva at a distance going with pails
of water. Eva was groaning under the weight of the pails; her form
had changed greatly and grown heavier, but her features, though
shaded with a veil, reminded Zosia of Adam, and such pain seized
her heart that consciousness left her for the moment. Still, they
did not speak to each other from fear.

That fear stifled and mastered gradually all Zosia’s feelings, till
at last it stood alone in place of her desires, hopes, and memory.
Not to be beaten had become for her an object. Basia in her place
would have killed Azya with his own knife on the first day, without
thinking of what might come afterwards; but the timid Zosia, half
a child yet, had not Basia’s daring. And it came at last to this,
that she considered it fondness if the terrible Azya, under the
influence of momentary desire, put his deformed face near her lips.
Sitting in the tent, she did not take her eyes from him, wishing
to learn whether he was angry or not, following his movements,
striving to divine his wishes.

When she foresaw evil, and when from under his mustaches, as in
the case of Tugai Bey, the teeth began to glitter, she crept to
his feet almost senseless from terror, pressed her pale lips to
them, embracing convulsively his knees and crying like an afflicted
child,--

“Do not beat me, Azya! forgive me; do not beat!”

He forgave her almost never; he gloated over her, not only
because she was not Basia, but because she had been the betrothed
of Novoveski. Azya had a fearless soul; yet so awful were the
accounts between him and Pan Adam that at thought of that giant,
with vengeance hardened in his heart, a certain disquiet seized
the young Tartar. There was to be war; they might meet, and it was
likely that they would meet. Azya was not able to avoid thinking of
this; and because these thoughts came to him at sight of Zosia, he
took vengeance on her, as if he wished to drive away his own alarm
with blows of rods.

At last the time came when the Sultan gave command to march. Azya’s
men were to move in the vanguard, and after them the whole legion
of Dobrudja and Belgrod Tartars. That was arranged between the
Sultan, the vizir, and the kaimakan. But in the beginning all went
to the Balkans together. The march was comfortable, for by reason
of the heat which was setting in, they marched only in the night,
six hours from one resting-place to the other. Tar-barrels were
burning along their road, and the massala djirali lighted the way
for the Sultan with colored lights. The swarms of people flowed on
like a river, through boundless plains; filled the depressions of
valleys like locusts, covered the mountains. After the armed men
went the tabors, in them the harems; after the tabors herds without
number.

But in the swamps at the foot of the Balkans the gilded and purple
chariot of the kasseka was mired so that twelve buffaloes were
unable to draw it from the mud. “That is an evil omen, lord, for
thee and for the whole army,” said the chief mufti to the Sultan.
“An evil omen,” repeated the half-mad dervishes in the camp. The
Sultan was alarmed, and decided to send all women out of the camp
with the marvellous kasseka.

The command was announced to the armies. Those of the soldiers
who had no place to which they might send captives, and from love
did not wish to sell them to strangers, preferred to kill them.
Merchants of the caravanserai bought others by the thousand, to
sell them afterward in the markets of Stambul and all the places of
nearer Asia. A great fair, as it were, lasted for three days. Azya
offered Zosia for sale without hesitation; an old Stambul merchant,
a rich person, bought her for his son.

He was a kindly man, for at Zosia’s entreaties and tears he bought
her mother from Halim; it is true that he got her for a trifle.
The next day both wandered on toward Stambul, in a line with other
women. In Stambul Zosia’s lot was improved, without ceasing to be
shameful. Her new owner loved her, and after a few months he raised
her to the dignity of wife. Her mother did not part from her.

Many people, among them many women, even after a long time of
captivity, returned to their country. There was also some person,
who by all means, through Armenians, Greek merchants, and servants
of envoys from the Commonwealth, sought Zosia too, but without
result. Then these searches were interrupted on a sudden; and Zosia
never saw her native land, nor the faces of those who were dear to
her. She lived till her death in a harem.




CHAPTER XLVIII.


Even before the Turks marched from Adrianople, a great movement
had begun in all the stanitsas on the Dniester. To Hreptyoff,
the stanitsa nearest to Kamenyets, couriers of the hetman were
hastening continually, bringing various orders; these the little
knight executed himself, or if they did not relate to him, he
forwarded them through trusty people. In consequence of these
orders the garrison of Hreptyoff was reduced notably. Pan Motovidlo
went with his Cossacks to Uman to aid Hanenko, who, with a handful
of Cossacks faithful to the Commonwealth, struggled as best he
could with Doroshenko and the Crimean horde which had joined
him. Pan Mushalski, the incomparable bowman, Pan Snitko of the
escutcheon Hidden Moon, Pan Nyenashinyets, and Pan Hromyka, led a
squadron and Linkhauz’s dragoons to Batog of unhappy memory, where
was stationed Pan Lujetski, who, aided by Hanenko, was to watch
Doroshenko’s movements; Pan Bogush received an order to remain
in Mohiloff till he could see chambuls with the naked eye. The
instructions of the hetman were seeking eagerly the famous Pan
Rushchyts, whom Volodyovski alone surpassed as a partisan; but Pan
Rushchyts had gone to the steppes at the head of a few tens of
men, and vanished as if in water. They heard of him only later,
when wonderful tidings were spread, that around Doroshenko’s tabor
and the companies of the horde an evil spirit, as it were, was
hovering, which carried away daily single warriors and smaller
companies. It was suspected that this must be Pan Rushchyts, for
no other except the little knight could attack in that manner. In
fact, it was Pan Rushchyts.

As decided before. Pan Michael had to go to Kamenyets; the hetman
needed him there, for he knew him to be a soldier whose coming
would comfort the hearts, while it roused the courage, of the
inhabitants and the garrison. The hetman was convinced that
Kamenyets would not hold out; with him the question was simply
that it should hold out as long as possible,--that is, till the
Commonwealth could assemble some forces for defence. In this
conviction he sent to evident death, as it were, his favorite
soldier, the most renowned cavalier of the Commonwealth.

He sent the most renowned warrior to death, and he did not grieve
for him. The hetman thought always, what he said later on at
Vienna, that Pani Wojnina[29] might give birth to people, but that
Wojna (war) only killed them. He was ready himself to die; he
thought that to die was the most direct duty of a soldier, and that
when a soldier could render famous service by dying, death was to
him a great reward and favor. The hetman knew also that the little
knight was of one conviction with himself.

Besides, he had no time to think of sparing single soldiers when
destruction was advancing on churches, towns, the country, the
whole Commonwealth; when, with forces unheard of, the Orient was
rising against Europe to conquer all Christendom, which, shielded
by the breast of the Commonwealth, had no thought of helping that
Commonwealth. The only question possible for the hetman was that
Kamenyets should cover the Commonwealth, and then the Commonwealth
the remainder of Christendom.

This might have happened had the Commonwealth been strong, had
disorder not exhausted it. But the hetman had not troops enough
even for reconnoissances, not to mention war. If he hurried some
tens of soldiers to one place, there was an opening made in
another, through which an invading wave might pour in without
obstacle. The detachments of sentries posted by the Sultan at night
in his camp outnumbered the squadrons of the hetman. The invasion
moved from two directions,--from the Dnieper and the Danube.
Because Doroshenko, with the whole horde of the Crimea, was nearer,
and had inundated the country already, burning and slaying, the
chief squadrons had gone against him; on the other hand, people
were lacking for simple reconnoissances. While in such dire straits
the hetman wrote the following few words to Pan Michael,--

    “I did think to send you to Rashkoff near the enemy, but
    grew afraid, because the horde, crossing by seven fords
    from the Moldavian bank, will occupy the country, and you
    could not reach Kamenyets, where there is absolute need
    of you. Only yesterday I remembered Novoveski, who is a
    trained soldier and daring, and because a man in despair
    is ready for everything, I think that he will serve me
    effectively. Send him whatever light cavalry you can spare;
    let him go as far as possible, show himself everywhere,
    and give out reports of our great forces, when before the
    eyes of the enemy; let him appear here and there suddenly,
    and not let himself be captured. It is known how they will
    come; but if he sees anything new, he is to inform you at
    once, and you will hurry off without delay an informant to
    me, and to Kamenyets. Let Novoveski move quickly, and be
    you ready to go to Kamenyets, but wait where you are till
    news comes from Novoveski in Moldavia.”

Since Pan Adam was living at Mohiloff for the time, and, as report
ran, was to come to Hreptyoff in any case, the little knight merely
sent word to him to hasten, because a commission from the hetman
was waiting for him.

Pan Adam came three days later. His acquaintances hardly knew him,
and thought that Pan Byaloglovski had good reason to call him a
skeleton. He was no longer that splendid fellow, high-spirited,
joyous, who on a time used to rush at the enemy with outbursts of
laughter, like the neighing of a horse, and gave blows with just
such a sweep as is given by the arm of a windmill. He had grown
lean, sallow, dark, but in that leanness he seemed a still greater
giant. While looking at people, he blinked as if not recognizing
his nearest acquaintances; it was needful also to repeat the same
thing two or three times to him, for he seemed not to understand at
first. Apparently grief was flowing in his veins instead of blood;
evidently he strove not to think of certain things, preferring to
forget them, so as not to run mad.

It is true that in those regions there was not a man, not a family,
not an officer of the army, who had not suffered evil from Pagan
hands, who was not bewailing some acquaintance, friend, near and
dear one; but on Pan Adam there had burst simply a whole cloud of
misfortunes. In one day he had lost father and sister, and besides,
his betrothed, whom he loved with all the power of his exuberant
spirit. He would rather that his sister and that dearly beloved
girl had both died; he would rather they had perished from the
knife or in flames. But their fate was such that in comparison with
the thought of them the greatest torment was nothing for Pan Adam.
He strove not to think of their fate, for he felt that thinking of
it bordered on insanity; he strove, but he failed.

In truth, his calmness was only apparent. There was no resignation
whatever in his soul, and at the first glance it was evident to
any man that under the torpor there was something ominous and
terrible, and, should it break forth, that giant would do something
awful, just as a wild element would. That was as if written on his
forehead explicitly, so that even his friends approached him with
a certain timidity; in talking with him, they avoided reference to
the past.

The sight of Basia in Hreptyoff opened closed wounds in him, for
while kissing her hands in greeting, he began to groan like an
aurochs that is mortally wounded, his eyes became bloodshot, and
the veins in his neck swelled to the size of cords. When Basia,
in tears and affectionate as a mother, pressed his head with her
hands, he fell at her feet, and could not rise for a long time.
But when he heard what kind of office the hetman had given him, he
became greatly enlivened; a gleam of ominous joy flashed up in his
face, and he said,--

“I will do that, I will do more!”

“And if you meet that mad dog, give him a skinning!” put in Zagloba.

Pan Adam did not answer at once; he only looked at Zagloba; sudden
bewilderment shone in his eyes; he rose and began to go toward the
old noble, as if he wished to rush at him.

“Do you believe,” said he, “that I have never done evil to that
man, and that I have always been kind to him?”

“I believe, I believe!” said Zagloba, pushing behind the little
knight hurriedly. “I would go myself with you, but the gout bites
my feet.”

“Novoveski,” asked the little knight, “when do you wish to start?”

“To-night.”

“I will give you a hundred dragoons. I will remain here myself with
another hundred and the infantry. Go to the square!”

They went out to give orders. Zydor Lusnia was waiting at the
threshold, straightened out like a string. News of the expedition
had spread already through the square; the sergeant therefore, in
his own name and the name of his company, began to beg the little
colonel to let him go with Pan Adam.

“How is this? Do you want to leave me?” asked the astonished
Volodyovski.

“Pan Commandant, we made a vow against that son of a such a one;
and perhaps he may come into our hands.”

“True! Pan Zagloba has told me of that,” answered the little knight.

Lusnia turned to Novoveski,--

“Pan Commandant!”

“What is your wish?”

“If we get him, may I take care of him?”

Such a fierce, beastly venom was depicted on the face of the
Mazovian that Novoveski inclined at once to Volodyovski, and said
entreatingly,--

“Your grace, let me have this man!”

Pan Michael did not think of refusing; and that same evening, about
dusk, a hundred horsemen, with Novoveski at their head, set out on
the journey.

They marched by the usual road through Mohiloff and Yampol. In
Yampol they met the former garrison of Rashkoff, from which two
hundred men joined Novoveski by order of the hetman; the rest,
under command of Pan Byaloglovski, were to go to Mohiloff, where
Pan Bogush was stationed. Pan Adam marched to Rashkoff.

The environs of Rashkoff were a thorough waste; the town itself had
been turned into a pile of ashes, which the winds had blown to the
four sides of the world; its scant number of inhabitants had fled
before the expected storm. It was already the beginning of May, and
the Dobrudja horde might show itself at any time; therefore it was
unsafe to remain in those regions. In fact, the hordes were with
the Turks, on the plain of Kuchunkaury; but men around Rashkoff
had no knowledge of that, therefore every one of the former
inhabitants, who had escaped the last slaughter, carried off his
head in good season whithersoever seemed best to him.

Along the road Lusnia was framing plans and stratagems, which in
his opinion Pan Adam should adopt if he wished to outwit the enemy
in fact and successfully. He detailed these ideas to the soldiers
with graciousness.

“You know nothing of this matter, horse-skulls,” said he; “but I
am old, I know. We will go to Rashkoff; we will hide there and
wait. The horde will come to the crossing; small parties will cross
first, as is their custom, because the chambul stops and waits till
they tell if ’tis safe; then we will slip out and drive them before
us to Kamenyets.”

“But in this way we may not get that dog brother,” remarked one of
the men in the ranks.

“Shut your mouth!” said Lusnia. “Who will go in the vanguard if not
the Lithuanian Tartars?”

In fact, the previsions of the sergeant seemed to be coming true.
When he reached Rashkoff Pan Adam gave the soldiers rest. All felt
certain that they would go next to the caves, of which there were
many in the neighborhood, and hide there till the first parties of
the enemy appeared. But the second day of their stay the commandant
brought the squadron to its feet, and led it beyond Rashkoff.

“Are we going to Yagorlik, or what?” asked the sergeant in his mind.

Meanwhile they approached the river just beyond Rashkoff, and a few
“Our Fathers” later they halted at the so-called “Bloody Ford.” Pan
Adam, without saying a word, urged his horse into the water and
began to cross to the opposite bank. The soldiers looked at one
another with astonishment.

“How is this,--are we going to the Turks?” asked one of another.
But these were not “gracious gentlemen” of the general militia,
ready to summon a meeting and protest, they were simple soldiers
inured to the iron discipline of stanitsas; hence the men of the
first rank urged their horses into the water after the commandant,
and then those in the second and third did the same. There was
not the least hesitation. They were astonished that, with three
hundred horse, they were marching against the Turkish power, which
the whole world could not conquer; but they went. Soon the water
was plashing around the horses’ sides; the men ceased to wonder
then, and were thinking simply of this, that the sacks of food for
themselves and the horses should not get wet. Only on the other
bank did they begin to look at one another again.

“For God’s sake, we are in Moldavia already!” said they, in quiet
whispers.

And one or another looked behind, beyond the Dniester, which
glittered in the setting sun like a red and golden ribbon. The
river cliffs, full of caves, were bathed also in the bright gleams.
They rose like a wall, which at that moment divided that handful
of men from their country. For many of them it was indeed the last
parting.

The thought went through Lusnia’s head that maybe the commandant
had gone mad; but it was the commandant’s affair to command, his to
obey.

Meanwhile the horses, issuing from the water, began to snort
terribly in the ranks. “Good health! good health!” was heard from
the soldiers. They considered the snorting of good omen, and a
certain consolation entered their hearts.

“Move on!” commanded Pan Adam.

The ranks moved, and they went toward the setting sun and toward
those thousands, to that swarm of people, to those nations gathered
at Kuchunkaury.




CHAPTER XLIX.


Pan Adam’s passage of the Dniester, and his march with three
hundred sabres against the power of the Sultan, which numbered
hundreds of thousands of warriors, were deeds which a man
unacquainted with war might consider pure madness; but they were
only bold, daring deeds of war, having chances of success.

To begin with, raiders of those days went frequently against
chambuls a hundred times superior in numbers; they stood before
the eyes of the enemy, and then vanished, cutting down pursuers
savagely. Just as a wolf entices dogs after him at times, to turn
at the right moment and kill the dog pushing forward most daringly,
so did they. In the twinkle of an eye the beast became the hunter,
started, hid, waited, but though pursued, hunted too, attacked
unexpectedly, and bit to death. That was the so-called “method with
Tartars,” in which each side vied with the other in stratagems,
tricks, and ambushes. The most famous man in this method was
Pan Michael, next to him Pan Rushchyts, then Pan Pivo, then Pan
Motovidlo; but Novoveski, practising from boyhood in the steppes,
belonged to those who were mentioned among the most famous, hence
it was very likely that when he stood before the horde he would not
let himself be taken.

The expedition had chances of success too, for the reason that
beyond the Dniester there were wild regions in which it was easy to
hide. Only here and there, along the rivers, did settlements show
themselves, and in general the country was little inhabited; nearer
the Dniester it was rocky and hilly; farther on there were steppes,
or the land was covered with forests, in which numerous herds
of beasts wandered, from buffaloes, run wild, to deer and wild
boars. Since the Sultan wished before the expedition “to feel his
power and calculate his forces,” the hordes dwelling on the lower
Dniester, those of Belgrod, and still farther those of Dobrudja,
marched at command of the Padishah to the south of the Balkans, and
after them followed the Karalash of Moldavia, so that the country
had become still more deserted, and it was possible to travel whole
weeks without being seen by any person.

Pan Adam knew Tartar customs too well not to know that when the
chambuls had once passed the boundary of the Commonwealth they
would move more warily, keeping diligent watch on all sides; but
there in their own country they would go in broad columns without
any precaution. And they did so, in fact; there seemed to the
Tartars a greater chance to meet death than to meet in the heart
of Bessarabia, on the very Tartar boundary, the troops of that
Commonwealth which had not men enough to defend its own borders.

Pan Adam was confident that his expedition would astonish the enemy
first of all, and hence do more good than the hetman had hoped;
secondly, that it might be destructive to Azya and his men. It
was easy for the young lieutenant to divine that they, since they
knew the Commonwealth thoroughly, would march in the vanguard, and
he placed his main hope in that certainty. To fall unexpectedly
on Azya and seize him, to rescue perhaps his sister and Zosia, to
snatch them from captivity, accomplish his vengeance, and then
perish in war, was all that the distracted soul of Novoveski wished
for.

Under the influence of these thoughts and hopes. Pan Adam freed
himself from torpor, and revived. His march along unknown ways,
arduous labor, the sweeping wind of the steppes, and the dangers
of the bold undertaking increased his health, and brought back
his former strength. The warrior began to overcome in him the man
of misfortune. Before that, there had been no place in him for
anything except memories and suffering; now he had to think whole
days of how he was to deceive and attack.

After they had passed the Dniester the Poles went on a diagonal,
and down toward the Pruth. In the day they hid frequently in
forests and reeds; in the night they made secret and hurried
marches. So far the country was not much inhabited, and, occupied
mainly by nomads, was empty for the greater part. Very rarely did
they come upon fields of maize, and near them houses.

Marching secretly, they strove to avoid larger settlements, but
often they stopped at smaller ones composed of one, two, three,
or even a number of cottages; these they entered boldly, knowing
that none of the inhabitants would think of fleeing before them to
Budjyak, and forewarning the Tartars. Lusnia, however, took care
that this should not happen; but soon he omitted the precaution,
for he convinced himself that those few settlements, though
subject, as it were, to the Sultan, were looking for his troops
with dread; and secondly, that they had no idea what kind of people
had come to them, and took the whole detachment for Karalash
parties, who were marching after others at command of the Sultan.

The inhabitants furnished without opposition corn, bread, and dried
buffalo-meat. Every cottager had his flock of sheep, his buffaloes
and horses, secreted near the rivers, From time to time appeared
also very large herds of buffaloes, half wild, and followed by a
number of herdsmen. These herdsmen lived in tents on the steppe,
and remained in one place only while they found grass in abundance.
Frequently they were old Tartars. Pan Adam surrounded them with as
much care as if they were a chambul; he did not spare them, lest
they might send down toward Budjyak a report of his march. Tartars,
especially after he had inquired of them concerning the roads, or
rather the roadless country, he slew without mercy, so that not
a foot escaped. He took then from the herds as many cattle as he
needed, and moved on.

The detachment went southward; they met now more frequently herds
guarded by Tartars almost exclusively, and in rather large parties.
During a march of two weeks Pan Adam surrounded and cut down three
bands of shepherds, numbering some tens of men. The dragoons always
took the sheepskin coats of these men, and cleaning them over
fires, put them on, so as to resemble wild herdsmen and shepherds.
In another week they were all dressed like Tartars, and looked
exactly like a chambul. There remained to them only the uniform
weapons of regular cavalry; but they kept their jackets in the
saddle-straps, so as to put them on when returning. They might be
recognized near at hand by their yellow Mazovian mustaches and blue
eyes; but from a distance a man of the greatest experience might
be deceived at sight of them, all the more since they drove before
them the cattle which they needed as food.

Approaching the Pruth, they marched along its left bank. Since
the trail of Kuchman was in a region too much stripped, it was
easy to foresee that the legions of the Sultan and the horde in
the vanguard would march through Falezi, Hush, Kotimore, and only
then by the Wallachian trail, and either turn toward the Dniester,
or go straight as the east of a sickle through all Bessarabia, to
come out on the boundary of the Commonwealth near Ushytsa. Pan Adam
was so certain of this that, caring nothing for time, he went more
and more slowly, and with increasing care, so as not to come too
suddenly on chambuls. Arriving at last at the river forks formed
by the Sarata and the Tekich, he stopped there for a long time,
first, to give rest to his horses and men, and second, to wait in a
well-sheltered place for the vanguard of the horde.

The place was well sheltered and carefully chosen, for all the
inner and outer banks of the two rivers were covered partly with
the common cornel-bush, and partly with dogwood. This thicket
extended as far as the eye could reach, covering the ground in
places with dense brushwood, in places forming groups of bushes,
between which were empty spaces, commodious for camping. At that
season the trees and bushes had cast their blossoms, but in the
early spring there must have been a sea of white and yellow
flowers. The place was uninhabited, but swarming with beasts, such
as deer and rabbits, and with birds. Here and there, at the edge
of a spring, they found also bear tracks. One man at the arrival
of the detachment killed a couple of sheep. In view of this,
Lusnia promised himself a sheep hunt; but Pan Adam, wishing to lie
concealed, did not permit the use of muskets,--the soldiers went
out to plunder with spears and axes.

Later on they found near the water traces of fires, but old ones,
probably of the past year. It was evident that nomads looked in
there from time to time with their herds, or perhaps Tartars came
to cut cornel-wood for slung staffs. But the most careful search
did not discover a living soul. Pan Adam decided not to go farther,
but to remain there till the coming of the Turkish troops.

They laid out a square, built huts, and waited. At the edges of
the wood sentries were posted; some of these looked day and night
toward Budjyak, others toward the Pruth in the direction of Falezi.
Pan Adam knew that he would divine the approach of the Sultan’s
armies by certain signs; besides, he sent out small detachments,
led by himself most frequently. The weather favored excellently
the halt in that dry region. The days were warm, but it was easy
to avoid heat in the shade of the thicket; the nights were clear,
calm, moonlight, and then the groves were quivering from the
singing of nightingales. During such nights Pan Adam suffered most,
for he could not sleep; he was thinking of his former happiness,
and pondering on the present days of disaster. He lived only in the
thought that when his heart was sated with vengeance he would be
happier and calmer. Meanwhile the time was approaching in which he
was to accomplish that vengeance or perish.

Week followed week spent in finding food in wild places, and in
watching. During that time they studied all the trails, ravines,
meadows, rivers, and streams, gathered in again a number of herds,
cut down some small bands of nomads, and watched continually in
that thicket, like a wild beast waiting for prey. At last the
expected moment came.

A certain morning they saw flocks of birds covering the earth and
the sky. Bustards, ptarmigans, blue-legged quails, hurried through
the grass to the thicket; through the sky flew ravens, crows, and
even water-birds, evidently frightened on the banks of the Danube
or the swamps of the Dobrudja. At sight of this the dragoons looked
at one another; and the phrase, “They are coming! they are coming!”
flew from mouth to mouth. Faces grew animated at once, mustaches
began to quiver, eyes to gleam, but in that animation there was not
the slightest alarm. Those were all men for whom life had passed
in “methods;” they only felt what a hunting dog feels when he
sniffs game. Fires were quenched in a moment, so that smoke might
not betray the presence of people in the thicket; the horses were
saddled; and the whole detachment stood ready for action.

It was necessary so to measure time as to fall on the enemy during
a halt. Pan Adam understood well that the Sultan’s troops would
not march in dense masses, especially in their own country, where
danger was altogether unlikely. He knew, too, that it was the
custom of vanguards to march five or ten miles before the main
army. He hoped, with good reason, that the Lithuanian Tartars would
be first in the vanguard.

For a certain time he hesitated whether to advance to meet them by
secret roads, well known to him, or to wait in the woods for their
coming. He chose the latter, because it was easier to attack from
the woods unexpectedly. Another day passed, then a night, during
which not only birds came in swarms, but beasts came in droves to
the woods. Next morning the enemy was in sight.

South of the wood stretched a broad though hilly meadow, which was
lost in the distant horizon. On that meadow appeared the enemy, and
approached the wood rather quickly. The dragoons looked from the
trees at that dark mass, which vanished at times, when hidden by
hills, and then appeared again in all its extent.

Lusnia, who had uncommonly sharp eyesight, looked some time with
effort at those crowds approaching; then he went to Novoveski, and
said,--

“Pan Commandant, there are not many men; they are only driving
herds out to pasture.”

Pan Adam convinced himself soon that Lusnia was right, and his face
shone with gladness.

“That means that their halting-place is five or six miles from this
grove,” said he.

“It does,” answered Lusnia. “They march in the night, evidently to
gain shelter from heat, and rest in the day; they are sending the
horses now to pasture till evening.”

“Is there a large guard with the horses?”

Lusnia pushed out again to the edge of the wood, and did not return
for a longer time. At last he came back and said,--

“There are about fifteen hundred horses and twenty-five men with
them. They are in their own country; they fear nothing, and do not
put out strong watches.”

“Could you recognize the men?”

“They are far away yet, but they are Lithuanian Tartars. They are
in our hands already.”

“They are,” said Pan Adam.

In fact, he was convinced that not a living foot of those men would
escape. For such a leader as he, and such soldiers as he led, that
was a very light task.

Meanwhile the herdsmen had driven the beasts nearer and nearer to
the forest. Lusnia thrust himself out once again to the border,
and returned a second time. His face was shining with cruelty and
gladness.

“Lithuanian Tartars,” whispered he.

Hearing this, Pan Adam made a noise like a falcon, and straightway
a division of dragoons pushed into the depth of the wood. There
they separated into two parties, one of which disappeared in a
defile, so as to come out behind the herd and the Tartars; the
other formed a half-circle, and waited.

All this was done so quietly that the most trained ear could not
have caught a sound; neither sabre nor spur rattled; no horse
neighed; the thick grass on the ground dulled the tramp of hoofs;
besides, even the horses seemed to understand that the success
of the attack depended on silence, for they were performing such
service not for the first time. Nothing was heard from the defile
and the brushwood but the call of the falcon, lower every little
while and less frequent.

The herd of Tartar horses stopped before the wood, and scattered in
greater or smaller groups on the meadow. Pan Adam himself was then
near the edge, and followed all the movements of the herdsmen. The
day was clear, and the time before noon, but the sun was already
high, and cast heat on the earth. The horses rolled; later on, they
approached the wood. The herdsmen rode to the edge of the grove,
slipped down from their horses, and let them out on lariats; then
seeking the shade and cool places, they entered the thicket, and
lay down under the largest bushes to rest.

Soon a fire burst up in a flame; when the dry sticks had turned
into coals and were coated with ashes, the herdsmen put half a colt
on the coals, and sat at a distance themselves to avoid the heat.
Some stretched on the grass; others talked, sitting in groups,
Turkish fashion; one began to play on a horn. In the wood perfect
silence reigned; the falcon called only at times.

The odor of singed flesh announced at last that the roast was
ready. Two men drew it out of the ashes, and dragged it to a shady
tree; there they sat in a circle cutting the meat with their
knives, and eating with beastly greed. From the half-raw strips
came blood, which settled on their fingers, and flowed down their
beards.

When they had finished eating, and had drunk sour mare’s milk out
of skins, they felt satisfied. They talked awhile yet; then their
heads and limbs became heavy.

Afternoon came. The heat flew down from heaven more and more. The
forest was varied with quivering streaks of light made by the rays
of the sun penetrating dense places. Everything was silent; even
the falcons ceased to call.

A number of Tartars stood up and went to look at the horses; others
stretched themselves like corpses on a battlefield, and soon sleep
overpowered them. But their sleep after meat and drink was rather
heavy and uneasy, for at times one groaned deeply, another opened
his lids for a moment, and repeated, “Allah, Bismillah!”

All at once on the edge of the wood was heard some low but terrible
sound, like the short rattle of a stifled man who had no time to
cry. Whether the ears of the herdsmen were so keen, or some animal
instinct had warned them of danger, or finally, whether Death had
blown with cold breath on them, it is enough that they sprang up
from sleep in one moment.

“What is that? Where are the men at the horses?” they began to
inquire of one another. Then from a thicket some voice said in
Polish,--

“They will not return.”

That moment a hundred and fifty men rushed in a circle at the
herdsmen, who were frightened so terribly that the cry died in
their breasts. An odd one barely succeeded in grasping his dagger.
The circle of attackers covered and hid them completely. The bush
quivered from the pressure of human bodies, which struggled in a
disorderly group. The whistle of blades, panting, and at times
groaning or wheezing were heard, but that lasted one twinkle of an
eye; and all was silent.

“How many are alive?” asked a voice among the attackers.

“Five, Pan Commandant.”

“Examine the bodies; lest any escape, give each man a knife in the
throat, and bring the prisoners to the fire.”

The command was obeyed in one moment. The corpses were pinned to
the turf with their own knives; the prisoners, after their feet had
been bound to sticks, were brought around the fire, which Lusnia
had raked so that coals, hidden under ashes, would be on the top.

The prisoners looked at this preparation and at Lusnia with wild
eyes. Among them were three Tartars of Hreptyoff who knew the
sergeant perfectly. He knew them too, and said,--

“Well, comrades, you must sing now; if not, you will go to the
other world on roasted soles. For old acquaintance’ sake I will not
spare fire on you.”

When he had said this he threw dry limbs on the fire, which burst
out at once in a tall blaze.

Pan Adam came now, and began the examination. From confessions
of the prisoners it appeared that what the young lieutenant had
divined earlier was true. The Lithuanian Tartars and Cheremis were
marching in the vanguard before the horde, and before all the
troops of the Sultan. They were led by Azya, son of Tugai Bey, to
whom was given command over all the parties. They, as well as the
whole army, marched at night because of the heat; in the day they
sent their herds out to pasture. They threw out no pickets, for no
one supposed that troops could attack them even near the Dniester,
much less at the Pruth, right at the dwellings of the horde; they
marched comfortably, therefore, with their herds and with camels,
which carried the tents of the officers. The tent of Murza Azya was
easily known, for it had a bunchuk fixed on its summit, and the
banners of the companies were fastened near it in time of halt. The
camp was four or five miles distant; there were about two thousand
men in it, but some of them had remained with the Belgrod horde,
which was marching about five miles behind.

Pan Adam inquired further touching the road which would lead to
the camp best, then how the tents were arranged, and last, of that
which concerned him most deeply.

“Are there women in the tent?”

The Tartars trembled for their lives. Those of them who had served
in Hreptyoff knew perfectly that Pan Adam was the brother of one
of those women, and was betrothed to the other; they understood,
therefore, what rage would seize him when he knew the whole truth.

That rage might fall first on them; they hesitated, therefore, but
Lusnia said at once,--

“Pan Commandant, we’ll warm their soles for the dog brothers; then
they will speak.”

“Thrust their feet in the fire!” said Pan Adam.

“Have mercy!” cried Eliashevich, an old Tartar from Hreptyoff. “I
will tell all that my eyes have seen.”

Lusnia looked at the commandant to learn if he was to carry out the
threat notwithstanding this answer; but Pan Adam shook his head,
and said to Eliashevich,--

“Tell what thou hast seen.”

“We are innocent, lord,” answered Eliashevich; “we went at command.
The murza gave your gracious sister to Pan Adurovich, who had her
in his tent. I saw her in Kuchunkaury when she was going for water
with pails; and I helped her to carry them, for she was heavy--”

“Woe!” muttered Pan Adam.

“But the other lady our murza himself had in his tent. We did not
see her so often; but we heard more than once how she screamed, for
the murza, though he kept her for his pleasure, beat her with rods,
and kicked her.”

Pan Adam’s lips began to quiver.

Eliashevich barely heard the question.

“Where are they now?”

“Sold in Stambul.”

“To whom?”

“The murza himself does not know certainly. A command came from
the Padishah to keep no women in camp. All sold their women in the
bazaar; the murza sold his.”

The explanation was finished, and at the fire silence set in; but
for some time a sultry afternoon wind shook the limbs of the trees,
which sounded more and more deeply. The air became stifling; on the
edge of the horizon, black clouds appeared, dark in the centre, and
shining with a copper-color on the edges.

Pan Adam walked away from the fire, and moved like one demented,
without giving an account to himself of where he was going. At last
he dropped with his face to the ground, and began to tear the earth
with his nails, then to gnaw his own hands, and then to gasp as if
dying. A convulsion twisted his gigantic body, and he lay thus for
hours. The dragoons looked at him from a distance; but even Lusnia
dared not approach him.

Concluding that the commandant would not be angry at him for not
sparing the Tartars, the terrible sergeant, impelled by pure
inborn cruelty, stuffed their mouths with grass, so as to avoid
noise, and slaughtered them like bullocks. He spared Eliashevich
alone, supposing that he would be needed to guide them. When he
had finished this work, he dragged away from the fire the bodies,
still quivering, and put them in a row; he went then to look at the
commandant.

“Even if he has gone mad,” muttered Lusnia, “we must get that one.”

Midday had passed, the afternoon hours as well, and the day was
inclining toward evening. But those clouds, small at first,
occupied now almost the whole heavens, and were growing ever
thicker and darker without losing that copper-colored gleam along
the edges. Their gigantic rolls turned heavily, like millstones on
their own axes; then they fell on one another, crowded one another,
and pushing one another from the height, rolled in a dense mass
lower and lower toward the earth. The wind struck at times, like a
bird of prey with its wings, bent the cornel-trees and the dogwood
to the earth, tore away a cloud of leaves, and bore it apart with
rage; at times it stopped as if it had fallen into the ground.
During such intervals of silence there was heard in the gathering
clouds a certain ominous rattling, wheezing, rumbling; you would
have said that legions of thunders were gathering within them and
ranging for battle, grumbling in deep voices while rousing rage and
fury in themselves, before they would burst out and strike madly on
the terrified earth.

“A storm, a storm is coming!” whispered the dragoons to one another.

The storm was coming. The air grew darker each instant.

Then on the east, from the side of the Dniester, thunder rose and
rolled with an awful outbreak along the heavens, till it went far
away, beyond the Pruth; there it was silent for a moment, but
springing up afresh, rushed toward the steppes of Budjyak, and
rolled along the whole horizon.

First, great drops of rain fell on the parched grass. At that
moment Pan Adam stood before the dragoons.

“To horse!” cried he, with a mighty voice.

And at the expiration of as much time as is needed to say a hurried
“Our Father,” he was moving at the head of a hundred and fifty
horsemen. When he had ridden out of the woods, he joined, near the
herd of horses, the other half of his men, who had been standing
guard at the field-side, to prevent any herdsmen from escaping by
stealth to the camp. The dragoons rushed around the herd in the
twinkle of an eye, and giving out wild shouts, peculiar to Tartars,
moved on, urging before them the panic-stricken horses.

The sergeant held Eliashevich on a lariat, and shouted in his ear,
trying to outsound the roar of the thunder,--

“Lead us on dog blood, and straight, or a knife in thy throat!”

Now the clouds rolled so low that they almost touched the earth.
On a sudden they burst, like an explosion in a furnace, and a
raging hurricane was let loose; soon a blinding light rent the
darkness, a thunder-clap came, and after it a second, a third; the
smell of sulphur spread in the air, and again there was darkness.
Terror seized the herd of horses. The beasts, driven from behind
by the wild shouts of the dragoons, ran with distended nostrils
and flowing mane, scarcely touching the earth in their onrush; the
thunder did not cease for a moment; the wind roared, and the horses
raced on madly in that wind, in that darkness, amid explosions in
which the earth seemed to be breaking. Driven by the tempest and by
vengeance, they were like a terrible company of vampires or evil
spirits in that wild steppe.

Space fled before them. No guide was needed, for the herd ran
straight to the camp of the Tartars, which was nearer and nearer.
But before they had reached it, the storm was unchained, as if
the sky and the earth had gone mad. The whole horizon blazed with
living fire, by the gleam of which were seen the tents standing on
the steppe; the world was quivering from the roar of thunders; it
seemed that the clouds might burst any moment and tumble to the
earth. In fact, their sluices were opened, and floods of rain began
to deluge the steppe. The downfall was so dense that a few paces
distant nothing could be seen, and from the earth, inflamed by the
heat of the sun, a thick mist was soon rising.

Yet a little while, and herd and dragoons will be in the camp.

But right before the tents the herd split, and ran to both sides in
wild panic; three hundred breasts gave out a fearful shriek; three
hundred sabres glittered in the flame of the lightning, and the
dragoons fell on the tents.

Before the outburst of the torrent, the Tartars saw in the
lightning-flashes the on-coming herd; but none of them knew what
terrible herdsmen were driving. Astonishment and alarm seized them;
they wondered why the herd should rush straight at the tents; then
they began to shout to frighten them away. Azya himself pushed
aside the canvas door, and in spite of the rain, went out with
anger on his threatening face. But that instant the herd split in
two, and, amid torrents of rain and in the fog, certain fierce
forms looked black and many times greater in number than the
horse herds; then the terrible cry, “Slay, kill!” was heard.

There was no time for anything, not even to guess what had
happened, not even to be frightened. The hurricane of men, more
dreadful and furious by far than the tempest, whirled on to the
camp. Before Tugai Bey’s son could retreat one step toward his
tent, some power more than human, as you would have said, raised
him from the earth.

Suddenly he felt that a dreadful embrace was squeezing him, that
from its pressure his bones were bending and his ribs breaking;
soon he saw, as if in mist, a face rather than which he would have
seen Satan’s, and fainted.

By that time the battle had begun, or rather the ghastly slaughter.
The storm, the darkness, the unknown number of the assailants, the
suddenness of the attack, and the scattering of the horses were the
cause that the Tartars scarcely defended themselves. The madness
of terror simply took possession of them. No one knew whither to
escape, where to hide himself. Many had no weapons at hand; the
attack found many asleep. Therefore, stunned, bewildered, and
terrified, they gathered into dense groups, crowding, overturning,
and trampling one another. The breasts of horses pushed them down,
threw them to the ground; sabres cut them, hoofs crushed them. A
storm does not so break, destroy, and lay waste a young forest,
wolves do not eat into a flock of bewildered sheep, as the dragoons
trampled and cut down those Tartars. On the one hand, bewilderment,
on the other, rage and vengeance, completed the measure of their
misfortune. Torrents of blood were mingled with the rain. It seemed
to the Tartars that the sky was falling on them, that the earth
was opening under their feet. The flash of lightning, the roar of
thunder, the noise of rain, the darkness, the terror of the storm,
answered to the dreadful outcries of the slaughtered. The horses
of the dragoons, seized also with fear, rushed, as if maddened,
into the throng, breaking it and stretching the men on the ground.
At length the smaller groups began to flee, but they had lost
knowledge of the place to such a degree that they fled around on
the scene of struggle, instead of fleeing straight forward; and
frequently they knocked against one another, like two opposing
waves, struck one another, overturned one another, and went under
the sword. At last the dragoons scattered the remnant of them
completely, and slew them in the flight, taking no prisoners, and
pursuing without mercy till the trumpets called them back from
pursuit.

Never had an attack been more unexpected, and never a defeat more
terrible. Three hundred men had scattered to the four winds of
the world nearly two thousand cavalry, surpassing incomparably in
training the ordinary chambuls. The greater part of them were lying
flat in red pools of blood and rain. The rest dispersed, hid their
heads, thanks to the darkness, and escaped on foot, at random, not
certain that they would not run under the knife a second time. The
storm and the darkness assisted the victors, as if the anger of God
were fighting on their side against traitors.

Night had fallen completely when Pan Adam moved out at the head
of his dragoons, to return to the boundaries of the Commonwealth.
Between the young lieutenant and Lusnia, the sergeant, went a horse
from the herd. On the back of this horse lay, bound with cords,
the leader of all the Lithuanian Tartars,--Azya, the son of Tugai
Bey, with broken ribs. He was alive, but in a swoon. Both looked at
him from time to time as carefully and anxiously as if they were
carrying a treasure, and were fearful of losing it.

The storm began to pass. On the heavens, legions of clouds were
still moving, but in intervals between them, stars were beginning
to shine, and to be reflected in lakes of water, formed on the
steppe by the dense rain. In the distance, in the direction of the
Commonwealth, thunder was still roaring from time to time.




CHAPTER L.


The fugitive Tartars carried news to the Belgrod horde of
the disaster. Couriers from them took the news to the Ordu i
Humayun,--that is, to the Sultan’s camp,--where it made an uncommon
impression.

Pan Adam had no need, it is true, to flee too hurriedly with his
booty to the Commonwealth, for not only did no one pursue him at
the first moment, but not even for the two succeeding days. The
Sultan was so astonished that he knew not what to think. He sent
Belgrod and Dobrudja chambuls at once to discover what troops
were in the vicinity. They went unwillingly, for with them it was
a question of their own skins. Meanwhile the tidings, given from
mouth to mouth, grew to be the account of a considerable overthrow.
Men inhabiting the depth of Asia or Africa, who had not gone
hitherto with war to Lehistan, and who heard from narratives of the
terrible cavalry of the unbelievers, were seized with fright at
the thought that they were already in presence of that enemy who
did not wait for them within his own boundaries, but sought them
in the very dominions of the Padishah; the grand vizir himself,
and the “future sun of war,” the kaimakan, Kara Mustafa, did not
know either what to think of the attack. How that Commonwealth,
of whose weakness they had the minutest accounts, could assume
all at once the offensive, no Turkish head could explain. It is
enough that henceforth the march seemed less secure, and less like
a triumph. At the council of war the Sultan received the vizir and
the kaimakan with a terrible countenance.

“You have deceived me,” said he. “The Poles cannot be so weak,
since they seek us even here. You told me that Sobieski would not
defend Kamenyets, and now he is surely in front of us, with his
whole army.”

The vizir and kaimakan tried to explain to their lord that this
might be some detached band of robbers; but in view of the muskets
and of straps, in which there were dragoon jackets, they did not
believe that themselves. The recent expedition of Sobieski to the
Ukraine, daring beyond every measure, but for all that victorious,
permitted the supposition that the terrible leader intended to
anticipate the enemy this time as well as the other.

“He has no troops,” said the grand vizir to the kaimakan, while
coming out from the council; “but there is a lion in him which
knows nothing of fear. If he has collected even a few thousand, and
is here, we shall march in blood to Hotin.”

“I should like to measure strength with him,” said young Kara
Mustafa.

“May God avert from you misfortune!” answered the grand vizir.

By degrees, however, the Belgrod and Dobrudja chambuls convinced
themselves that there were not only no large bodies of troops, but
no troops at all in the neighborhood. They discovered the trail
of a detachment numbering about three hundred horse, which moved
hurriedly toward the Dniester. The Tartars, remembering the fate
of Azya’s men, made no pursuit, out of fear of an ambush. The
attack remained as something astonishing and unexplained; but quiet
came back by degrees to the Ordu i Humayun, and the armies of the
Padishah began again to advance like an inundation.

Meanwhile, Pan Adam was returning safely with his living booty to
Rashkoff. He went hurriedly, but as experienced scouts learned
on the second day that there was no pursuit, he advanced,
notwithstanding his haste, at a gait not to weary the horses
over-much. Azya, fastened with cords to the back of the horse, was
always between Pan Adam and Lusnia. He had two ribs broken, and
had become wonderfully weak, for even the wound given him by Basia
in the face opened from his struggle with Pan Adam and from riding
with head hanging down. The terrible sergeant was careful that he
should not die before reaching Rashkoff, and thus baffle revenge.
The young Tartar wanted to die. Knowing what awaited him, he
determined first of all to kill himself with hunger, and would not
take food; but Lusnia opened his set teeth with a knife, and forced
into his mouth gorailka and Moldavian wine, in which biscuits,
rubbed to dust, had been mixed. At the places of halting, they
threw water on his face, lest the wounds of his eye and his nose,
on which flies and gnats had settled thickly during the journey,
should mortify, and bring premature death to the ill-fated man.

Pan Adam did not speak to him on the road. Once only, at the
beginning of the journey, when Azya, at the price of his freedom
and life, offered to return Zosia and Eva, did the lieutenant say
to him,--

“Thou liest, dog! Both were sold by thee to a merchant of Stambul,
who will sell them again in the bazaar.”

And straightway they brought Eliashevich, who said in presence of
all,--

“It is so, Effendi. You sold her without knowing to whom; and
Adurovich sold the bagadyr’s[30] sister, though she was with child
by him.”

After these words, it seemed for a while to Azya that Novoveski
would crush him at once in his terrible grasp. Afterwards, when he
had lost all hope, he resolved to bring the young giant to kill
him in a transport of rage, and in that way spare himself future
torment; since Novoveski, unwilling to let his captive out of
sight, rode always near him, Azya began to boast beyond measure
and shamelessly of all that he had done. He told how he had killed
old Novoveski, how he had kept Zosia Boski in the tent, how he
gloated over her innocence, how he had torn her body with rods, and
kicked her. The sweat rolled off the pale face of Pan Adam in thick
drops. He listened; he had not the power, he had not the wish to
go away. He listened eagerly, his hands quivered, his body shook
convulsively; still he mastered himself, and did not kill.

But Azya, while tormenting his enemy, tormented himself, for
his narratives brought to his mind his present misfortune. Not
long before, he was commanding men, living in luxury, a murza,
a favorite of the young kaimakan; now, lashed to the back of a
horse, and eaten alive by flies, he was travelling on to a terrible
death. Relief came to him when, from the pain of his wounds, and
from suffering, he fainted. This happened with growing frequency,
so that Lusnia began to fear that he might not bring him alive.
But they travelled night and day, giving only as much rest to the
horses as was absolutely needful, and Rashkoff was ever nearer and
nearer. Still the horned soul of the Tartar would not leave the
afflicted body. But during the last days he was in a continual
fever, and at times he fell into an oppressive sleep. More than
once in that fever or sleep he dreamed that he was still in
Hreptyoff, that he had to go with Volodyovski to a great war; again
that he was conducting Basia to Rashkoff; again that he had borne
her away, and hidden her in his tent; at times in the fever he saw
battles and slaughter, in which, as hetman of the Polish Tartars,
he was giving orders from under his bunchuk. But awakening came,
and with it consciousness. Opening his eyes, he saw the face of
Novoveski, the face of Lusnia, the helmets of the dragoons, who had
thrown aside the sheepskin caps of the horse herds; and all that
reality was so dreadful that it seemed to him a genuine nightmare.
Every movement of the horse tortured him; his wounds burned him
increasingly; and again he fainted. Pierced with pain, he recovered
consciousness, to fall into a fever, and with it into a dream, to
wake up again.

There were moments in which it seemed to him impossible that he,
such a wretched man, could be Azya, the son of Tugai Bey; that
his life, which was full of uncommon events, and which seemed to
promise a great destiny, was to end with such suddenness, and so
terribly.

At times too it came to his head that after torments and death he
would go straightway to paradise; but because once he had professed
Christianity, and had lived long among Christians, fear seized him
at the thought of Christ. Christ would have no pity on him; if the
Prophet had been mightier than Christ, he would not have given him
into the hands of Pan Adam. Perhaps, however, the Prophet would
show pity yet, and take the soul out of him before Pan Adam would
kill him with torture.

Meanwhile, Rashkoff was at hand. They entered a country of cliffs,
which indicated the vicinity of the Dniester. Azya in the evening
fell into a condition half feverish, half conscious, in which
illusions were mingled with reality. It seemed to him that they had
arrived, that they had stopped, that he heard around him the words
“Rashkoff! Rashkoff!” Next it seemed to him that he heard the noise
of axes cutting wood.

Then he felt that men were dashing cold water on his head, and
then for a long time they were pouring gorailka into his mouth.
After that he recovered entirely. Above him was a starry night, and
around him many torches were gleaming. To his ears came the words,--

“Is he conscious?”

“Conscious. He seems in his mind.”

And that moment he saw above him the face of Lusnia.

“Well, brother,” said the sergeant, in a calm voice, “the hour is
on thee!”

Azya was lying on his back and breathing freely, for his arms were
stretched upward at both sides of his head, by reason of which his
expanded breast moved more freely and received more air than when
he was lying lashed to the back of the horse. But he could not move
his hands, for they were tied above his head to an oak staff which
was placed at right angles to his shoulders, and were bound with
straw steeped in tar. Azya divined in a moment why this was done;
but at that moment he saw other preparations also, which announced
that his torture would be long and ghastly. He was undressed from
his waist to his feet; and raising his head somewhat, he saw
between his naked knees a freshly trimmed, pointed stake, the
larger end of which was placed against the butt of a tree. From
each of his feet there went a rope ending with a whiffletree, to
which a horse was attached. By the light of the torches Azya could
see only the rumps of the horses and two men, standing somewhat
farther on, who evidently were holding the horses by the head.

The hapless man took in these preparations at a glance; then,
looking at the heavens, it is unknown why, he saw stars and the
gleaming crescent of the moon.

“They will draw me on,” thought he.

And at once he closed his teeth so firmly that a spasm seized his
jaws. Sweat came out on his forehead, and at the same time his face
became cold, for the blood rushed away from it. Then it seemed to
him that the earth was fleeing from under his shoulders, that his
body was flying and flying into some fathomless abyss. For a while
he lost consciousness of time, of place, and of what they were
doing to him. The sergeant opened Azya’s mouth with a knife, and
poured in more gorailka.

He coughed and spat out the burning liquor, but was forced to
swallow some of it. Then he fell into a wonderful condition:
he was not drunk; on the contrary, his mind had never been
clearer, nor his thought quicker. He saw what they were doing, he
understood everything; but an uncommon excitement seized him, as it
were,--impatience that all was lasting so long, and that nothing
was beginning yet.

Next heavy steps were heard near by, and before him stood Pan
Adam. At sight of him all the veins in the Tartar quivered. Lusnia
he did not fear; he despised him too much. But Pan Adam he did
not despise; indeed, he had no reason to despise him; on the
contrary, every look of his face filled Azya’s soul with a certain
superstitious dread and repulsion. He thought to himself at that
moment, “I am in his power; I fear him!” and that was such a
terrible feeling that under its influence the hair stiffened on the
head of Tugai Bey’s son.

“For what thou hast done, thou wilt perish in torment,” said Pan
Adam.

The Tartar gave no answer, but began to pant audibly.

Novoveski withdrew, and then followed a silence which was broken by
Lusnia.

“Thou didst raise thy hand on the lady,” said he, with a hoarse
voice; “but now the lady is at home with her husband, and thou art
in our hands. Thy hour has come!”

With those words the act of torture began for Azya. That terrible
man learned at the hour of his death that his treason and cruelty
had profited nothing. If even Basia had died on the road, he would
have had the consolation that though not in his, she would not be
in any man’s, possession; and that solace was taken from him just
then, when the point of the stake was at an ell’s length from his
body. All had been in vain. So many treasons, so much blood, so
much impending punishment for nothing,--for nothing whatever!

Lusnia did not know how grievous those words had made death to
Azya; had he known, he would have repeated them during the whole
journey.

But there was no time for regrets then; everything must give way
before the execution. Lusnia stooped down, and taking Azya’s hips
in both his hands to give them direction, called to the men holding
the horses,--

“Move! but slowly and together!”

The horses moved; the straightened ropes pulled Azya’s legs. In a
twinkle his body was drawn along the earth and met the point of
the stake. Then the point commenced to sink in him, and something
dreadful began,--something repugnant to nature and the feelings of
man. The bones of the unfortunate moved apart from one another; his
body gave way in two directions; pain indescribable, so awful that
it almost bounds on some monstrous delight, penetrated his being.
The stake sank more and more deeply. Azya fixed his jaws, but he
could not endure; his teeth were bared in a ghastly grin, and out
of his throat came the cry, “A! a! a!” like the croaking of a raven.

“Slowly!” commanded the sergeant.

Azya repeated his terrible cry more and more quickly.

“Art croaking?” inquired the sergeant.

Then he called to the men,--

“Stop! together! There, it is done,” said he, turning to Azya, who
had grown silent at once, and in whose throat only a deep rattling
was heard.

The horses were taken out quickly; then men raised the stake,
planted the large end of it in a hole prepared purposely, and
packed earth around it. The son of Tugai Bey looked from above on
that work. He was conscious. That hideous species of punishment is
in this the more dreadful, that victims drawn on to the stake live
sometimes three days. Azya’s head was hanging on his breast; his
lips were moving, smacking, as if he were chewing something and
tasting it. He felt then a great faintness, and saw before him, as
it were, a boundless, whitish mist, which, it is unknown wherefore,
seemed to him terrible; but in that mist he recognized the faces
of the sergeant and the dragoons, he saw that he was on the stake,
that the weight of his body was sinking him deeper and deeper. Then
he began to grow numb from the feet, and began to be less and less
sensitive to pain.

At times darkness hid from him that whitish mist; then he blinked
with his one seeing eye, wishing to see and behold everything till
death. His gaze passed with particular persistence from torch to
torch, for it seemed to him that around each flame there was a
rainbow circle.

But his torture was not ended; after a while the sergeant
approached the stake with an auger in his hand, and cried to those
standing near,--

“Lift me up.”

Two strong men raised him aloft. Azya began to look at him closely,
blinking, as if he wished to know what kind of man was climbing up
to his height. Then the sergeant said,--

“The lady knocked out one eye, and I promised myself to bore out
the other.”

When he had said this, he put the point into the pupil, twisted
once and a second time, and when the lid and delicate skin
surrounding the eye were wound around the spiral of the auger, he
jerked.

Then from the two eye-sockets of Azya two streams of blood flowed,
and they flowed like two streams of tears down his face. His face
itself grew pale and still paler. The dragoons extinguished the
torches in silence, as if in shame that light had shone on a deed
of such ghastliness; and from the crescent of the moon alone fell
silvery though not very bright rays on the body of Azya. His head
fell entirely on his breast; but his hands, bound to the oak staff,
and enveloped in straw steeped in tar, were pointing toward the
sky, as if that son of the Orient were calling the vengeance of the
Turkish crescent on his executioners.

“To horse!” was heard from Pan Adam.

Before mounting the sergeant ignited, with the last torch, those
uplifted hands of the Tartar; and the detachment moved toward
Yampol. Amid the ruins of Rashkoff, in the night and the desert,
Azya, the son of Tugai Bey, remained on the lofty stake, and he
gleamed there a long time.




CHAPTER LI.


Three weeks later, at midday, Pan Adam was in Hreptyoff. He had
made the journey from Rashkoff so slowly because he had crossed to
the other side of the Dnieper many times, while attacking chambuls
and the perkulab’s people along the river, at various stanitsas.
These informed the Sultan’s troops afterward that they had seen
Polish detachments everywhere, and had heard of great armies, which
surely would not wait for the coming of the Turks at Kamenyets, but
would intercept their march, and meet them in a general battle.

The Sultan, who had been assured of the helplessness of the
Commonwealth, was greatly astonished; and sending Tartars,
Wallachians, and the hordes of the Danube in advance, he pushed
forward slowly, for in spite of his measureless strength, he had
great fear of a battle with the armies of the Commonwealth.

Pan Adam did not find Volodyovski in Hreptyoff, for the little
knight had followed Motovidlo to assist the starosta of Podlyasye
against the Crimean horde and Doroshenko. There he gained great
victories, adding new glory to his former renown. He defeated the
stern Korpan, and left his body as food to beasts on the open
plain; he crushed the terrible Drozd, and the manful Malyshka, and
the two brothers Siny, celebrated Cossack raiders, also a number of
inferior bands and chambuls.

But when Pan Adam arrived, Pani Volodyovski was just preparing to
go with the rest of the people and the tabor to Kamenyets, for
it was necessary to leave Hreptyoff, in view of the invasion.
Basia was grieved to leave that wooden fortalice, in which she
had experienced many evils, it is true, but in which the happiest
part of her life had been passed, with her husband, among loving
hearts, famous soldiers. She was going now, at her own request, to
Kamenyets, to unknown fortunes and dangers involved in the siege.
But since she had a brave heart, she did not yield to sorrow, but
watched the preparations carefully, guarding the soldiers and the
tabor. In this she was aided by Zagloba, who in every necessity
surpassed all in understanding, together with Pan Mushalski, the
incomparable bowman, who was besides a soldier of valiant hand and
uncommon experience.

All were delighted at the arrival of Pan Adam, though they knew at
once, from the face of the knight, that he had not freed Eva or
the sweet Zosia from Pagan captivity. Basia bewailed the fate of
the two ladies with bitter tears, for they were to be looked on as
lost. Sold, it was unknown to whom, they might be taken from the
markets of Stambul to Asia Minor, to islands under Turkish rule, or
to Egypt, and be confined there in harems; hence it was not only
impossible to ransom them, but even to learn where they were.

Basia wept; the wise Pan Zagloba wept; so did Pan Mushalski, the
incomparable bowman. Pan Adam alone had dry eyes, for tears had
failed him already. But when he told how he had gone down to Tykich
near the Danube, had cut to pieces the Lithuanian Tartars almost at
the side of the horde and the Sultan, and had seized Azya, the evil
enemy, the two old men rattled their sabres, and said,--

“Give him hither! Here, in Hreptyoff, should he die.”

“Not in Hreptyoff,” said Pan Adam. “Rashkoff is the place of his
punishment, that is the place where he should die; and the sergeant
here found a torment for him which was not easy.”

He described then the death which Azya had died, and they listened
with terror, but without pity.

“That the Lord God pursues crime is known,” said Zagloba at last;
“but it is a wonder that the Devil protects his servants so poorly.”

Basia sighed piously, raised her eyes, and after a short meditation
answered,--

“He does, for he lacks strength to stand against the might of God.”

“Oh, you have said it,” remarked Pan Mushalski, “for if, which God
forfend, the Devil were mightier than the Lord, all justice, and
with it the Commonwealth, would vanish.”

“I am not afraid of the Turks,--first, because they are such sons,
and secondly, they are children of Belial,” answered Zagloba.

All were silent for a while. Pan Adam sat on the bench with his
palms on his knees, looking at the floor with glassy eyes.

“It must have been some consolation,” said Pan Mushalski, turning
to him; “it is a great solace to accomplish a proper vengeance.”

“Tell us, has it consoled you really? Do you feel better now?”
asked Basia, with a voice full of pity.

The giant was silent for a time, as if struggling with his own
thoughts; at last he said, as if in great wonderment, and so
quietly that he was almost whispering,--

“Imagine to yourself, as God is dear to me, I thought that I should
feel better if I were to destroy him. I saw him on the stake, I
saw him when his eye was bored out, I said to myself that I felt
better; but it is not true, not true.”

Here Pan Adam embraced his hapless head with his hands, and said
through his set teeth,--

“It was better for him on the stake, better with the auger in his
eye, better with fire on his hands, than for me with that which is
sitting within me, which is thinking and remembering within me.
Death is my one consolation; death, death, that is the truth.”

Hearing this, Basia’s valiant and soldier heart rose quickly, and
putting her hands on the head of the unfortunate man, she said,--

“God grant it to you at Kamenyets; for you say truly, it is the one
consolation.”

He closed his eyes then, and began to repeat,--

“Oh, that is true, that is true; God repay you!”

That same afternoon they all started for Kamenyets.

Basia, after she had passed the gate, looked around long and long
at that fortalice, gleaming in the light of the evening; at last,
signing herself with the holy cross, she said,--

“God grant that it come to us to return to thee, dear Hreptyoff,
with Michael! God grant that nothing worse be waiting for us!”

And two tears rolled down her rosy face. A peculiar strange grief
pressed all hearts; and they moved forward in silence. Meanwhile
darkness came.

They went slowly toward Kamenyets, for the tabor advanced slowly.
In it went wagons, herds of horses, bullocks, buffaloes, camels;
army servants watched over the herds. Some of the servants and
soldiers had married in Hreptyoff, hence there was not a lack of
women in the tabor. There were as many troops as under Pan Adam,
and besides, two hundred Hungarian infantry, which body the little
knight had equipped at his own cost, and had trained. Basia was
their patron; and Kalushevski, a good officer, led them. There were
no real Hungarians in that infantry, which was called Hungarian
only because it had a Hungarian uniform. The non-commissioned
officers were “veterans,” soldiers of the dragoons; but the ranks
were composed of robber bands which had been sentenced to the
rope. Life was granted the men on condition that they would serve
in the infantry, and with loyalty and bravery efface their past
sins. There were not wanting among them also volunteers who had
left their ravines, meadows, and similar robber haunts, preferring
to join the service of the “Little Falcon” of Hreptyoff rather
than feel his sword hanging over their heads. These men were not
over-tractable, and not sufficiently trained yet; but they were
brave, accustomed to hardships, dangers, and bloodshed. Basia had
an uncommon love for this infantry, as for Michael’s child; and in
the wild hearts of those warriors was soon born an attachment for
the wonderful and kind lady. Now they marched around, her carriage
with muskets on their shoulders and sabres at their sides, proud
to guard the lady, ready to defend her madly in case any chambul
should bar their way.

But the road was still free, for Pan Michael had more foresight
than others, and, besides, he had too much love for his wife
to expose her to danger through delay. The journey was made,
therefore, quietly. Leaving Hreptyoff in the afternoon, they
journeyed till evening, then all night; the next day in the
afternoon they saw the high cliffs of Kamenyets.

At sight of them, and at sight of the bastions of the fort adorning
the summits of the cliffs, great consolation entered their hearts
at once; for it seemed to them impossible that any hand but God’s
own could break that eagle’s nest on the summit of projecting
cliffs surrounded by the loop of the river. It was a summer day
and wonderful. The towers of the churches looking out from behind
the cliffs were gleaming like gigantic lights; peace, calm, and
gladness were on that serene region.

“Basia,” said Zagloba, “more than once the Pagans have gnawed those
walls, and they have always broken their teeth on them. Ha! how
many times have I myself seen how they fled, holding themselves by
the snout, for they were in pain. God grant it to be the same this
time!”

“Surely it will,” said the radiant Basia.

“One of their sultans, Osman, was here. It was--I remember the case
as if to-day--in the year 1621. He came, the pig’s blood, just over
there from that side of the Smotrych, from Hotin, stared, opened
his mouth, looked and looked; at last he asked, ‘But who fortified
that place so?’ ‘The Lord God,’ answered the vizir. ‘Then let the
Lord God take it, for I am not a fool!’ And he turned back on the
spot.”

“Indeed, they turned back quickly!” put in Pan Mushalski.

“They turned back quickly,” said Zagloba; “for we touched them up
in the flanks with spears, and afterward the knighthood bore me on
their hands to Pan Lubomirski.”

“Then were you at Hotin?” asked the incomparable bowman. “Belief
fails me, when I think where have you not been, and what have you
not done.”

Zagloba was offended somewhat and said: “Not only was I there, but
I received a wound, which I can show to your eyes, if you are so
curious; I can show it directly, but at one side, for it does not
become me to boast of it in the presence of Pani Volodyovski.”

The famous bowman knew at once that Zagloba was making sport of
him; and as he did not feel himself competent to overcome the old
noble by wit, he inquired no further, and turned the conversation.

“What you say is true,” said he: “when a man is far away, and hears
people saying, ‘Kamenyets is not supplied, Kamenyets will fall,’
terror seizes him; but when he sees Kamenyets, consolation comes to
him.”

“And besides, Michael will be in Kamenyets,” cried Basia.

“And maybe Pan Sobieski will send succor.”

“Praise be to God! it is not so ill with us, not so ill. It has
been worse, and we did not yield.”

“Though it were worse, the point is in this, not to lose courage.
They have not devoured us, and they will not while our courage
holds out,” said Zagloba.

Under the influence of these cheering thoughts they grew silent.
But Pan Adam rode up suddenly to Basia; his countenance, usually
threatening and gloomy, was now smiling and calm. He had fixed his
gazing eyes with devotion on Kamenyets bathed in sunbeams, and
smiled without ceasing.

The two knights and Basia looked at him with wonder, for they could
not understand how the sight of that fortress had taken every
weight from his soul with such suddenness; but he said,--

“Praise be to the name of the Lord! there was a world of suffering,
but now gladness is near me!” Here he turned to Basia. “They are
both with the mayor, Tomashevich; and it is well that they have
hidden there, for in such a fortress that robber can do nothing to
them.”

“Of whom are you speaking?” asked Basia, in terror.

“Of Zosia and Eva.”

“God give you aid!” cried Zagloba; “do not give way to the Devil.”

But Pan Adam continued, “And what they say of my father, that Azya
killed him, is not true either.”

“His mind is disturbed,” whispered Pan Mushalski.

“Permit me,” said Pan Adam again; “I will hurry on in advance. I am
so long without seeing them that I yearn for them.”

When he had said this he began to nod his gigantic head toward both
sides; then he pressed his horse with his heels, and moved on. Pan
Mushalski, beckoning to a number of dragoons, followed him, so as
to keep an eye on the madman. Basia hid her rosy face in her hands,
and soon hot tears began to flow through her fingers.

“He was as good as gold, but such misfortunes surpass human power.
Besides, the soul is not revived by mere vengeance.”

Kamenyets was seething with preparations for defence. On the
walls, in the old castle and at the gates, especially at the
Roman gates, “nations” inhabiting the town were laboring under
their mayors, among whom the Pole Tomashevich took the first
place, and that because of his great daring and his rare skill
in handling cannon. At the same time Poles, Russians, Armenians,
Jews, and Gypsies, working with spades and pickaxes, vied with
one another. Officers of various regiments were overseers of the
work; sergeants and soldiers assisted the citizens; even nobles
went to work, forgetting that God had created their hands for the
sabre alone, giving all other work to people of insignificant
estate. Pan Humyetski, the banneret of Podolia, gave an example
himself which roused tears, for he brought stones with his own
hands in a wheelbarrow. The work was seething in the town and in
the castle. Among the crowds the Dominicans, the Jesuits, the
brethren of Saint Francis, and the Carmelites circled about among
the crowds, blessing the efforts of people. Women brought food and
drink to those laboring; beautiful Armenian women, the wives and
daughters of rich merchants, and Jewesses from Karvaseri, Jvanyets,
Zinkovtsi, Dunaigrod, attracted the eyes of the soldiers.

But the entrance of Basia arrested the attention of the throngs
more than all. There were surely many women of more distinction in
Kamenyets, but none whose husband was covered with more military
glory. They had heard also in Kamenyets of Pani Volodyovski
herself, as of a valiant lady who feared not to dwell on a
watchtower in the Wilderness among wild people, who went on
expeditions with her husband, and who, when carried away by a
Tartar, had been able to overcome him and escape safely from his
robber hands. Her fame, therefore, was immense. But those who did
not know her, and had not seen her hitherto, imagined that she must
be some giantess, breaking horseshoes and crushing armor. What was
their astonishment when they saw a small, rosy, half childlike face!

“Is that Pani Volodyovski herself, or only her little daughter?”
asked people in the crowds. “Herself,” answered those who knew her.
Then admiration seized citizens, women, priests, the army. They
looked with no less wonder on the invincible garrison of Hreptyoff,
on the dragoons, among whom Pan Adam rode calmly, smiling with
wandering eyes, and on the terrible faces of the bandits turned
into Hungarian infantry. But there marched with Basia a few hundred
men who were worthy of praise, soldiers by trade; courage came
therefore to the townspeople. “That is no common power; they will
look boldly into the eyes of the Turks,” cried the people in the
crowd. Some of the citizens, and even of the soldiers, especially
in the regiment of Bishop Trebitski, which regiment had come
recently to Kamenyets, thought that Pan Michael himself was in the
retinue, therefore they raised cries,--

“Long live Pan Volodyovski!”

“Long live our defender! The most famous cavalier!”

“Vivat Volodyovski! vivat!”

Basia listened, and her heart rose; for nothing can be dearer to a
woman than the fame of her husband, especially when it is sounding
in the mouths of people in a great city. “There are so many knights
here,” thought Basia, “and still they do not shout to any but my
Michael.” And she wanted to shout herself in the chorus, “Vivat
Volodyovski!” but Zagloba told her that she should bear herself
like a person of distinction, and bow on both sides, as queens do
when they are entering a capital. And he, too, saluted, now with
his cap, now with his hand; and when acquaintances began to cry
“vivat” in his honor, he answered to the crowds,--

“Gracious gentlemen, he who endured Zbaraj will hold out in
Kamenyets!”

According to Pan Michael’s instructions, the retinue went to the
newly built cloister of the Dominican nuns. The little knight had
his own house in Kamenyets; but since the cloister was in a retired
place which cannon-balls could hardly reach, he preferred to
place his dear Basia there, all the more since he expected a good
reception as a benefactor of the cloister. In fact, the abbess,
Mother Victoria, the daughter of Stefan Pototski, voevoda of
Bratslav, received Basia with open arms. From the embraces of the
abbess she went at once to others, and greatly beloved ones,--to
those of her aunt, Pani Makovetski, whom she had not seen for some
years. Both women wept; and Pan Makovetski, whose favorite Basia
had always been, wept too. Barely had they dried these tears of
tenderness when in rushed Krysia Ketling, and new greetings began;
then Basia was surrounded by the nuns and noble women, known and
unknown,--Pani Bogush, Pani Stanislavski, Pani Kalinovski, Pani
Hotsimirski, Pani Humyetski, the wife of the banneret of Podolia,
a great cavalier. Some, like Pani Bogush, inquired about their
husbands; others asked what Basia thought of the Turkish invasion,
and whether, in her opinion, Kamenyets would hold out. Basia saw
with great delight that they looked on her as having some military
authority, and expected consolation from her lips. Therefore she
was not niggardly in giving.

“No one says,” replied she, “that we cannot hold out against the
Turks. Michael will be here to-day or to-morrow, at furthest in a
couple of days; and when he occupies himself with the defences, you
ladies may sleep quietly. Besides, the fortress is tremendously
strong; in this matter, thank God, I have some knowledge.”

The confidence of Basia poured consolation into the hearts of
the women; they were reassured specially by the promise of Pan
Michael’s arrival. Indeed, his name was so respected that, though
it was evening, officers of the place began to come at once with
greetings to Basia. After the first salutations, each inquired when
the little knight would come, and if really he intended to shut
himself up in Kamenyets. Basia received only Major Kvasibrotski,
who led the infantry of the Bishop of Cracow; the secretary,
Revuski, who succeeded Pan Lanchynski, or rather, occupied his
place, was at the head of the regiment, and Ketling. The doors were
not open to others that day, for the lady was road-weary, and,
besides, she had to occupy herself with Pan Adam. That unfortunate
young man had fallen from his horse before the very cloister, and
was carried to a cell in unconsciousness. They sent at once for
the doctor, the same who had cured Basia at Hreptyoff. The doctor
declared that there was a serious disease of the brain, and gave
little hope of Pan Adam’s recovery.

Basia, Pan Mushalski, and Zagloba talked till late in the evening
about that event, and pondered over the unhappy lot of the knight.

“The doctor told me,” said Zagloba, “that if he recovers and is
bled copiously, his mind will not be disturbed, and he will bear
misfortune with a lighter heart.”

“There is no consolation for him now,” said Basia.

“Often it would be better for a man not to have memory,” remarked
Pan Mushalski; “but even animals are not free from it.”

Here the old man called the famous bowman to account for that
remark.

“If you had no memory you couldn’t go to confession,” said he;
“and you would be the same as a Lutheran, deserving hell-fire.
Father Kaminski has warned you already against blasphemy; but say
the Lord’s prayer to a wolf, and the wolf would rather be eating a
sheep.”

“What sort of wolf am I?” asked the famous bowman, “There was Azya;
he was a wolf.”

“Didn’t I say that?” asked Zagloba. “Who was the first to say,
that’s a wolf?”

“Pan Adam told me,” said Basia, “that day and night he hears Eva
and Zosia calling to him ‘save;’ and how can he save? It had to
end in sickness, for no man can endure such pain. He could survive
their death; he cannot survive their shame.”

“He is lying now like a block of wood; he knows nothing of God’s
world,” said Pan Mushalski; “and it is a pity, for in battle he was
splendid.”

Further conversation was interrupted by a servant, who announced
that there was a great noise in the town, for the people were
assembling to look at the starosta of Podolia, who was just making
his entrance with a considerable escort and some tens of infantry.

“The command belongs to him,” said Zagloba. “It is valiant on the
part of Pan Pototski to prefer this to another place, but as of old
I would that he were not here. He is opposed to the hetman; he did
not believe in the war; and now who knows whether it will not come
to him to lay down his head.”

“Perhaps other Pototskis will march in after him,” said Pan
Mushalski.

“It is evident that the Turks are not distant,” answered Zagloba.
“In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, God grant the
starosta of Podolia to be a second Yeremi, and Kamenyets a second
Zbaraj!”

“It must be; if not, we shall die first,” said a voice at the
threshold.

Basia sprang up at the sound of that voice, and crying “Michael!”
threw herself into the little knight’s arms.

Pan Michael brought from the field much important news, which he
related to his wife in the quiet cell before he communicated it to
the military council. He had destroyed utterly a number of smaller
chambuls, and had whirled around the Crimean camp and that of
Doroshenko with great glory to himself. He had brought also some
tens of prisoners, from whom they might select informants as to the
power of the Khan and Doroshenko.

But other men had less success. The starosta of Podlyasye, at
the head of considerable forces, was destroyed in a murderous
battle; Motovidlo was beaten by Krychinski, who pursued him to
the Wallachian trail, with the aid of the Belgrod horde and those
Tartars who survived Pan Adam’s victory at Tykich. Before coming to
Kamenyets, Pan Michael turned aside to Hreptyoff, wishing, as he
said, to look again on that scene of his happiness.

“I was there,” said he, “right after your departure; the place had
not grown cold yet, and I might have come up with you easily, but
I crossed over to the Moldavian bank at Ushytsa, to put my ear
toward the steppe. Some chambuls have crossed already, but are
afraid that if they come out at Pokuta, they will strike on people
unexpectedly. Others are moving in front of the Turkish army,
and will be here soon. There will be a siege, my dove,--there is
no help for it; but we will not surrender, for here every one is
defending not only the country, but his own private property.”

When he had said this, he took his wife by the shoulders, and
kissed her on the cheeks; that day they talked no more with each
other.

Next morning Pan Michael repeated his news at Bishop
Lantskoronski’s before the council of war, which, besides the
bishop, was formed of Pan Mikolai Pototski, starosta of Podolia,
Pan Lantskoronski, chamberlain of Podolia, Pan Revuski, secretary
of Podolia, Pan Humyetski, Ketling, Makovetski, Major Kvasibrotski,
and a number of other officers. To begin with, Volodyovski was not
pleased with the declaration of Pan Pototski, that he would not
take the command on himself, but confide it to a council.

“In sudden emergencies, there must be one head and one will,” said
the little knight. “At Zbaraj there were three men to whom command
belonged by office, still they gave it to Prince Yeremi, judging
rightly that in danger it is better to obey one.”

These words were without effect. In vain did the learned Ketling
cite, as an example, the Romans, who, being the greatest warriors
in the world, invented dictatorship. Bishop Lantskoronski, who did
not like Ketling,--for he had fixed in his mind, it is unknown
why, that, being a Scot by origin, Ketling must be a heretic at
the bottom of his soul,--retorted that the Poles did not need to
learn history from immigrants; they had their own mind too, and
did not need to imitate the Romans, to whom they were not inferior
in bravery and eloquence, or if they were, it was very little. “As
there is more blaze,” said the bishop, “from an armful of wood than
from one stick, so there is more watchfulness in many heads than
in one.” Herewith he praised the “modesty” of Pan Pototski, though
others understood it to be rather fear of responsibility, and from
himself he advised negotiations.

When this word was uttered, the soldiers sprang from their seats
as if scalded. Pan Michael, Ketling, Makovetski, Kvasibrotski, set
their teeth and touched their sabres. “But I believe,” said voices,
“that we did not come here for negotiations!” “His robe protects
the negotiator!” cried Kvasibrotski; “the church is your place, not
this council!” and there was an uproar.

Thereupon the bishop rose and said in a loud voice: “I should be
the first to give my life for the church and my flock; but if I
have mentioned negotiations and wish to temporize, God be my judge,
it is not because I wish to surrender the fortress, but to win time
for the hetman to collect reinforcements. The name of Pan Sobieski
is terrible to the Pagans; and though he has not forces sufficient,
still let the report go abroad that he is advancing, and the
Mussulman will leave Kamenyets soon enough.” And since he spoke so
powerfully, all were silent; some were even rejoiced, seeing that
the bishop had not surrender in his mind.

Pan Michael spoke next: “The enemy, before he besieges Kamenyets,
must crush Jvanyets, for he cannot leave a defensive castle behind
his shoulders. Therefore, with permission of the starosta, I will
undertake to enclose myself in Jvanyets, and hold it during the
time which the bishop wishes to gain through negotiations. I will
take trusty men with me; and Jvanyets will last while my life
lasts.”

Whereupon all cried out: “Impossible! You are needed here! Without
you the citizens will lose courage, and the soldiers will not
fight with such willingness. In no way is it possible! Who has
more experience? Who passed through Zbaraj? And when it comes to
sorties, who will lead the men? You would be destroyed in Jvanyets,
and we should be destroyed here without you.”

“The command has disposal of me,” answered Pan Michael.

“Send to Jvanyets some daring young man, who would be my
assistant,” said the chamberlain of Podolia.

“Let Novoveski go!” said a number of voices.

“Novoveski cannot go, for his head is burning,” answered Pan
Michael; “he is lying on his bed, and knows nothing of God’s world.”

“Meanwhile, let us decide,” said the bishop, “where each is to have
his place, and what gate he is to defend.”

All eyes were turned to the starosta, who said: “Before I issue the
commands, I am glad to hear the opinions of experienced soldiers;
since Pan Volodyovski here is superior in military experience, I
call on him first.”

Pan Michael advised, first of all, to put good garrisons in the
castles before the town, for he thought that the main force of
the enemy would be turned specially on them. Others followed his
opinion. There were sixteen hundred men of infantry, and these
were disposed in such manner that Pan Myslishevski occupied the
right side of the castle; the left, Pan Humyetski, famous for his
exploits at Hotin. Pan Michael took the most dangerous position on
the side toward Hotin; lower down was placed Serdyuk’s division.
Major Kvasibrotski covered the side toward Zinkovtsi; the south
was held by Pan Vansovich; and the side next the court by Captain
Bukar, with Pan Krasinski’s men. These were not volunteers
indifferent in quality, but soldiers by profession, excellent, and
in battle so firm that artillery fire was no more to them than the
sun’s heat to other men. Serving in the armies of the Commonwealth,
which were always small in number, they were accustomed from
youthful years to resist an enemy of ten times their force, and
considered this as something natural. The general management of
the artillery of the castle was under Ketling, who surpassed all
in the art of aiming cannon. Chief command in the castle was to be
with the little knight, with whom the starosta left the freedom of
making sorties as often as there should be need and possibility.

These men, knowing now where each would stand, were rejoiced
heartily, and raised a considerable shout, shaking their sabres at
the same time. Thus they showed their willingness. Hearing this,
the starosta said to his own soul,--

“I did not believe that we could defend ourselves, and I came here
without faith, listening only to my conscience; who knows, however,
but we may repulse the enemy with such soldiers? The glory will
fall on me, and they will herald me as a second Yeremi; in such an
event it may be that a fortunate star has brought me to this place.”

And as before he had doubted of the defence, so now he doubted of
the capture of Kamenyets; hence his courage increased, and he began
to advise more readily the strengthening of the town.

It was decided to station Pan Makovetski at the Russian gate, in
the town itself, with a handful of nobles, Polish townspeople,
more enduring in battle than others, and with them a few tens of
Armenians and Jews. The Lutsk gate was confided to Pan Grodetski,
with whom Pan Juk and Pan Matchynski took command of artillery. The
guard of the square before the town-house was commanded by Lukash
Dzevanovski; Pan Hotsimirski had command of the noisy Gypsies at
the Russian gate. From the bridge to the house of Pan Sinitski, the
guards were commanded by Pan Kazimir Humyetski. And farther on were
to have their quarters Pan Stanishevski, and at the Polish gate Pan
Martsin Bogush, and at the Spij bastion Pan Skarzinski, and Pan
Yatskovski there at the side of the Byaloblotski embrasures; Pan
Dubravski and Pan Pyetrashevski occupied the butcher’s bastion.
The grand intrenchment of the town was given to Tomashevich, the
Polish mayor, the smaller to Pan Yatskovski; there was an order to
dig a third one, from which later a certain Jew, a skilful gunner,
annoyed the Turks greatly.

These arrangements made, all the council went to sup with
the starosta, who at that entertainment honored Pan Michael
particularly with place, wine, food, and conversation, foreseeing
that for his action in the siege posterity would add to the title
of “Little Knight” that of “Hector of Kamenyets.” Volodyovski
declared that he wished to serve earnestly, and in view of that
intended to make a certain vow in the cathedral; hence he prayed
the bishop to let him make it on the morrow.

The bishop, seeing that public profit might come from the vow,
promised willingly.

Next morning there was a solemn service in the cathedral. Knights,
nobles, soldiers, and common people heard it with devotion and
elevation of spirit. Pan Michael and Ketling lay each in the form
of a cross before the altar; Krysia and Basia were kneeling near
by beyond the railing, weeping, for they knew that that vow might
bring danger to the lives of their husbands.

At the end of Mass, the bishop turned to the people with the
monstrance; then the little knight rose, and kneeling on the steps
of the altar, said with a moved but calm voice,--

“Feeling deep gratitude for the special benefactions and particular
protection which I have received from the Lord God the Most High,
and from His only Son, I vow and take oath that as He and His Son
have aided me, so will I to my last breath defend the Holy Cross.
And since command of the old castle is confided to me, while I am
alive and can move hands and feet, I will not admit to the castle
the Pagan enemy, who live in vileness, nor will I leave the wall,
nor will I raise a white rag, even should it come to me to be
buried there under ruins. So help me God and the Holy Cross! Amen!”

A solemn silence reigned in the church; then the voice of Ketling
was heard.

“I promise,” said he, “for the particular benefactions which I have
experienced in this fatherland, to defend the castle to the last
drop of my blood, and to bury myself under its ruins, rather than
let a foot of the enemy enter its walls. And as I take this oath
with a clean heart and out of pure gratitude, so help me God and
the Holy Cross! Amen!”

Here the bishop held down the monstrance, and gave it to
Volodyovski to kiss, then to Ketling. At sight of this the numerous
knights in the church raised a buzz. Voices were heard: “We will
all swear!” “We will lie one upon another!” “This fortress will
not fall!” “We will swear!” “Amen, amen, amen!” Sabres and rapiers
came out with a gritting from the scabbard, and the church became
bright from the steel. That gleam shone on threatening faces and
glittering eyes; a great, indescribable enthusiasm seized the
nobles, soldiers, and people. Then all the bells were sounded;
the organ roared; the bishop intoned, “Sub Tuum præsidium;” a
hundred voices thundered in answer; and thus they prayed for that
fortress which was the watchtower of Christendom and the key of the
Commonwealth.

At the conclusion of the service Ketling and Pan Michael went
out of the church hand in hand. Blessings and praise were given
them on the way, for no one doubted that they would die rather
than surrender the castle. Not death, however, but victory and
glory seemed to float over them; and it is likely that among all
those people they alone knew how terrible the oath was with which
they had bound themselves. Perhaps also two loving hearts had a
presentiment of the destruction which was hanging over their heads,
for neither Basia nor Krysia could gain self-composure; and when at
last Pan Michael found himself in the cloister with his wife, she,
choking from tears, and sobbing like a little child, nestled up to
his breast, and said in a broken voice,--

“Remember--Michael--God keep misfortune from you--I--I--know not
what--will become of me!”

And she began to tremble from emotion; the little knight was moved
greatly too. After a time he said,--

“But, Basia, it was necessary.”

“I would rather die!” said Basia.

Hearing this, the little knight’s mustaches quivered more and more
quickly, and he repeated a number of times,--

“Quiet, Basia, quiet.” Then at last he said, to calm the woman
loved above all,--

“And do you remember that when the Lord God brought you back to
me, I said thus, ‘Whatever return is proper, O Lord God, I promise
Thee. After the war, if I am alive, I will build a chapel; but
during the war I must do something noteworthy, so as not to feed
Thee with ingratitude’? What is a castle? It is little for such
a benefaction. The time has come. Is it proper that the Saviour
should say to Himself, ‘His promise is a plaything’? May the stones
of the castle crush me before I break my word of a cavalier, given
to God. It is necessary, Basia; and that is the whole thing. Let us
trust in God, Basia.”




CHAPTER LII.


That day Pan Michael went out with squadrons to assist Pan
Vasilkovski, who had hastened on toward Hrynchuk, for news came
that the Tartars had made an attack there, binding people, taking
cattle, but not burning villages, so as not to rouse attention.
Pan Vasilkovski soon scattered them, rescued the captives, and
took prisoners. Pan Michael led these prisoners to Jvanyets,
commissioning Pan Makovetski to torture them, and write down in
order their confessions, so as to forward them to the hetman and
the king. The Tartars confessed that, at command of the perkulab,
they had crossed the boundary with Captain Styngan and Wallachians;
but though burnt, they could not tell how far away the Sultan was
at that time with all his forces, for, advancing in irregular
bands, they did not maintain connection with the main army.

All, however, were at one in the statement that the Sultan had
moved in force, that he was marching to the Commonwealth, and
would be at Kamenyets soon. For the future defenders of Kamenyets
there was nothing new in these confessions; but since in the
king’s palace they did not believe that there would be war, the
chamberlain determined to send these prisoners, together with their
statements, to Warsaw.

The scouting parties returned in good spirits from their first
expedition. In the evening came the secretary of Habareskul, Pan
Michael’s Tartar brother, and the senior perkulab of Hotin. He
brought no letters, for the perkulab was afraid to write; but he
gave command to tell his brother Volodyovski, “the sight of his eye
and the love of his heart,” to be on his guard, and if Kamenyets
had not troops enough for defence, to leave the town under some
pretext, for the Sultan had been expected for two days with his
whole force in Hotin.

Pan Michael sent his thanks to the perkulab, and rewarding the
secretary, sent him home; he informed the commandants immediately
of the approaching danger. Activity on works in the town was
redoubled; Pan Hieronim Lantskoronski moved without a moment’s
delay to his Jvanyets, to have an eye on Hotin.

Some time passed in waiting; at last, on the second day of August,
the Sultan halted at Hotin. His regiments spread out like a sea
without shores; and at sight of the last town lying within the
Padishah’s dominions, Allah! Allah! was wrested from hundreds of
thousands of throats. On the other side of the Dniester lay the
defenceless Commonwealth, which those countless armies were to
cover like a deluge, or devour like a flame. Throngs of warriors,
unable to find places in the town, disposed themselves on the
fields,--on those same fields, where some tens of years earlier,
Polish sabres had scattered an equally numerous army of the
Prophet. It seemed now that the hour of revenge had come; and no
one in those wild legions, from the Sultan to the camp servant, had
a feeling that for the Crescent those fields would be ill-omened a
second time. Hope, nay, even certainty of victory rejoiced every
heart. Janissaries and spahis, crowds of general militia from the
Balkans, from the mountains of Rhodope, from Rumelia, from Pelion
and Ossa, from Carmel and Lebanon, from the deserts of Arabia,
from the banks of the Tigris, from the plains of the Nile, and the
burning sands of Africa, giving out wild shouts, prayed to be led
at once to the “infidel bank.” But muezzins began to call from the
minarets of Hotin to prayer; therefore all were silent. A sea of
heads in turbans, caps, fezes, burnooses, kefis, and steel helmets
inclined toward the earth; and through the fields went the deep
murmur of prayer, like the sound of countless swarms of bees, and
borne by the wind, it flew forward over the Dniester toward the
Commonwealth.

Then drums, trumpets, and pipes were heard, giving notice of rest.
Though the armies had marched slowly and comfortably, the Padishah
wished to give them, after the long journey from Adrianople, a
rest at the river. He performed ablutions himself in a clear
spring flowing not far from the town, and rode thence to the konak
of Hotin; but on the fields they began to pitch tents which soon
covered, as with snow, the immeasurable extent of the country about.

The day was beautiful, and ended serenely. After the last evening
prayers, the camp went to rest. Thousands and hundreds of thousands
of fires were gleaming. From the small castle opposite, in
Jvanyets, men looked on the light of these fires with alarm, for
they were so wide-spread that the soldiers who went to reconnoitre
said in their account, “It seemed to us that all Moldavia was under
the fires.” But as the bright moon rose higher in the starry sky,
all died out save the watch-fires, the camp became quiet, and amid
the silence of the night were heard only the neighing of horses and
the bellowing of buffaloes, feeding on the meadows of Taraban.

But next morning, at daybreak, the Sultan commanded the janissaries
and Tartars to cross the Dniester, and occupy Jvanyets, the town
as well as the castle. The manful Pan Hieronim Lantskoronski did
not wait behind the walls for them, but having at his side forty
Tartars, eighty men of Kieff, and one squadron of his own, struck
on the janissaries at the crossing; and in spite of a rattling
fire from their muskets, he broke that splendid infantry, and they
began to withdraw toward the river in disorder. But meanwhile,
the chambul, reinforced by Lithuanian Tartars, who had crossed at
the flank, broke into the town. Smoke and cries warned the brave
chamberlain that the place was in the hands of the enemy. He gave
command, therefore, to withdraw from the crossing, and succor the
hapless inhabitants. The janissaries, being infantry, could not
pursue, and he went at full speed to the rescue. He was just coming
up, when, on a sudden, his own Tartars threw down their flag, and
went over to the enemy. A moment of great peril followed. The
chambul, aided by the traitors, and thinking that treason would
bring confusion, struck hand-to-hand, with great force, on the
chamberlain. Fortunately, the men of Kieff, roused by the example
of their leader, gave violent resistance. The squadron broke the
enemy, who were not in condition to meet regular Polish cavalry.
The ground before the bridge was soon covered with corpses,
especially of Lithuanian Tartars, who, more enduring than ordinary
men of the horde, kept the field. Many of them were cut down in
the streets later on. Lantskoronski, seeing that the janissaries
were approaching from the water, sent to Kamenyets for succor, and
withdrew behind the walls.

The Sultan had not thought of taking the castle of Jvanyets that
day, thinking justly that he could crush it in the twinkle of an
eye, at the general crossing of the armies. He wished only to
occupy that point; and supposing the detachments which he sent to
be amply sufficient, he sent no more, either of the janissaries or
the horde. Those who were on the other bank of the river occupied
the place a second time after the squadron had withdrawn behind the
walls. They did not burn the town, so that it might serve in future
as a refuge for their own, or for other detachments, and began to
work in it with sabres and daggers. The janissaries seized young
women in soldier fashion; the husbands and children they cut down
with axes; the Tartars were occupied in taking plunder.

At that time the Poles saw from the bastion of the castle that
cavalry was approaching from the direction of Kamenyets. Hearing
this, Lantskoronski went out on the bastion himself, with a
field-glass, and looked long and carefully. At last he said,--

“That is light cavalry from the Hreptyoff garrison; the same
cavalry with which Vasilkovski went to Hrynchuk. Clearly they have
sent him out this time. I see volunteers. It must be Humyetski!

“Praise be to God!” cried he, after a while. “Volodyovski himself
is there, for I see dragoons. Gracious gentlemen, let us rush out
again from behind the walls, and with God’s help, we will drive the
enemy, not only from the town, but from this side of the river.”

Then he ran down with what breath he had, to draw up his men of
Kieff and the squadron. Meanwhile the Tartars first in the town
saw the approaching squadron, and shouting shrilly, “Allah!” began
to gather in a chambul. Drums and whistles were heard in all the
streets. The janissaries stood in order with that quickness in
which few infantry on earth could compare with them.

The chambul flew out of the place as if blown by a whirlwind, and
struck the light squadron. The chambul itself, not counting the
Lithuanian Tartars, whom Lantskoronski had injured considerably,
was three times more numerous than the garrison of Jvanyets and
the approaching squadrons of reinforcement, hence it did not
hesitate to spring on Pan Vasilkovski; but Pan Vasilkovski, a
young, irrepressible man, who hurled himself against every danger
with as much eagerness as blindness, commanded his soldiers to
go at the highest speed, and flew on like a column of wind, not
even observing the number of the enemy. Such daring troubled the
Tartars, who had no liking whatever for hand-to-hand combat.
Notwithstanding the shouting of murzas riding in the rear, the
shrill whistle of pipes, and the roaring sound of drums calling to
“kesim,”--that is, to hewing heads from unbelievers,--they began
to rein in, and hold back their horses. Evidently the hearts grew
faint in them every moment, as did also their eagerness. Finally,
at the distance of a bow-shot from the squadron, they opened on two
sides, and sent a shower of arrows at the onrushing cavalry.

Pan Vasilkovski, knowing nothing of the janissaries, who had formed
beyond the houses toward the river, rushed with undiminished
speed behind the Tartars, or rather behind one half the chambul.
He came up, closed, and fell to slashing down those who, having
inferior horses, could not flee quickly. The second half of the
chambul turned then, wishing to surround him; but at that moment
the volunteers rushed up, and the chamberlain came with his men of
Kieff. The Tartars, pressed on so many sides, scattered like sand,
and then began a rushing about,--that is, the pursuit of a group
by a group, of a man by a man,--in which many of the horde fell,
especially by the hand of Pan Vasilkovski, who struck blindly at
whole crowds, just as a lark-falcon strikes sparrows or bunting.

But Pan Michael, a cool and keen soldier, did not let the dragoons
out of his hand. Like a hunter who holds trained, eager dogs
in strong leashes, not letting them go at a common beast, but
only when he sees the flashing eyes and white teeth of a savage
old boar, so the little knight, despising the fickle horde, was
watching to see if spahis, janissaries, or some other chosen
cavalry were not behind them.

Pan Lantskoronski rushed to him with his men of Kieff.

“My benefactor,” cried he, “the janissaries are moving toward the
river; let us press them!”

Pan Michael drew his rapier and commanded, “Forward!”

Each dragoon drew in his reins, so as to have his horse in hand;
then the rank bent a little, and moved forward as regularly as if
on parade. They went first at a trot, then at a gallop, but did not
let their horses go yet at highest speed. Only when they had passed
the houses built toward the water, east of the castle, did they see
the white felt caps of the janissaries, and know that they had to
do not with volunteer, but with regular janissaries.

“Strike!” cried Volodyovski.

The horses stretched themselves, almost rubbing the ground with
their bellies, and hurled back lumps of hard earth with their hoofs.

The janissaries, not knowing what power was approaching to the
succor of Jvanyets, were really withdrawing toward the river. One
detachment, numbering two hundred and some tens of men, was already
at the bank, and its first ranks were stepping onto scows; another
detachment of equal force was going quickly, but in perfect order.
When they saw the approaching cavalry they halted, and in one
instant turned their faces to the enemy. Their muskets were lowered
in a line, and a salvo thundered as at a review. What is more,
these hardened warriors, considering that their comrades at the
shore would support them with musketry, not only did not retreat
after the volley, but shouted, and following their own smoke,
struck in fury with their sabres on the cavalry. That was daring of
which the janissaries alone were capable, but for which they paid
dearly, because the riders, unable to restrain the horses, even had
they the wish, struck them as a hammer strikes, and breaking them
in a moment, scattered destruction and terror. The first rank fell
under the force of the blow, as grain under a whirlwind. It is true
that many fell only from the impetus, and these, springing up, ran
in disorder to the river, from which the second detachment gave
fire repeatedly, aiming high, so as to strike the dragoons over the
heads of their comrades.

After a while there was evident hesitation among the janissaries
at the scows, and also uncertainty whether to embark or follow
the example of the other detachment, and engage hand-to-hand with
the cavalry. But they were restrained from the last step by the
sight of fleeing groups, which the cavalry pushed with the breasts
of horses, and slashed so terribly that its fury could only be
compared with its skill. At times such a group, when too much
pressed, turned in desperation and began to bite, as a beast at bay
bites when it sees that there is no escape for it. But just then
those who were standing at the bank could see as on their palms
that it was impossible to meet that cavalry with cold weapons,
so far superior were they in the use of them. The defenders were
cut with such regularity and swiftness that the eye could not
follow the motion of the sabres. As when men of a good household,
shelling peas well dried, strike industriously and quickly on the
threshing-floor, so that the whole barn is thundering with the
noise of the blows and the kernels are jumping toward every side,
so did the whole river-bank thunder with sabre-blows, and the
groups of janissaries, slashed without mercy, sprang hither and
thither in every direction.

Pan Vasilkovski hurled himself forward at the head of this cavalry,
caring nothing for his own life. But as a trained reaper surpasses
a young fellow much stronger than he, but less skilled at the
sickle,--for when the young man is toiling, and streams of sweat
cover him, the other goes forward constantly, cutting down the
grain evenly before him,--so did Pan Michael surpass the wild youth
Vasilkovski. Before striking the janissaries he let the dragoons
go ahead, and remained himself in the rear somewhat, to watch the
whole battle. Standing thus at a distance, he looked carefully, but
every little while he rushed into the conflict, struck, directed,
then again let the battle push away from him; again he looked,
again he struck. As usual in a battle with infantry, so it happened
then, that the cavalry in rushing on passed the fugitives. A number
of these, not having before them a road to the river, returned in
flight to the town, so as to hide in the sunflowers growing in
front of the houses; but Pan Michael saw them. He came up with
the first two, and distributed two light blows between them; they
fell at once, and digging the earth with their heels, sent forth
their souls with their blood through the open wounds. Seeing
this, a third fired at the little knight from a janissary musket,
and missed; but the little knight struck him with his sword-edge
between nose and mouth, and this deprived him of precious life.
Then, without loitering. Pan Michael sprang after the others; and
not so quickly does a village youth gather mushrooms growing in a
bunch, as he gathered those men before they ran to the sunflowers.
Only the last two did soldiers of Jvanyets seize; the little knight
gave command to keep these two alive.

When he had warmed himself a little, and saw that the janissaries
were hotly pressed at the river, he sprang into the thick of the
battle, and coming up with the dragoons, began real labor. Now he
struck in front, now he turned to the right or the left, gave a
thrust with his blade and looked no farther; each time a white cap
fell to the ground. The janissaries began to crowd from before him
with an outcry; he redoubled the swiftness of his blows; and though
he remained calm himself, no eye could follow the movements of his
sabre, and know when he would strike or when he would thrust, for
his sabre described one bright circle around him.

Pan Lantskoronski, who had long heard of him as a master above
masters, but had not seen him hitherto in action, stopped fighting
and looked on with amazement; unable to believe his own eyes, he
could not think that one man, though a master, and famous, could
accomplish so much. He seized his head, therefore, and his comrades
around only heard him repeating continually, “As God lives, they
have told little of him yet!” And others cried, “Look at him, for
you will not see that again in this world!” But Pan Michael worked
on.

The janissaries, pushed to the river, began now to crowd in
disorder to the scows. Since there were scows enough, and fewer
men were returning than had come, they took their places quickly
and easily. Then the heavy oars moved, and between the janissaries
and the bank was formed an interval of water which widened every
instant. But from the scows guns began to thunder, whereupon
the dragoons thundered in answer from their muskets; smoke rose
over the water in cloudlets, then stretched out in long strips.
The scows, and with them the janissaries, receded every moment.
The dragoons, who held the field, raised a fierce shout, and
threatening with their fists, called,--

“Ah, thou dog, off with thee! off with thee!”

Pan Lantskoronski, though the balls were plashing still, seized Pan
Michael by the shoulders right at the bank.

“I did not believe my eyes,” said he, “those, my benefactor, are
wonders which deserve a golden pen!”

“Native ability and training,” answered Pan Michael, “that’s the
whole matter! How many wars have I passed through?”

Then returning Lantskoronski’s pressure, he freed himself, and
looking at the bank, cried,--

“Look, your grace; you will see another power.”

The chamberlain turned, and saw an officer drawing a bow on the
bank. It was Pan Mushalski.

Hitherto the famous bowman had been struggling with others
in hand-to-hand conflicts with the enemy; but now, when the
janissaries had withdrawn to such a distance that bullets and
pistol-balls could not reach them, he drew his bow, and standing
on the bank at its highest point he tried the string first with
his finger, when it twanged sharply; he placed on it the feathered
arrow--and aimed.

At that moment Pan Michael and Lantskoronski looked at him. It was
a beautiful picture. The bowman was sitting on his horse; he held
his left hand out straight before him, in it the bow, as if in a
vice. The right hand he drew with increasing force to the nipple
of his breast, till the veins were swelling on his forehead, and
he aimed carefully. In the distance were visible, under a cloud of
smoke, a number of scows moving on the river, which was very high,
from snow melting on the mountains, and was so transparent that the
scows and the janissaries sitting on them were reflected in the
water. Pistols on the bank were silent; eyes were turned on Pan
Mushalski, or looked in the direction in which his murderous arrow
was to go.

Now the string sounded loudly, and the feathered arrow left the
bow. No eye could catch its flight; but all saw perfectly how
a sturdy janissary, standing at an oar, threw out his arms on
a sudden, and turning on the spot, dropped into the river. The
transparent surface spurted up from his weight; and Pan Mushalski
said,--

“For thee, Didyuk.” Then he sought another arrow. “In honor of the
hetman,” said he to his comrades. They held their breath; after a
while the air whistled again, and a second janissary fell on the
scow.

On all the scows the oars began to move more quickly; they struck
the clear river vigorously; but the famous bowman turned with a
smile to the little knight,--“In honor of the worthy wife of your
grace!” A third time the bow was stretched; a third time he sent
out a bitter arrow; and a third time it sank half its shaft’s
length in the body of a man. A shout of triumph thundered on the
bank, a shout of rage from the scows. Then Pan Mushalski withdrew;
and after him followed other victors of the day, and went to the
town.

While returning, they looked with pleasure on the harvest of that
day. Few of the horde had perished, for they had not fought well
even once; and put to flight, they recrossed the river quickly. But
the janissaries lay to the number of some tens of men, like bundles
of firmly bound grain. A few were struggling yet, but all had been
stripped by the servants of the chamberlain. Looking at them, Pan
Michael said,--

“Brave infantry! the men move to the conflict like wild boars; but
they do not know beyond half what the Swedes do.”

“They fired as a man would crack nuts,” said the chamberlain.

“That came of itself, not through training, for they have no
general training. They were of the Sultan’s guard, and they are
disciplined in some fashion; besides these there are irregular
janissaries, considerably inferior.”

“We have given them a keepsake! God is gracious, that we begin the
war with such a noteworthy victory.”

But the experienced Pan Michael had another opinion.

“This is a small victory, insignificant,” said he. “It is good to
raise courage in men without training and in townspeople, but will
have no result.”

“But do you think courage will not break in the Pagans?”

“In the Pagans courage will not break,” said Pan Michael.

Thus conversing, they reached Jvanyets, where the people gave them
the two captured janissaries who had tried to hide from Pan Michael
in the sunflowers.

One was wounded somewhat, the other perfectly well and full of
wild courage. When he reached the castle, the little knight, who
understood Turkish well, though he did not speak it fluently, asked
Pan Makovetski to question the man. Pan Makovetski asked if the
Sultan was in Hotin himself, and if he would come soon to Kamenyets.

The Turk answered clearly, but insolently,--

“The Padishah is present himself. They said in the camp that
to-morrow Halil Pasha and Murad Pasha would cross, taking engineers
with them. To-morrow, or after to-morrow, the hour of destruction
will come on you.”

Here the prisoner put his hands on his hips, and, confident in the
terror of the Sultan’s name, continued,--

“Mad Poles! how did you dare at the side of the Sultan to fall on
his people and strike them? Do you think that hard punishment will
miss you? Can that little castle protect you? What will you be in a
few days but captives? What are you this day but dogs springing in
the face of your master?”

Pan Makovetski wrote down everything carefully; but Pan Michael,
wishing to temper the insolence of the prisoner, struck him on the
face at the last words. The Turk was confused, and gained respect
for the little knight straightway, and in general began to express
himself more decently. When the examination was over, and they
brought him to the hall, Pan Michael said,--

“It is necessary to send these prisoners and their confession on a
gallop to Warsaw, for at the king’s court they do not believe yet
that there will be war.”

“And what do you think, gentlemen, did that prisoner tell the
truth, or did he lie altogether?”

“If it please you, gentlemen,” said Volodyovski, “it is possible to
scorch his heels. I have a sergeant who executed Azya, the son of
Tugai Bey, and who in these matters is _exquisitissimus_; but, to
my thinking, the janissary has told the truth in everything. The
crossing will begin soon; we cannot stop it,--no! even if there
were a hundred times as many of us. Therefore nothing is left but
to assemble, and go to Kamenyets with the news.”

“I have done so well at Jvanyets that I would shut myself up in
the castle with pleasure,” said the chamberlain, “were I sure that
you would come from time to time with succor from Kamenyets. After
that, let happen what would!”

“They have two hundred cannon,” said Pan Michael; “and if they
bring over two heavy guns, this castle will not hold out one day.
I too wished to shut myself up in it, but now I know that to be
useless.”

Others agreed with the little knight. Pan Lantskoronski, as if to
show courage, insisted for a time yet on staying in Jvanyets; but
he was too experienced a soldier not to see that Volodyovski was
right. At last he was interrupted by Pan Vasilkovski, who, coming
from the field, rushed in quickly.

“Gracious gentlemen,” said he, “the river is not to be seen; the
whole Dneister is covered with rafts.”

“Are they crossing?” inquired all at once.

“They are, as true as life! The Turks are on the rafts, and the
chambuls in the ford, the men holding the horses’ tails.”

Pan Lantskoronski hesitated no longer; he gave orders at once to
sink the old howitzer, and either to hide the other things, or take
them to Kamenyets. Pan Michael sprang to his horse, and went with
his men to a distant height to look at the crossing.

Halil Pasha and Murad Pasha were crossing indeed. As far as the
eye reached, it saw scows and rafts, pushed forward by oars, with
measured movement, in the clear water. Janissaries and spahis were
moving together in great numbers; vessels for crossing had been
prepared at Hotin a long time. Besides, great masses of troops were
standing on the shore at a distance. Pan Michael supposed that
they would build a bridge; but the Sultan had not moved his main
force yet. Meanwhile Pan Lantskoronski came up with his men, and
they marched toward Kamenyets with the little knight. Pan Pototski
was waiting in the town for them. His quarters were filled with
higher officers; and before his quarters both sexes were assembled,
unquiet, careworn, curious.

“The enemy is crossing, and Jvanyets is occupied!” said the little
knight.

“The works are finished, and we are waiting,” answered Pan Pototski.

The news went to the crowd, who began to roar like a river.

“To the gates! to the gates!” was heard through the town. “The
enemy is in Jvanyets!” Men and women ran to the bastions, expecting
to see the enemy; but the soldiers would not let them go to the
places appointed for service.

“Go to your houses!” cried they to the crowds; “you will hinder the
defence. Soon will your wives see the Turks near at hand.”

Moreover, there was no alarm in the town, for already news had gone
around of the victory of that day, and news naturally exaggerated.
The soldiers told wonders of the meeting.

“Pan Volodyovski defeated the janissaries, the Sultan’s own guard,”
repeated all mouths. “It is not for Pagans to measure strength with
Pan Volodyovski. He cut down the pasha himself. The Devil is not so
terrible as he is painted! And they did not withstand our troops.
Good for you, dog brothers! Destruction to you and your Sultan!”

The women showed themselves again at the intrenchments and
bastions, but laden with flasks of gorailka, wine, and mead.
This time they were received willingly; and gladness began among
the soldiers. Pan Pototski did not oppose this; wishing to
sustain courage in the men and cheerfulness, because there was an
inexhaustible abundance of ammunition in the town and the castle,
he permitted them to fire salvos, hoping that these sounds of joy
would confuse the enemy not a little, should they hear them.

Pan Michael remained at the quarters of the starosta till
nightfall, when he mounted his horse and was escaping in secret
with his servant to the cloister, wishing to be with his wife as
soon as possible. But his attempts came to nothing, for he was
recognized, and dense crowds surrounded his horse. Shouts and
vivats began. Mothers raised their children to him. “There he is!
look at him, remember him!” repeated many voices. They admired
him immensely; but people unacquainted with war were astonished
at his diminutive stature. It could not find place in the heads
of the townspeople that a man so small, and with such a pleasant
face, could be the most terrible soldier of the Commonwealth,--a
soldier whom none could resist. But he rode among the crowds, and
smiled from time to time, for he was pleased. When he came to the
cloister, he fell into the open arms of Basia.

She knew already of his deeds done that day and all his masterly
blows; the chamberlain of Podolia had just left the cloister, and,
as an eye-witness, had given her a detailed report. Basia, at
the beginning of the narrative, called the women present in the
cloister hence,--the abbess and the wives of Makovetski, Humyetski,
Ketling, Hotsimirski; and as the chamberlain went on, she began to
plume herself immensely before them. Pan Michael came just after
the women had gone.

When greetings were finished, the wearied knight sat down to
supper. Basia sat at his side, placed food on his plate, and poured
mead into his goblet. He ate and drank willingly, for he had put
almost nothing in his mouth the whole day. In the intervals he
related something too; and Basia, listening with gleaming eyes,
shook her head, according to custom, asking,--

“Ah, ha! Well? and what?”

“There are strong men among them, and very fierce; but it is hard
to find a Turk who’s a swordsman,” said the little knight.

“Then I could meet any of them?”

“You might, only you will not, for I will not take you.”

“Even once in my life! You know, Michael, when you go outside the
walls, I am not even alarmed; I know that no one can reach you.”

“But can’t they shoot me?”

“Be quiet! Isn’t there a Lord God? You will not let them cut you
down,--that is the main thing.”

“I will not let one or two slay me.”

“Nor three, Michael, nor four.”

“Nor four thousand,” said Zagloba, mimicking her. “If you knew,
Michael, what she did when the chamberlain was telling his story.
I thought I should burst from laughter. As God is dear to me! she
snorted just like a goat, and looked into the face of each woman in
turn to see if she was delighted in a fitting manner. In the end
I was afraid that the goat would go to butting,--no very polite
spectacle.”

The little knight stretched himself after eating, for he was
considerably tired; then suddenly he drew Basia to him and said,--

“My quarters in the castle are ready, but I do not wish to return.
I might stay here to-night, I suppose.”

“As you like, Michael,” said she, dropping her eyes.

“Ha!” said Zagloba, “they look on me here as a mushroom, not a man,
for the abbess invites me to live in the nunnery. But I’ll pay her,
my head on that point! Have you seen how Pani Hotsimirski is ogling
me? She is a widow--very well--I won’t tell you any more.”

“I think I shall stay,” said the little knight.

“If you will only rest well,” said Basia.

“Why shouldn’t he rest?” asked Zagloba.

“Because we shall talk, and talk, and talk.”

Zagloba wishing to go to his own room, turned to look for his cap;
at last, when he had found it, he put it on his head and said, “You
will not talk, and talk, and talk.” Then he went out.




CHAPTER LIII.


Next morning, at daybreak, the little knight went to Knyahin and
captured Buluk Pasha,--a notable warrior among the Turks. The whole
day passed for him in labor on the field, a part of the night
in counsel with Pan Pototski, and only at first cockcrow did he
lay down his wearied head to sleep a little. But he was barely
slumbering sweetly and deeply when the thunder of cannon roused
him. The man Pyentka, from Jmud, a faithful servant of Pan Michael,
almost a friend, came into the room.

“Your grace,” said he, “the enemy is before the town.”

“What guns are those?” asked the little knight.

“Our guns, frightening the Pagans. There is a considerable party
driving off cattle from the field.”

“Janissaries or cavalry?”

“Cavalry. Very black. Our side is frightening them with the Holy
Cross; for who knows but they are devils?”

“Devils or no devils, we must be at them,” said the little knight.
“Go to the lady, and tell her that I am in the field. If she wishes
to come to the castle to look out, she may, if she comes with Pan
Zagloba, for I count most on his discretion.”

Half an hour later Pan Michael rushed into the field at the head
of dragoons and volunteer nobles, who calculated that it would
be possible to exhibit themselves in skirmishing. From the old
castle the cavalry were to be seen perfectly, in number about
two thousand, composed in part of spahis, but mainly of the
Egyptian guard of the Sultan. In this last served wealthy and
generous mamelukes from the Nile. Their mail in gleaming scales,
their bright kefis, woven with gold, on their heads, their white
burnooses and their weapons set with diamonds, made them the most
brilliant cavalry in the world. They were armed with darts, set on
jointed staffs, and with swords and knives greatly curved. Sitting
on horses as swift as the wind, they swept over the field like a
rainbow-colored cloud, shouting, whirling, and winding between
their fingers the deadly darts. The Poles in the castle could not
look at them long enough.

Pan Michael pushed toward them with his cavalry. It was difficult,
however, for both sides to meet with cold weapons, since the cannon
of the castle restrained the Turks, and they were too numerous for
the little knight to go to them, and have a trial beyond the reach
of Polish cannon. For a time, however, both sides circled around
at a distance, shaking their weapons and shouting loudly. But at
last this empty threatening became clearly disagreeable to the
fiery sons of the desert, for all at once single horsemen began
to separate from the mass and advance, calling loudly on their
opponents. Soon they scattered over the field, and glittered on
it like flowers which the wind drives in various directions. Pan
Michael looked at his own men.

“Gracious gentlemen,” said he, “they are inviting us. Who will go
to the skirmish?”

The fiery cavalier, Pan Vasilkovski, sprang out first; after him
Pan Mushalski, the infallible bowman, but also in hand-to-hand
conflict an excellent skirmisher; after these went Pan Myazga of
the escutcheon Prus, who during the full speed of his horse could
carry off a finger-ring on his lance; after Pan Myazga galloped Pan
Teodor Paderevski, Pan Ozevich, Pan Shmlud-Plotski, Prince Ovsyani,
and Pan Murkos-Sheluta, with a number of good cavaliers; and of
the dragoons there went also a group, for the hope of rich plunder
incited them, but more than all the peerless horses of the Arabs.
At the head of the dragoons went the stern Lusnia; and gnawing his
yellow mustache, he was choosing at a distance the wealthiest enemy.

The day was beautiful. They were perfectly visible; the cannon on
the walls became silent one after another, till at last all firing
had ceased, for the gunners were fearful of injuring some of their
own men; they preferred also to look at the battle rather than fire
at scattered skirmishers. The two sides rode toward each other
at a walk, without hastening, then at a trot, not in a line, but
irregularly, as suited each man. At length, when they had ridden
near to each other, they reined in their horses, and fell to
abusing each other, so as to rouse anger and daring.

“You’ll not grow fat with us, Pagan dogs!” cried the Poles. “Your
vile Prophet will not protect you!”

The others cried in Turkish and Arabic. Many Poles knew both
languages, for, like the celebrated bowman, many had gone through
grievous captivity; therefore when Pagans blasphemed the Most Holy
Lady with special insolence, anger raised the hair on the servants
of Mary, and they urged on their horses, wishing to take revenge
for the insult to her name.

Who struck the first blow and deprived a man of dear life?

Pan Mushalski pierced first with an arrow a young bey, with a
purple kefi on his head, and dressed in a silver scaled armor,
clear as moonlight. The painful shaft went under his left eye, and
entered his head half the length of its shaft; he, throwing back
his beautiful face and spreading his arms, flew from the saddle.
The archer, putting his bow under his thigh, sprang forward and cut
him yet with the sabre; then taking the bey’s excellent weapons,
and driving his horse with the flat of his sword toward the castle,
he called loudly in Arabic,--

“I would that he were the Sultan’s own son. He would rot here
before you would play the last kindya.”

When the Turks and Egyptians heard this they were terribly grieved,
and two beys sprang at once toward Mushalski; but from one side
Lusnia, who was wolf-like in fierceness, intercepted their way, and
in the twinkle of an eye bit to death one of them. First he cut
him in the hand; and when the bey stooped for his sabre, which had
fallen, Lusnia almost severed his head with a terrible blow on the
neck. Seeing which, the other turned his horse swift as wind to
escape, but that moment Pan Mushalski took the bow again from under
his thigh, and sent after the fugitive an arrow; it reached him in
his flight, and sank almost to the feathers between his shoulders.

Pan Shmlud-Plotski was the third to finish his enemy, striking
him with a sharp hammer on the helmet. He drove in with the blow
the silver and velvet lining of the steel; and the bent point of
the hammer stuck so tightly in the skull that Pan Plotski could
not draw it forth for a time. Others fought with varied fortune;
still, victory was mainly with the nobles, who were more skilled in
fencing. But two dragoons fell from the powerful hand of Hamdi Bey,
who slashed then Prince Ovsyani with a curved sword through the
face, and stretched him on the field. Ovsyani moistened his native
earth with his princely blood. Hamdi turned then to Pan Sheluta,
whose horse had thrust his foot into the burrow of a hamster.
Sheluta, seeing death inevitable, chose to meet the terrible
horseman on foot, and sprang to the ground. But Hamdi, with the
breast of his horse, overturned the Pole, and reached the arm of
the falling man with the very end of his blade. The arm dropped;
that instant Hamdi rushed farther through the field in search of
opponents.

But in many there was not courage to measure with him, so greatly
and evidently did he surpass all in strength. The wind raised his
white burnoose on his shoulders, and bore it apart like the wings
of a bird of prey; his gilt worked armor threw an ominous gleam on
his almost black face, with its wild and flashing eyes; a curved
sabre glittered above his head, like the sickle of the moon on a
clear night.

The famed archer let out two arrows at him; but both merely sounded
on his armor with a groaning, and fell without effect on the grass.
Pan Mushalski began to hesitate whether to send forth a third shaft
against the neck of the steed, or rush on the bey with his sabre.
But while he was thinking of this on the way, the bey saw him and
urged on his black stallion.

Both met in the middle of the field. Pan Mushalski, wishing to show
his great strength and take Hamdi alive, struck up his sword with
a powerful blow and closed with him; he seized the bey’s throat
with one hand, with the other his pointed helmet, and drew him from
his horse. But the girth of his own saddle broke; the incomparable
bowman turned with it, and dropped to the ground. Hamdi struck the
falling man with the hilt of his sword on the head and stunned him.
The spahis and mamelukes, who had feared for Hamdi, shouted with
joy; the Poles were grieved greatly. Then the opposing sides sprang
toward one another in dense groups,--one side to seize the bowman,
the other to defend even his body.

So far the little knight had taken no part in the skirmish, for
his dignity of colonel did not permit that; but seeing the fall of
Mushalski and the preponderance of Hamdi, he resolved to avenge the
archer and give courage to his own men. Inspired with this thought,
he put spurs to his horse, and swept across the field as swiftly as
a sparrow-hawk goes to a flock of plover, circling over stubble.
Basia, looking through a glass, saw him from the battlements, and
cried at once to Zagloba, who was near her,--

“Michael is flying! Michael is flying!”

“You see him,” cried the old warrior. “Look carefully; see where he
strikes the first blow. Have no fear!”

The glass shook in Basia’s hand. Though, as there was no discharge
in the field yet from bows or janissary guns, she was not alarmed
over-much for the life of her husband, still, enthusiasm,
curiosity, and disquiet seized her. Her soul and heart had gone out
of her body that moment, and were flying after him. Her breast was
heaving quickly; a bright flush covered her face. At one moment she
had bent over the battlement so far that Zagloba seized her by the
waist, lest she might fall to the fosse.

“Two are flying at Michael!” cried she.

“There will be two less!” said Zagloba.

Indeed, two spahis came out against the little knight. Judging from
his uniform, they knew that he was a man of note, and seeing the
small stature of the horseman they thought to win glory cheaply.
The fools! they flew to sure death; for when they had drawn near he
did not even rein in his horse, but gave them two blows, apparently
as light as when a mother in passing gives a push apiece to two
children. Both fell on the ground, and clawing it with their
fingers, quivered like two lynxes which death-dealing arrows have
struck simultaneously.

The little knight flew farther toward horsemen racing through
the field, and began to spread dreadful disaster. As when after
Mass a boy comes in with a pewter extinguisher fixed to a staff,
and quenches one after another the candles on the altar, and the
altar is buried in shadow, so Pan Michael quenched right and left
brilliant horsemen, Egyptian and Turkish, and they sank in the
darkness of death. The Pagans recognized a master above masters,
and their hearts sank within them. One and another withdrew his
horse, so as not to meet with the terrible leader; the little
knight rushed after the fugitives like a venomous wasp, and pierced
one after another with his sting.

The men at the castle artillery began to shout joyously at sight of
this. Some ran up to Basia, and borne away with enthusiasm, kissed
the hem of her robe; others abused the Turks.

“Basia, restrain yourself!” cried Zagloba, every little while,
holding her continually by the waist; but Basia wanted to laugh and
cry, and clap her hands, and shout and look, and fly to her husband
in the field.

He continued to carry off spahis and Egyptian beys till at last
cries of “Hamdi! Hamdi!” were heard throughout the whole field. The
adherents of the Prophet called loudly for their greatest warrior
to measure himself with that terrible little horseman, who seemed
to be death incarnate.

Hamdi had seen the little knight for some time; but noting his
deeds, he was simply afraid of him. It was a terror to risk at
once his great fame and young life against such an ominous enemy;
therefore he feigned not to see him, and began to circle around at
the other end of the field. He had just finished Pan Yalbryk and
Pan Kos when despairing cries of “Hamdi! Hamdi!” smote his ear. He
saw then that he could hide himself no longer, that he must win
immeasurable glory or lay down his life; at that moment he gave
forth a shout so shrill that all the rocks answered with an echo,
and he urged on toward the little knight a horse as swift as a
whirlwind.

Pan Michael saw him from a distance, and pressed also with his
heels his Wallachian bay. Others ceased the armed argument. At
the castle Basia, who had seen just before all the deeds of the
terrible Hamdi, grew somewhat pale, in spite of her blind faith in
the little knight, the unconquerable swordsman; but Zagloba was
thoroughly at rest.

“I would rather be the heir of that Pagan than that Pagan himself,”
said he to Basia, sententiously.

Pyentka, the slow Lithuanian, was so certain of his lord that not
the least anxiety darkened his face; but seeing Hamdi rushing on,
he began to hum a popular song,--

      “O thou foolish, foolish house-dog,
      That’s a gray wolf from the forest.
      Why dost thou rush forward to him
      If thou canst not overcome him!”

The men closed in the middle of the field between two ranks,
looking on from a distance. The hearts of all died in them for a
moment. Then serpentine lightning flashed in the bright sun above
the heads of the combatants; but the curved blade flew from the
hand of Hamdi like an arrow urged by a bowstring; he bent toward
the saddle, as if pierced with a blade-point, and closed his eyes.
Pan Michael seized him by the neck with his left hand, and placing
the point of his sabre at the armpit of the Egyptian, turned toward
his own men. Hamdi gave no resistance; he even urged his horse
forward with his heel, for he felt the point between his armpit
and the armor. He went as if stunned, his hands hanging powerless,
and from his eyes tears began to fall. Pan Michael gave him to the
cruel Lusnia, and returned himself to the field.

But in the Turkish companies trumpets and pipes were sounded,--a
signal of retreat to the skirmishers. They began to withdraw toward
their own forces, taking with them shame, vexation, and the memory
of the terrible horseman.

“That was Satan!” said the spahis and mamelukes to one another.
“Whoso meets that man, to him death is predestined! Satan, no
other!”

The Polish skirmishers remained awhile to show that they held the
field; then, giving forth three shouts of victory, they withdrew
under cover of their guns, from which Pan Pototski gave command to
renew fire. But the Turks began to retreat altogether. For a time
yet their burnooses gleamed in the sun, and their colored kefis and
glittering head-pieces; then the blue sky hid them.

On the field of battle there remained only the Turks and Poles
slain with swords. Servants came out from the castle to collect
and bury the Poles. Then ravens came to labor at the burial of the
Pagans, but their stay was not long, for that evening new legions
of the Prophet frightened them away.




CHAPTER LIV.


On the following day, the vizir himself arrived before Kamenyets
at the head of a numerous army of spahis, janissaries, and the
general militia from Asia. It was supposed at once, from the
great number of his forces, that he would storm the place; but
he wished merely to examine the walls. Engineers came with him
to inspect the fortress and earthworks. Pan Myslishevski went
out this time against the vizir with infantry and a division of
mounted volunteers. They began to skirmish again; the action was
favorable for the besieged, though not so brilliant as on the first
day. Finally, the vizir commanded the janissaries to move to the
walls for a trial. The thunder of cannon shook at once the town
and the castle. When the janissaries were near the quarters of Pan
Podchaski, all fired at once with a great outburst; but as Pan
Podchaski answered from above with very well-directed shots, and
there was danger that cavalry might flank the janissaries, they
retreated on the Jvanyets road, and returned to the main camp.

In the evening, a certain Cheh (Bohemian) stole into the town;
he had been a groom with the aga of the janissaries, and being
bastinadoed, had deserted. From him the Poles learned that the
Turks had fortified themselves in Jvanyets, and occupied broad
fields on this side of Dlujek. They asked the fugitive carefully
what the general opinion among the Turks was,--did they think to
capture Kamenyets or not? He answered that there was good courage
in the army, and the omens were favorable. A couple of days before,
there had risen on a sudden from the earth in front of the Sultan’s
pavilion, as it were a pillar of smoke, slender below, and widening
above in the form of a mighty bush. The muftis explained that that
portent signified that the glory of the Padishah would reach the
heavens, and that he would be the ruler to crush Kamenyets,--an
obstacle hitherto invincible. That strengthened hearts greatly in
the army. “The Turks,” continued the fugitive, “fear Pan Sobieski,
and succor; from time past they bear in mind the peril of meeting
the troops of the Commonwealth in the open field, though they
are willing to meet Venetians, Hungarians, or any other people.
But since they have information that there are no troops in the
Commonwealth, they think generally that they will take Kamenyets,
though not without trouble. Kara Mustafa, the kaimakan, has
advised to storm the walls straightway; but the more prudent vizir
prefers to invest the town with regular works, and cover it with
cannon-balls. The Sultan, after the first skirmishes, has inclined
to the opinion of the vizir; therefore it is proper to look for a
regular siege.”

Thus spoke the deserter. Hearing this news. Pan Pototski and the
bishop, the chamberlain, Pan Volodyovski, and all the other chief
officers were greatly concerned. They had counted on storms, and
hoped with the defensiveness of the place to repulse them with
great loss to the enemy. They knew from experience that during
storms assailants suffer great losses; that every attack which is
repulsed shakes their courage, and adds boldness to the besieged.
As the knights at Zbaraj grew enamoured at last of resistance, of
battles and sorties, so the inhabitants of Kamenyets might acquire
love for battle, especially if every attack ended in defeat for the
Turks and victory for the town. But a regular siege, in which the
digging of approaches and mines, the planting of guns in position,
mean everything, might only weary the besieged, weaken their
courage, and make them inclined to negotiation. It was difficult
also to count on sorties, for it was not proper to strip the walls
of soldiers, and the servants or townspeople, led beyond the walls,
could hardly stand before janissaries.

Weighing this, all the superior officers were greatly concerned,
and to them a happy result of the defence seemed less likely. In
fact, it had small chance of success, not only in view of the
Turkish power, but in view of themselves. Pan Volodyovski was an
incomparable soldier and very famous, but he had not the majesty
of greatness. Whoso bears the sun in himself is able to warm all
everywhere; but whoso is a flame, even the most ardent, warms only
those who are nearest. So it was with the little knight. He did
not know how to pour his spirit into others, and could not, just
as he could not give his own skill with the sword. Pan Pototski,
the supreme chief, was not a warrior, besides, he lacked faith
in himself, in others, in the Commonwealth. The bishop counted
on negotiations mainly; his brother had a heavy hand, but also a
mind not much lighter. Relief was impossible, for the hetman, Pan
Sobieski, though great, was then without power. Without power was
the king, without power the whole Commonwealth.

On the 16th of August came the Khan with the horde, and Doroshenko
with his Cossacks, and occupied an enormous area on the fields,
beginning with Ronen. Sufan Kazi Aga invited Pan Myslishevski that
day to an interview, and advised him to surrender the place, for if
he did he would receive such favorable conditions as had never been
heard of in the history of sieges. The bishop was curious to know
what those favors were; but he was shouted down in the council, and
a refusal was sent back in answer. On August 18, the Turks began to
advance, and with them the Sultan.

They came on like a measureless sea,--infantry, janissaries,
spahis. Each pasha led the troops of his own pashalik, therefore
inhabitants of Europe, Asia, and Africa. Behind them came an
enormous camp with loaded wagons drawn by mules and buffaloes. That
hundred-colored swarm, in various dresses and arms, moved without
end. From dawn till night those leaders marched without stopping,
moved from one place to another, stationed troops, circled about in
the fields, pitched tents, which occupied such a space that from
the towers and highest points of Kamenyets it was possible in no
wise to see fields free from canvas. It seemed to people that snow
had fallen and filled the whole region about them. The camp was
laid out during salvos of musketry, for the janissaries shielding
that work did not cease to fire at the walls of the fortress; from
the walls an unbroken cannonade answered. Echoes were thundering
from the cliffs; smoke rose and covered the blue of the sky. Toward
evening Kamenyets was enclosed in such fashion that nothing save
pigeons could leave it. Firing ceased only when the first stars
began to twinkle.

For a number of succeeding days firing from the walls and at the
walls continued without interruption. The result was great damage
to the besiegers; the moment a considerable group of janissaries
collected within range, white smoke bloomed out on the walls,
balls fell among the janissaries, and they scattered as a flock
of sparrows when some one sends fine shot at them from a musket.
Meanwhile the Turks, not knowing evidently that in both castles and
in the town there were guns of long range, pitched their tents too
near. This was permitted, by the advice of Pan Michael; and only
when time of rest came, and troops, escaping from heat, had crowded
into those tents, did the walls roar with continuous thunder. Then
rose a panic; balls tore tents, broke poles, struck soldiers,
hurled around sharp fragments of rocks. The janissaries withdrew in
dismay and disorder, crying with loud voices; in their retreat they
overturned other tents, and carried alarm with them everywhere. On
the men disordered in this way Pan Michael fell with cavalry, and
cut them till strong bodies of horsemen came to their aid. Ketling
directed this fire mainly; besides him, the Polish mayor made the
greatest havoc among the Pagans. He bent over every gun, applied
the match himself, and covering his eyes with his hand, looked
at the result of the shot, and rejoiced in his heart that he was
working so effectively.

The Turks were digging approaches, however, making intrenchments
and fixing heavy guns in them. But before they began to fire
from these guns, an envoy of the Turks came under the walls, and
fastening to a dart a letter from the Sultan, showed it to the
besieged. Dragoons were sent out; these brought the envoy at once
to the castle. The Sultan, summoning the town to surrender, exalted
his own might and clemency to the skies.

    “My army” (wrote he) “may be compared to the leaves of
    the forest and the sands of the sea. Look at the heavens;
    and when you see the countless stars, rouse fear in your
    hearts, and say one to another, ‘Behold, such is the power
    of the believers!’ But because I am a sovereign, gracious
    above other sovereigns, and a grandson of the God of
    Justice, I receive my right from above. Know that I hate
    stubborn men; do not oppose, then, my will; surrender your
    town. If you resist, you will all perish under the sword,
    and no voice of man will rise against me.”

They considered long what response to give to that letter, and
rejected the impolitic counsel of Zagloba to cut off a dog’s tail
and send it in answer. They despatched a clever man skilled in
Turkish; Yuritsa was his name. He bore a letter which read as
follows:--

    “We do not wish to anger the Sultan, but we do not hold it
    our duty to obey him, for we have not taken oath to him,
    but to our own lord. Kamenyets we will not surrender, for
    an oath binds us to defend the fortresses and churches
    while our lives last.”

After this answer the officers went to their places on the walls.
Bishop Lantskoronski and the starosta took advantage of this, and
sent a new letter to the Sultan, asking of him an armistice for
four weeks. When news of this went along the gates, an uproar
and clatter of sabres began. “But I believe,” repeated this man
and that, “that we are here burning at the guns, and behind our
shoulders they are sending letters without our knowledge, though
we are members of the council.” At the evening kindya the officers
went in a body to the starosta, with the little knight and Pan
Makovetski at their head, both greatly afflicted at what had
happened.

“How is this?” asked Makovetski. “Are you thinking already of
surrender, that you have sent a new envoy? Why has this happened
without our knowledge?”

“In truth,” added the little knight, “since we are called to a
council, it is not right to send letters without our knowledge.
Neither will we permit any one to mention surrender; if any one
wishes to mention it, let him withdraw from authority.”

While speaking he was terribly roused; being a soldier of rare
obedience, it caused him the utmost pain to speak thus against his
superiors. But since he had sworn to defend the castle till his
death he thought, “It behooves me to speak thus.”

The starosta was confused and answered, “I thought this was done
with general consent.”

“There is no consent. We will die here!” cried a number of voices.

“I am glad to hear that,” said the starosta; “for in me faith
is dearer than life, and cowardice has never come near me, and
will not. Remain, gracious gentlemen, to supper; we will come to
agreement more easily.”

But they would not remain.

“Our place is at the gates, not at the table,” said the little
knight.

At this time the bishop arrived, and learning what the question
was, turned at once to Pan Makovetski and Volodyovski.

“Worthy men!” said he, “each has the same thing at heart as you,
and no one has mentioned surrender. I sent to ask for an armistice
of four weeks; I wrote as follows; ‘During that time we will send
to our king for succor, and await his instructions, and further
that will be which God gives.’”

When the little knight heard this he was excited anew, but this
time because rage carried him away, and scorn at such a conception
of military matters. He, a soldier since childhood, could not
believe his ears, could not believe that any man would propose a
truce to an enemy, so as to have time himself to send for succor.

The little knight looked at Makovetski and then at other officers;
they looked at him. “Is this a jest?” asked a number of voices.
Then all were silent.

“I fought through the Tartar, Cossack, Moscow, and Swedish wars,”
said Pan Michael, at last, “and I have never heard of such reasons.
The Sultan has not come hither to please us, but himself. How will
he consent to an armistice, when we write to him that at the end of
that time we expect aid?”

“If he does not agree, there will be nothing different from what
there is now,” said the bishop.

“Whoso begs for an armistice exhibits fear and weakness, and whoso
looks for succor mistrusts his own power. The Pagan dog believes
this of us from that letter, and thereby irreparable harm has been
done.”

“I might be somewhere else,” said the bishop; “and because I did
not desert my flock in time of need, I endure reprimand.”

The little knight was sorry at once for the worthy prelate;
therefore he took him by the knees, kissed his hands, and said,--

“God keep me from giving any reprimand here; but since there is a
council, I utter what experience dictates to me.”

“What is to be done, then? Let the fault be mine; but what is to be
done? How repair the evil?” asked the bishop.

“How repair the evil?” repeated Volodyovski.

And thinking a moment, he raised his head joyously,--

“Well, it is possible. Gracious gentlemen, I pray you to follow me.”

He went out, and after him the officers. A quarter of an hour later
all Kamenyets was trembling from the thunder of cannon. Volodyovski
rushed out with volunteers; and falling upon sleeping janissaries
in the approaches, he slashed them till he scattered and drove the
whole force to the tabor.

Then he returned to the starosta, with whom he found the bishop.
“Here,” said he, joyously,--“here is help for you.”




CHAPTER LV.


After that sortie the night was passed in desultory firing; at
daylight it was announced that a number of Turks were standing near
the castle, waiting till men were sent out to negotiate. Happen
what might, it was needful to know what they wanted; therefore Pan
Makovetski and Pan Myslishevski were appointed at the council to go
out to the Pagans.

A little later Pan Kazimir Humyetski joined them, and they went
forth. There were three Turks,--Muhtar Bey, Salomi, the pasha of
Rushchuk, and the third Kozra, an interpreter. The meeting took
place under the open sky outside the gate of the castle. The Turks,
at sight of the envoys, began to bow, putting their finger-tips
to their hearts, mouths, and foreheads; the Poles greeted them
politely, asking why they had come. To this Salomi answered,--

“Dear men! a great wrong has been done to our lord, over which
all who love justice must weep; and for which He who was before
the ages will punish you, if you do not correct it straightway.
Behold, you sent out of your own will Yuritsa, who beat with the
forehead to our vizir and begged him for a cessation of arms. When
we, trusting in your virtue, went out of the trenches, you began to
fire at us from cannon, and rushing out from behind walls, covered
the road with corpses as far as the tents of the Padishah; which
proceeding cannot remain without punishment, unless you surrender
at once the castles and the town, and show great regret and
repentance.”

To this Makovetski gave answer,--

“Yuritsa is a dog, who exceeded his instructions, for he ordered
his attendant to hang out a white flag, for which he will be
judged. The bishop on his own behalf inquired privately if an
armistice might be arranged; but you did not cease to fire in time
of sending those letters. I myself am a witness of that, for broken
stones wounded me in the mouth; wherefore you have not the right to
ask us to cease firing. If you come now with an armistice ready,
it is well; if not, tell your lord, dear men, that we will defend
the walls and the town as before, until we perish, or what is more
certain, till you perish, in these rocks. We have nothing further
to give you, except wishes that God may increase your days, and
permit you to live to old age.”

After this conversation the envoys separated straightway. The Turks
returned to the vizir; Makovetski, Humyetski, and Myslishevski to
the castle. They were covered with questions as to how they had
sent off the envoys. They related the Turkish declaration.

“Do not receive it, dear brothers,” said Kazimir Humyetski. “In
brief, these dogs wish that we should give up the keys of the town
before evening.”

To this many voices gave answer, repeating the favorite
expression,--

“That Pagan dog will not grow fat with us. We will not surrender;
we will drive him away in confusion. We do not want him.”

After such a decision, all separated; and firing began at once. The
Turks had succeeded already in putting many heavy guns in position;
and their balls, passing the “breastworks,” began to fall into the
town. Cannoneers in the town and the castles worked in the sweat
of their foreheads the rest of the day and all night. When any one
fell, there was no man to take his place, there was a lack also
of men to carry balls and powder. Only before daybreak did the
uproar cease somewhat. But barely was the day growing gray in the
east, and the rosy gold-edged belt of dawn appearing, when in both
castles the alarm was sounded. Whoso was sleeping sprang to his
feet; drowsy throngs came out on the streets, listening carefully.
“They are preparing for an assault,” said some to others, pointing
to the side of the castle. “But is Pan Volodyovski there?” asked
alarmed voices. “He is, he is!” answered others.

In the castles they rang the chapel bells, and rattling of drums
was beard on all sides. In the half-light, half-darkness of
morning, when the town was comparatively quiet, those voices
seemed mysterious and solemn. At that moment the Turks played
the “kindya;” one band gave the sounds to another, and they ran
in that way, like an echo, through the whole immense tabor. The
Pagan swarms began to move around the tents. At the rising day the
towering intrenchments, ditches, and approaches came out of the
darkness, stretching in a long line at the side of the castle.
The heavy Turkish guns roared at once along its whole length; the
cliffs of the Smotrych roared back in thundering echo; and the
noise was as awful and terrible as if all the thunders in the
storehouse of heaven had flashed and shot down together, bringing
with them the dome of clouds to the earth.

That was a battle of artillery. The town and the castles gave
mighty answers. Soon smoke veiled the sun and the light; the
Turkish works were invisible. Kamenyets was hidden; only one
gray enormous cloud was to be seen, filled in the interior with
lightning, with thunder and roaring. But the Turkish guns carried
farther than those of the town. Soon death began to cut people
down in Kamenyets. A number of cannon were dismounted. In service
at the arquebuses, two or three men fell at a time. A Franciscan
Father, who was blessing the guns, had his nose and part of his lip
carried off by a wedge from under a cannon; two very brave Jews who
assisted in working that cannon were killed.

But the Turkish guns struck mainly at the intrenchment of the town.
Pan Kazimir Humyetski sat there like a salamander, in the greatest
fire and smoke: one half of his company had fallen; nearly all
of those who remained were wounded. He himself lost speech and
hearing; but with the aid of the Polish mayor he forced the enemy’s
battery to silence, at least until new guns were brought to replace
the old ones.

A day passed, a second, a third; and that dreadful “colloquium”
of cannon did not cease for an instant. The Turks changed gunners
four times a day; but in the town the very same men had to work
all the time without sleep, almost without food, stifled from
smoke; many were wounded from broken stones and fragments of cannon
carriages. The soldiers endured; but the hearts began to weaken in
the inhabitants. It was necessary at last to drive them with clubs
to the cannon, where they fell thickly. Happily, in the evening of
the third day and through the night following, from Thursday till
Friday, the main cannonading was turned on the castles.

They were both covered, but especially the old one, with bombs from
great mortars, which, however, “harmed little, since in darkness
each bomb was discernible, and a man could avoid it.” But toward
evening, when such weariness seized men that they fell off their
feet from drowsiness, they perished often enough.

The little knight, Ketling, Myslishevski, and Kvasibrotski answered
the Turkish fire from the castles. The starosta looked in at them
repeatedly, and advanced amid a hail of bullets, anxious, but
regardless of danger.

Toward evening, however, when the fire had increased still more,
Pan Pototski approached Pan Michael.

“Gracious Colonel,” said he, “we shall not hold out.”

“While they confine themselves to firing we shall hold out,”
answered the little knight; “but they will blow us out of here with
mines, for they are making them.”

“Are they really mining?” asked the starosta, in alarm.

“Seventy cannon are playing, and their thunder is almost unceasing;
still, there are moments of quiet. When such a moment comes, put
down your ear carefully and listen.”

At that time it was not needful to wait long, especially as an
accident came to their aid. One of the Turkish siege-guns burst;
that caused a certain disorder. They sent from other intrenchments
to inquire what had happened, and there was a lull in cannonading.

Pan Michael and the starosta approached the very end of one of the
projections of the castle, and began to listen. After a certain
time their ears caught clearly enough the resonant sound of hammers
in the cliff.

“They are pounding,” said the starosta.

“They are pounding,” said the little knight.

Then they were silent. Great alarm appeared on the face of the
starosta; he raised his hands and pressed his temples. Seeing this,
Pan Michael said,--

“This is a usual thing in all sieges. At Zbaraj they were digging
under us night and day.”

The starosta raised his hand: “What did Prince Yeremi do?”

“He withdrew from intrenchments of wide circuit into narrower ones.”

“But what should we do?”

“We should take the guns, and with them all that is movable, and
transfer them to the old castle; for the old one is founded on
rocks that the Turks cannot blow up with mines. I have thought
always that the new castle would serve merely for the first
resistance; after that we must blow it up with powder, and the real
defence will begin in the old one.”

A moment of silence followed; and the starosta bent his anxious
head again.

“But if we have to withdraw from the old castle, where shall we
go?” asked he, with a broken voice.

At that, the little knight straightened himself, and pointed with
his finger to the earth: “I shall go there.”

At that moment the guns roared again, and a whole flock of bombs
began to fly to the castle; but as darkness was in the world, they
could be seen perfectly. Pan Michael took leave of the general,
and went along the walls. Going from one battery to another, he
encouraged men everywhere, gave advice; at last, meeting with
Ketling, he said,--

“Well, how is it?”

Ketling smiled pleasantly.

“It is clear as day from the bombs,” said he, pressing the little
knight’s hand. “They do not spare fire on us.”

“A good gun of theirs burst. Did you burst it?”

“I did.”

“I am terribly sleepy.”

“And I too, but there is no time.”

“Ai,” said Pan Michael; “and the little wives must be frightened;
at thought of that, sleep goes away.”

“They are praying for us,” said Ketling, raising his eyes toward
the flying bombs.

“God give them health!” said Pan Michael.

“Among earthly women,” began Ketling, “there are none--”

But he did not finish, for the little knight, turning at that
moment toward the interior of the castle, cried suddenly, in a loud
voice,--

“For God’s sake! Save us! What do I see?”

And he sprang forward.

Ketling looked around with astonishment. At a few paces distant,
in the court of the castle, he saw Basia, with Zagloba and the
Lithuanian, Pyentka.

“To the wall! to the wall!” cried the little knight, dragging them
as quickly as possible to the cover of the battlements. “For God’s
sake!”

“Ha!” said Zagloba, with a broken voice, and panting; “help
yourself here with such a woman, if you please. I remonstrate with
her, saying, ‘You will destroy yourself and me.’ I kneel down,--no
use. Was I to let her go alone? Uh! No help, no help! ‘I will go; I
will go,’ said I. Here she is for you!”

Basia had fear in her face, and her brow was quivering as if before
weeping. But it was not bombs that she feared, nor the whizzing
of balls, nor fragments of stones, but the anger of her husband.
Therefore she clasped her hands like a child fearing punishment,
and exclaimed, with sobbing voice,--

“I could not, Michael dear; as I love you, I could not. Be not
angry, Michael. I cannot stay there when you are perishing here. I
cannot; I cannot!”

He had begun to be angry indeed, and had cried, “Basia, you have no
fear of God!” but sudden tenderness seized him, his voice stuck in
his throat; and only when that dearest bright head was resting on
his breast, did he say,--

“You are my faithful friend until death;” and he embraced her.

But Zagloba, pressing up to the wall, said to Ketling: “And
yours wished to come, but we deceived her, saying that we were
not coming. How could she come in such a condition? A general of
artillery will be born to you. I’m a rogue if it will not be a
general. Well, on the bridge from the town to the castle, the bombs
are falling like peas. I thought I should burst,--from anger, not
from fear. I slipped on sharp pieces of shell, and cut my skin. I
shall not be able to sit down without pain for a week. The nuns
will have to rub me, without minding modesty. Uf! But those rascals
are shooting. May the thunderbolts shoot them away! Pan Pototski
wants to yield the command to me. Give the soldiers a drink, or
they will not hold out. See that bomb! It will fall somewhere near
us. Hide yourself, Basia! As God lives, it will fall near!”

But the bomb fell far away, not near, for it fell on the roof of
the Lutheran church in the old castle. Since the dome was very
strong, ammunition had been carried in there; but this missile
broke the dome, and set fire to the powder. A mighty explosion,
louder than the thunder of cannon, shook the foundations of both
castles. From the battlement, voices of terror were heard. Polish
and Turkish cannon were silent.

Ketling left Zagloba, and Volodyovski left Basia. Both sprang to
the walls with all the strength in their limbs. For a time it was
heard how both gave commands with panting breasts; but the rattle
of drums in the Turkish trenches drowned their commands.

“They will make an assault!” whispered Zagloba.

In fact, the Turks, hearing the explosion, imagined apparently
that both castles were destroyed, the defenders partly buried in
the ruins, and partly seized with fear. With that thought, they
prepared for the storm. Fools! they knew not that only the Lutheran
church had gone into the air. The explosion had produced no other
effect than the shock; not even a gun had fallen from its carriage
in the new castle. But in the intrenchments the rattle of drums
grew more and more hurried. Crowds of janissaries pushed out of the
intrenchments, and ran with quick steps toward the castle. Fires
in the castle and in the Turkish trenches were quenched, it is
true; but the night was clear, and in the light of the moon a dense
mass of white caps were visible, sinking and rising in the rush,
like waves stirred by wind. A number of thousands of janissaries
and several hundred volunteers were running forward with rage and
the hope of certain victory in their hearts; but many of them were
never again to see the minarets of Stambul, the bright waters of
the Bosphorus, and the dark cypresses of the cemeteries.

Pan Michael ran, like a spirit, along the walls. “Don’t fire! Wait
for the word!” cried he, at every gun.

The dragoons were lying flat at the battlements, panting with rage.
Silence followed; there was no sound but that of the quick tread of
the janissaries, like low thunder. The nearer they came, the more
certain they felt of taking both castles at a blow. Many thought
that the remnant of the defenders had withdrawn to the town, and
that the battlements were empty. When they had run to the fosse,
they began to fill it with fascines and bundles of straw, and
filled it in a twinkle. On the walls, the stillness was unbroken.

But when the first ranks stood on the stuff with which the fosse
had been filled, in one of the battlement openings a pistol-shot
was heard; then a shrill voice shouted,--

“Fire!”

At the same time both bulwarks, and the prolongation joining them,
gleamed with a long flash of flame. The thunder of cannon, the
rattle of musketry, and the shouts of the assailants were mingled.
When a dart, hurled by the hand of a strong beater, sinks half its
length in the belly of a bear, he rolls himself into a bundle,
roars, struggles, flounders, straightens, and again rolls himself;
thus precisely did the throng of janissaries and volunteers. Not
one shot of the defenders was wasted. Cannon loaded with grape
laid men flat as a pavement, just as a fierce wind levels standing
grain with one breath. Those who attacked the extension, joining
the bulwarks, found themselves under three fires, and seized with
terror, became a disordered mass in the centre, falling so thickly
that they formed a quivering mound. Ketling poured grapeshot from
two cannon into that group; at last, when they began to flee, he
closed, with a rain of lead and iron, the narrow exit between the
bulwarks.

The attack was repulsed on the whole line, when the janissaries,
deserting the fosse, ran, like madmen, with a howl of terror. They
began in the Turkish intrenchments to hurl flaming tar buckets
and torches, and burn artificial fires, making day of night, so
as to illuminate the road for the fugitives, and to make pursuit
difficult for a sortie.

Meanwhile Pan Michael, seeing that crowd enclosed between the
bulwarks, shouted for his dragoons, and went out against them.
The unfortunate Turks tried once more to escape through the exit;
but Ketling covered them so terribly that he soon blocked the
place with a pile of bodies as high as a wall. It remained to the
living to perish; for the besieged would not take prisoners, hence
they began to defend themselves desperately. Strong men collected
in little groups (two, three, five), and supporting one another
with their shoulders, armed with darts, battle-axes, daggers, and
sabres, cut madly. Fear, terror, certainty of death, despair, was
changed in them into one feeling of rage. The fever of battle
seized them. Some rushed in fury single-handed on the dragoons.
These were borne apart on sabres in a twinkle. That was a struggle
of two furies; for the dragoons, from toil, sleeplessness, and
hunger, were possessed by the anger of beasts against an enemy that
they surpassed in skill in using cold weapons; hence they spread
terrible disaster.

Ketling, wishing on his part to make the scene of struggle more
visible, gave command to ignite tar buckets, and in the light
of them could be seen irrestrainable Mazovians fighting against
janissaries with sabres, dragging them by the heads and beards. The
savage Lusnia raged specially, like a wild bull. At the other wing
Pan Michael himself was fighting; seeing that Basia was looking
at him from the walls, he surpassed himself. As when a venomous
weasel breaks into grain where a swarm of mice are living, and
makes terrible slaughter among them, so did the little knight rush
like a spirit of destruction among the janissaries. His name was
known to the besiegers already, both from previous encounters and
from the narratives of Turks in Hotin. There was a general opinion
that no man who met him could save himself from death; hence many
a janissary of those enclosed between the bulwarks, seeing Pan
Michael suddenly in front, did not even defend himself, but closing
his eyes, died under the thrust of the little knight’s rapier, with
the word “kismet” on his lips. Finally resistance grew weak; the
remnant of the Turks rushed to that wall of bodies which barred the
exit, and there they were finished.

The dragoons returned now through the filled fosse with singing,
shouting, and panting, with the odor of blood on them; a number
of cannon-shots were fired from the Turkish intrenchments and the
castle; then silence followed. Thus ended that artillery battle
which lasted some days, and was crowned by the storm of the
janissaries.

“Praise be to God,” said the little knight, “there will be rest
till the morning kindya at least, and in justice it belongs to us.”

But that was an apparent rest only, for when night was still deeper
they heard in the silence the sound of hammers beating the cliff.

“That is worse than artillery,” said Ketling, listening.

“Now would be the time to make a sortie,” said the little knight;
“but ’tis impossible; the men are too weary. They have not slept
and they have not eaten, though they had food, for there was no
time to take it. Besides, there are always some thousands on guard
with the miners, so that there may be no opposition from our side.
There is no help but to blow up the new castle ourselves, and
withdraw to the old one.”

“That is not for to-day,” answered Ketling. “See, the men have
fallen like sheaves of grain, and are sleeping a stone sleep. The
dragoons have not even wiped their swords.”

“Basia, it is time to go home and sleep,” said the little knight.

“I will, Michael,” answered Basia, obediently; “I will go as you
command. But the cloister is closed now; I should prefer to remain
and watch over your sleep.”

“It is a wonder to me,” said the little knight, “that after such
toil sleep has left me, and I have no wish whatever to rest my
head.”

“Because you have roused your blood among the janissaries,” said
Zagloba. “It was always so with me; after a battle I could never
sleep in any way. But as to Basia, why should she drag herself to a
closed gate? Let her remain here till morning.”

Basia pressed Zagloba with delight; and the little knight, seeing
how much she wished to stay, said,--

“Let us go to the chambers.”

They went in; but the place was full of lime-dust, which the
cannon-balls had raised by shaking the walls. It was impossible
to stay there, so they went out again, and took their places in a
niche made when the old gate had been walled in. Pan Michael sat
there, leaning against the masonry. Basia nestled up to him, like
a child to its mother. The night was in August, warm and fragrant.
The moon illuminated the niche with a silver light; the faces of
the little knight and Basia were bathed in its rays. Lower down, in
the court of the castle, were groups of sleeping soldiers and the
bodies of those slain during the cannonade, for there had been no
time yet for their burial. The calm light of the moon crept over
those bodies, as if that hermit of the sky wished to know who was
sleeping from weariness merely, and who had fallen into the eternal
slumber. Farther on was outlined the wall of the main castle, from
which fell a black shadow on one half of the courtyard. Outside the
walls, from between the bulwarks, where the janissaries lay cut
down with sabres, came the voices of men. They were camp followers
and those of the dragoons to whom booty was dearer than slumber;
they were stripping the bodies of the slain. Their lanterns were
gleaming on the place of combat like fireflies. Some of them called
to one another; and one was singing in an undertone a sweet song
not beseeming the work to which he was given at the moment:--

      “Nothing is silver, nothing is gold to me now,
      Nothing is fortune.
      Let me die at the fence, then, of hunger,
      If only near thee.”

But after a certain time that movement began to decrease, and at
last stopped completely. A silence set in which was broken only by
the distant sound of the hammers breaking the cliffs, and the calls
of the sentries on the walls. That silence, the moonlight, and the
night full of beauty delighted Pan Michael and Basia. A yearning
came upon them, it is unknown why, and a certain sadness, though
pleasant. Basia raised her eyes to her husband; and seeing that his
eyes were open, she said,--

“Michael, you are not sleeping.”

“It is a wonder, but I cannot sleep.”

“It is pleasant for you here?”

“Pleasant. But for you?”

Basia nodded her bright head. “Oh, Michael, so pleasant! ai, ai!
Did you not hear what that man was singing?”

Here she repeated the last words of the little song,--

      “Let me die at the fence, then, of hunger,
      If only near thee.”

A moment of silence followed, which the little knight interrupted,--

“But listen, Basia.”

“What, Michael?”

“To tell the truth, we are wonderfully happy with each other; and
I think if one of us were to fall, the other would grieve beyond
measure.”

Basia understood perfectly that when the little knight said “if
one of us were to fall,” instead of _die_, he had himself only in
mind. It came to her head that maybe he did not expect to come
out of that siege alive, that he wished to accustom her to that
termination; therefore a dreadful presentiment pressed her heart,
and clasping her hands, she said,--

“Michael, have pity on yourself and on me!”

The voice of the little knight was moved somewhat, though calm.

“But see, Basia, you are not right,” said he; “for if you only
reason the matter out, what is this temporal existence? Why break
one’s neck over it? Who would be satisfied with tasting happiness
and love here when all breaks like a dry twig,--who?”

But Basia began to tremble from weeping, and to repeat,--

“I will not hear this! I will not! I will not!”

“As God is dear to me, you are not right,” repeated the little
knight. “Look, think of it: there above, beyond that quiet moon,
is a country of bliss without end. Of such a one speak to me.
Whoever reaches that meadow will draw breath for the first time,
as if after a long journey, and will feed in peace. When my time
comes,--and that is a soldier’s affair,--it is your simple duty to
say to yourself: ‘That is nothing! Michael is gone. True, he is
gone far, farther than from here to Lithuania; but that is nothing,
for I shall follow him.’ Basia, be quiet; do not weep. The one who
goes first will prepare quarters for the other; that is the whole
matter.”

Here there came on him, as it were, a vision of coming events; for
he raised his eyes to the moonlight, and continued,--

“What is this mortal life? Grant that I am there first, waiting
till some one knocks at the heavenly gate. Saint Peter opens it. I
look; who is that? My Basia! Save us! Oh, I shall jump then! Oh,
I shall cry then! Dear God, words fail me. And there will be no
tears, only endless rejoicing; and there will be no Pagans, nor
cannon, nor mines under walls, only peace and happiness. Ai, Basia,
remember, this life is nothing!”

“Michael, Michael!” repeated Basia.

And again came silence, broken only by the distant, monotonous
sound of the hammers.

“Basia, let us pray together,” said Pan Michael, at last.

And those two souls began to pray. As they prayed, peace came on
both; and then sleep overcame them, and they slumbered till the
first dawn.

Pan Michael conducted Basia away before the morning kindya to the
bridge joining the old castle with the town. In parting, he said,--

“This life is nothing! remember that, Basia.”




CHAPTER LVI.


The thunder of cannon shook the castles and the town immediately
after the kindya. The Turks had dug a fosse at the side of the
castle, five hundred yards long; in one place, at the very wall,
they were digging deeply. From that fosse there went against the
walls an unceasing fire from janissary muskets. The besieged made
screens of leather bags filled with wool; but as long balls and
bombs were hurled continually from the intrenchments, bodies fell
thickly around the cannon. At one gun a bomb killed six men of
Volodyovski’s infantry at once; at other guns men were falling
continually. Before evening the leaders saw that they could
hold out no longer, especially as the mines might be exploded
any moment. In the night, therefore, the captains led out their
companies, and before morning they had transferred, amid unbroken
firing, all the guns, powder, and supplies of provisions to the old
castle. That, being built on a rock, could hold out longer, and
there was special difficulty in digging under it. Pan Michael, when
consulted on this matter at the council, declared that if no one
would negotiate, he was ready to defend it a year. His words went
to the town, and poured great consolation into hearts, for people
knew that the little knight would keep his word even at the cost of
his life.

At the evacuation of the new castle, strong mines were put under
both bulwarks and the front. These exploded with great noise about
noon, but caused no serious loss to the Turks; for, remembering
the lesson of the day before, they had not dared yet to occupy the
abandoned place. But both bulwarks, the front and the main body
of the new castle, formed one gigantic pile of ruins. These ruins
rendered difficult, it is true, approach to the old castle; but
they gave perfect protection to sharpshooters, and, what is worse,
to the miners, who, unterrified at sight of the mighty cliff, began
to bore a new mine. Skilful Italian and Hungarian engineers, in the
service of the Sultan, were overseers of this work, which advanced
rapidly. The besieged could not strike the enemy either from cannon
or musket, for they could not see them. Pan Michael was thinking of
a sortie, but he could not undertake it immediately; the soldiers
were too tired. Blue lumps as large as biscuits had formed on
the right shoulders of the dragoons, from bringing gunstocks
against them continually. Some could hardly move their arms. It
became evident that if boring were continued some time without
interruption, the chief gate of the castle would be blown into the
air beyond doubt. Foreseeing this, Pan Michael gave command to make
a high wall behind the gate, and said, without losing courage,--

“But what do I care? If the gate is blown up, we will defend
ourselves behind the wall; if the wall is blown up, we’ll have a
second one made previously, and so on, as long as we feel an ell of
ground under our feet.”

“But when the ell is gone, what then?” asked the starosta.

“Then we shall be gone too,” said the little knight.

Meanwhile he gave command to hurl hand-grenades at the enemy; these
caused much damage. Most effective in this work was Lieutenant
Dembinski, who killed Turks without number, until a grenade ignited
too soon, burst in his hand, and tore it off. In this manner
perished Captain Schmit. Many fell from the Turkish artillery, many
from musket-shots fired by janissaries hidden in the ruins of the
new castle. During that time they fired rarely from the guns of
the castle; this troubled the council not a little. “They are not
firing; hence it is evident that Volodyovski himself has doubts
of the defence.” Such was the general opinion. Of the officers
no man dared to say first that it remained only to seek the best
conditions, but the bishop, free of military ambition, said this
openly; but previously Pan Vasilkovski was sent to the starosta for
news from the castle. He answered, “In my opinion the castle cannot
hold out till evening, but here they think otherwise.”

After reading this answer, even the officers began to say, “We
have done what we could. No one has spared himself, but what is
impossible cannot be done; it is necessary to think of conditions.”

These words reached the town, and brought together a great crowd
of people. This multitude stood before the town-hall, alarmed,
silent, rather hostile than inclined to negotiations. Some rich
Armenian merchants were glad in their hearts that the siege would
be ended and trading begin; but other Armenians, long settled in
the Commonwealth and greatly inclined to it, as well as Poles and
Russians, wished to defend themselves. “Had we wished to surrender,
we should have surrendered at first,” was whispered here and there;
“we could have received much, but now conditions will not be
favorable, and it is better to bury ourselves under ruins.”

The murmur of discontent became ever louder, till all at once it
turned into shouts of enthusiasm and vivats.

What had happened? On the square Pan Michael appeared in company
with Pan Humyetski, for the starosta had sent them of purpose to
make a report of what had happened in the castle. Enthusiasm seized
the crowd. Some shouted as if the Turks had already broken into the
town; tears came to the eyes of others at sight of the idolized
knight, on whom uncommon exertions were evident. His face was black
from powder-smoke, and emaciated, his eyes were red and sunken; but
he had a joyous look. When he and Humyetski had made their way at
last through the crowd, and entered the council, they were greeted
joyously. The bishop spoke at once.

“Beloved brothers,” said he, “_Nec Hercules contra plures!_ The
starosta has written us already that you must surrender.”

To this Humyetski, who was very quick to action and of great
family, not caring for people, said sharply: “The starosta has lost
his head; but he has this virtue, that he exposes it to danger. As
to the defence, let Pan Volodyovski describe it; he is better able
to do so.”

All eyes were turned to the little knight, who was greatly moved,
and said,--

“For God’s sake, who speaks of surrender? Have we not sworn to the
living God to fall one upon another?”

“We have sworn to do what is in our power, and we have done it,”
answered the bishop.

“Let each man answer for what he has promised! Ketling and I have
sworn not to surrender the castle till death, and we will not
surrender; for if I am bound to keep the word of a cavalier to
every man, what must I do to God, who surpasses all in majesty?”

“But how is it with the castle? We have heard that there is a mine
under the gate. Will you hold out long?” asked numerous voices.

“There is a mine under the gate, or there will be; but there is
a good wall behind the gate, and I have given command to put
falconets on it. Dear brothers, fear God’s wounds; remember that
in surrendering you will be forced to surrender churches into the
hands of Pagans, who will turn them into mosques, to celebrate
foulness in them. How can you speak of surrender with such a light
heart? With what conscience do you think of opening before the
enemy a gate to the heart of the country? I am in the castle and
fear no mines; and you here in the town, far away, are afraid! By
the dear God! we will not surrender while we are alive. Let the
memory of this defence remain among those who come after us, like
the memory of Zbaraj.”

“The Turks will turn the castle into a pile of ruins,” said some
voice.

“Let them turn it. We can defend ourselves from a pile of ruins.”

Here patience failed the little knight somewhat. “And I will defend
myself from a pile of ruins, so help me God! Finally, I tell you
that I will not surrender the castle. Do you hear?”

“But will you destroy the town?” asked the bishop.

“If to go against the Turks is to destroy it, I prefer to destroy
it. I have taken my oath; I will not waste more words; I will go
back among cannon, for they defend the Commonwealth instead of
betraying it.”

Then he went out, and after him Humyetski, who slammed the door.
Both hastened greatly, for they felt really better among ruins,
corpses, and balls than among men of little faith. Pan Makovetski
came up with them on the way.

“Michael,” said he, “tell the truth, did you speak of resistance
only to increase courage, or will you be able really to hold out in
the castle?”

The little knight shrugged his shoulders. “As God is dear to me!
Let the town not surrender, and I will defend the castle a year.”

“Why do you not fire? People are alarmed on that account, and talk
of surrender.”

“We do not fire, because we are busy with hand-grenades, which have
caused considerable harm in the mines.”

“Listen, Michael, have you in the castle such defence that you
could strike at the Russian gate in the rear?--for if, which God
prevent, the Turks break through, they will come to the gate. I
am watching with all my force; but with townspeople only, without
soldiers, I cannot succeed.”

To which the little knight answered: “Fear not, dear brother; I
have fifteen cannon turned to that side. Be at rest too concerning
the castle. Not only shall we defend ourselves, but when necessary
we will give you reinforcement at the gates.”

When he heard this, Makovetski was delighted greatly, and wished to
go away, when the little knight detained him, and asked further,--

“Tell me, you are oftener at these councils, do they only wish to
try us, or do they intend really to give Kamenyets into the hands
of the Sultan?”

Makovetski dropped his head. “Michael,” said he, “answer truly now,
must it not end in that? We shall resist awhile yet, a week, two
weeks, a month, two months, but the end will be the same.”

Volodyovski looked at him gloomily, then raising his hands cried,--

“And thou too, Brutus, against me? Well, in that case swallow your
shame alone; I am not used to such diet.”

And they parted with bitterness in their hearts.

The mine under the main gate of the old castle exploded soon after
Pan Michael’s return. Bricks and stones flew; dust and smoke rose.
Terror dominated the hearts of the gunners. For a while the Turks
rushed into the breach, as rush sheep through the open gate of a
sheepfold, when the shepherd and his assistants urge them in with
whips. But Ketling breathed on that crowd with cartridges from
six cannon, prepared previously on the wall; he breathed once, a
second, a third time, and swept them out of the court. Pan Michael,
Humyetski, and Myslishevski hurried up with infantry and dragoons,
who covered the walls as quickly as flies on a hot day cover the
carcass of a horse or an ox. A struggle began then between muskets
and janissary guns. Balls fell on the wall as thickly as falls
rain, or kernels of wheat which a strong peasant hurls from his
shovel. The Turks were swarming in the ruins of the new castle;
in every depression, behind every fragment, behind every stone,
in every opening of the ruin, they sat in twos, threes, fives,
and tens, and fired without a moment’s intermission. From the
direction of Hotin came new reinforcements continually. Regiment
followed regiment, and crouching down among the ruins began fire
immediately. The new castle was as if paved with turbans. At times
those masses of turbans sprang up suddenly with a terrible outcry,
and ran to the breach; but then Ketling raised his voice, the
bass of the cannon drowned the rattle of musketry, and a storm of
grapeshot with whistling and terrible rattling confused the crowd,
laid them on the ground, and closed up the breach with a quivering
mass of human flesh. Four times the janissaries rushed forward;
four times Ketling hurled them back and scattered them, as a storm
scatters a cloud of leaves. Alone amid fire, smoke, showers of
earth-clods, and bursting grenades, he was like an angel of war.
His eyes were fixed on the breach, and on his serene forehead not
the slightest anxiety was evident. At times he seized the match
from the gunner and touched the priming; at times he covered his
eyes with his hand and observed the effect of the shot; at times he
turned with a smile to the Polish officers and said,--

“They will not enter.”

Never was rage of attack repulsed with such fury of defence.
Officers and soldiers vied with one another. It seemed that the
attention of those men was turned to everything save death; and
death cut down thickly. Pan Humyetski fell, and Pan Mokoshytski,
commander of the men of Kieff. At last the white-haired Pan
Kalushovski seized his own breast with a groan; he was an old
friend of Pan Michael, as mild as a lamb, but a soldier as terrible
as a lion. Pan Michael caught the falling man, who said, “Give
your hand, give your hand quickly!” then he added, “Praise be to
God!” and his face grew as white as his beard. That was before the
fourth attack. A party of janissaries had come inside the breach,
or rather they could not go out by reason of the too thickly flying
missiles. Pan Michael sprang on them at the head of his infantry,
and they were beaten down in a moment with the butts of muskets.

Hour followed hour; the fire did not weaken. But meanwhile news of
the heroic defence was borne through the town, exciting enthusiasm
and warlike desire. The Polish inhabitants, especially the young
men, began to call on one another, to look at one another, and give
mutual encouragement. “Let us go to the castle with assistance!
Let us go; let us go! We will not let our brothers perish! Come,
boys!” Such voices were heard on the square and at the gates; soon
a few hundred men, armed in any fashion, but with daring in their
hearts, moved toward the bridge. The Turks turned on the young men
a terrible fire, which stretched many dead; but a part passed, and
they began to work on the wall against the Turks with great zeal.

This fourth attack was repulsed with fearful loss to the Turks, and
it seemed that a moment of rest must come. Vain hope! The rattle
of janissary musketry did not cease till evening. Only when the
evening kindya was played, did the cannon grow silent, and the
Turks leave the ruins of the new castle. The remaining officers
went then from the wall to the other side. The little knight,
without losing a moment, gave command to close up the breach with
whatever materials they could find,--hence with blocks of timber,
with fascines, with rubbish, with earth. Infantry, cavalry,
dragoons, common soldiers, and officers vied with one another,
regardless of rank. It was thought that Turkish guns might renew
fire at any moment; but that was a day of great victory for the
besieged over the besiegers. The faces of all the besieged were
bright; their souls were flaming with hope and desire of further
victories.

Ketling and Pan Michael, taking each other by the hands after their
labor, went around the square and the walls, bent out through the
battlements, to look at the courtyard of the new castle and rejoice
at the bountiful harvest.

“Body lies there near body,” said the little knight, pointing to
the ruins; “and at the breach there are such piles that you would
need a ladder to cross them. That is the work of your cannon,
Ketling.”

“The best thing,” answered Ketling, “is that we have repaired that
breach; the approach is closed to the Turks, and they must make a
new mine. Their power is boundless as the sea, but such a siege for
a month or two must become bitter to them.”

“By that time the hetman will help us. But come what may, you and I
are bound by oath,” said the little knight.

At that moment they looked into each other’s eyes, and Pan Michael
asked in a lower voice, “And have you done what I told you?”

“All is ready,” whispered Ketling, in answer; “but I think it will
not come to that, for we may hold out very long here, and have many
such days as the present.”

“God grant us such a morrow!”

“Amen!” answered Ketling, raising his eyes to heaven.

The thunder of cannon interrupted further conversation. Bombs began
to fly against the castle again. Many of them burst in the air,
however, and went out like summer lightning.

Ketling looked with the eye of a judge. “At that trench over there
from which they are firing,” said he, “the matches have too much
sulphur.”

“It is beginning to smoke on other trenches,” said Volodyovski.

And, in fact, it was. As, when one dog barks in the middle of a
still night, others begin to accompany, and at last the whole
village is filled with barking, so one cannon in the Turkish
trenches roused all the neighboring guns, and a crown of bombs
encircled the besieged place. This time, however, the enemy fired
at the town, not the castle; but from three sides was heard the
piercing of mines. Though the mighty rock had almost baffled the
efforts of miners, it was clear that the Turks had determined at
all cost to blow that rocky nest into the air.

At the command of Ketling and Pan Michael, the defenders began to
hurl hand-grenades again, guided by the noise of the hammers. But
at night it was impossible to know whether that means of defence
caused any damage. Besides, all turned their eyes and attention to
the town, against which were flying whole flocks of flaming birds.
Some missiles burst in the air; but others, describing a fiery
circle in the sky, fell on the roofs of houses. At once a reddish
conflagration broke the darkness in a number of places. The Church
of St. Catherine was burning, also the Church of St. George in the
Russian quarter, and soon the Armenian Cathedral was burning; this,
however, had been set on fire during the day; it was merely ignited
again by the bombs. The fire increased every moment and lighted
up all the neighborhood. The outcry from the town reached the old
castle. One might suppose that the whole town was burning.

“That is bad,” said Ketling, “for courage will fail in the
inhabitants.”

“Let everything burn,” said the little knight; “if only the rock is
not crushed from which we may defend ourselves.”

Now the outcry increased. From the cathedral the fire spread to the
Armenian storehouses of costly merchandise. These were built on
the square belonging to that nationality; great wealth was burning
there in gold, silver, divans, furs, and rich stuffs. After a
while, tongues of fire appeared here and there over the houses.

Pan Michael was disturbed greatly. “Ketling,” said he, “look to
the hurling of grenades, and injure work in the mines as much as
possible. I will hurry to the town, for my heart is suffering for
the Dominican nuns. Praise be to God that the Turks leave the
castle in quiet, and that I can be absent!”

In the castle there was not, in truth, at that moment much to do;
hence the little knight sat on his horse and rode away. He returned
only after two hours in company with Pan Mushalski, who after that
injury sustained at the hands of Hamdi Bey, recovered, and came now
to the fortress, thinking that during storms he might cause notable
loss to the Pagans, and gain glory immeasurable.

“Be welcome!” said Ketling. “I was alarmed. How is it with the
nuns?”

“All is well,” answered the little knight. “Not one bomb has burst
there. The place is very quiet and safe.”

“Thank God for that! But Krysia is not alarmed?”

“She is as quiet as if at home. She and Basia are in one cell,
and Pan Zagloba is with them. Pan Adam, to whom consciousness has
returned, is here too. He begged to come with me to the castle; but
he is not able to stand long on his feet yet. Ketling, go there
now, and I will take your place here.”

Ketling embraced Pan Michael, for his heart drew him greatly to
Krysia, and gave command to bring his horse at once. But before
they brought the horse, he inquired of the little knight what was
to be heard in the town.

“The inhabitants are quenching the fire very bravely,” answered
the little knight; “but when the wealthier Armenian merchants
saw their goods burning, they sent deputations to the bishop and
insisted on surrender. Hearing of this, I went to the council,
though I had promised myself not to go there again. I struck in the
face the man who insisted most on surrender: for this the bishop
rose in anger against me. The situation is bad, brother; cowardice
is seizing people more and more, and our readiness for defence
is for them cheaper and cheaper. They give blame and not praise,
for they say that we are exposing the place in vain. I heard too
that they attacked Makovetski because he opposed negotiations. The
bishop himself said to him, ‘We are not deserting faith or king;
but what can further resistance effect? See,’ said he, ‘what will
be after it,--desecrated shrines, honorable ladies insulted, and
innocent children dragged captive. With a treaty,’ said he, ‘we can
assure their fate and obtain free escape.’ So spoke the bishop.
The starosta nodded and said, ‘I would rather perish, but this is
true.’”

“The will of God be done!” said Ketling.

But Pan Michael wrung his hands. “And if that were even true,”
cried he, “but God is witness that we can defend ourselves yet.”

Now they brought Ketling’s horse. He mounted quickly.

“Carefully through the bridge,” said Pan Michael at parting, “for
the bombs fall there thickly.”

“I will return in an hour,” said Ketling; and he rode away.

Pan Michael started to go around the walls with Mushalski. In
three places hammering was heard; hence the besieged were throwing
hand-grenades from three places. On the left side of the castle
Lusnia was directing that work.

“Well, how is it going with you?” inquired Volodyovski.

“Badly, Pan Commandant,” said the sergeant: “the pig-bloods are
sitting in the cliff, and only sometimes at the entrance does a
piece of shell hurt a man. We haven’t done much.”

In other places the case was still worse, especially as the sky
had grown gloomy and rain was falling, from which the wicks in the
grenades were growing damp. Darkness too hindered the work.

Pan Michael drew Mushalski aside somewhat, and halting, said on a
sudden, “But listen! If we should try to smother those moles in
their burrows?”

“That seems to me certain death, for whole regiments of janissaries
are guarding them. But let us try!”

“Regiments are guarding them, it is true; but the night is very
dark, and confusion seizes them quickly. Just think, they are
talking of surrender in the town. Why? Because, they say to us,
‘There are mines under you; you are not defending yourselves.’ We
should close their lips if to-night we could send the news, ‘There
is no longer a mine!’ For such a cause is it worth while to lay
down one’s head or not?”

Pan Mushalski thought a moment, and cried, “It is worth while! As
God lives, it is!”

“In one place they began to hammer not long ago,” said Pan Michael;
“we will leave those undisturbed, but here and on that side they
have dug in very deeply. Take fifty dragoons; I will take the same
number; and we will try to smother them. Have you the wish?”

“I have, and it is increasing. I will take spikes in my belt to
spike cannon; perhaps on the road I may find some.”

“As to finding, I doubt that, though there are some falconets
standing near; but take the spikes. We will only wait for Ketling;
he knows better than others how to succor in a sudden emergency.”

Ketling came as he had promised; he was not behind time one moment.
Half an hour later two detachments of dragoons, of fifty men
each, went to the breach, slipped out quickly, and vanished in
the darkness. Ketling gave command to throw grenades for a short
time yet; then he ceased work and waited. His heart was beating
unquietly, for he understood well how desperate the undertaking
was. A quarter of an hour passed, half an hour, an hour: it seemed
that they ought to be there already and to begin; meanwhile,
putting his ear to the ground, he heard the quiet hammering
perfectly.

Suddenly at the foot of the castle, on the left side, there was a
pistol-shot, which in the damp air, in view of the firing from the
trenches, did not make a loud report, and might have passed without
rousing the attention of the garrison had not a terrible uproar
succeeded it. “They are there,” thought Ketling; “but will they
return?” And then sounded the shouts of men, the roar of drums, the
whistle of pipes,--finally the rattle of musketry, hurried and very
irregular. The Turks fired from all sides and in throngs; evidently
whole divisions had run up to succor the miners. As Pan Michael had
foreseen, confusion seized the janissaries, who, fearing to strike
one another, shouted loudly, fired at random, and often in the
air. The uproar and firing increased every moment. When martens,
eager for blood, break into a sleeping hen-house at night, a mighty
uproar and cackling rise in the quiet building: confusion like that
set in all at once round the castle. The Turks began to hurl bombs
at the walls, so as to clear up the darkness. Ketling pointed guns
in the direction of the Turkish troops on guard, and answered with
grapeshot. The Turkish approaches blazed; the walls blazed. In the
town the alarm was beaten, for the people believed universally
that the Turks had burst into the fortress. In the trenches the
Turks thought that a powerful sortie was attacking all their works
simultaneously; and a general alarm spread among them. Night
favored the desperate enterprise of Pan Michael and Mushalski, for
it had grown very dark. Discharges of cannon and grenades rent only
for instants the darkness, which was afterward blacker. Finally,
the sluices of heaven opened suddenly, and down rushed torrents of
rain. Thunder outsounded the firing, rolled, grumbled, howled, and
roused terrible echoes in the cliffs. Ketling sprang from the wall,
ran at the head of fifteen or twenty men to the breach, and waited.
But he did not wait long. Soon dark figures swarmed in between the
timbers with which the opening was barred.

“Who goes there?” cried Ketling.

“Volodyovski,” was the answer. And the two knights fell into each
other’s embrace.

“What! How is it there?” asked the officers, rushing out to the
breach.

“Praise be to God! the miners are cut down to the last man; their
tools are broken and scattered. Their work is for nothing.”

“Praise be to God! Praise be to God!”

“But is Mushalski with his men?”

“He is not here yet.”

“We might go to help him. Gracious gentlemen, who is willing?”

But that moment the breach was filled again. Mushalski’s men were
returning in haste, and decreased in number considerably, for many
of them had fallen from bullets. But they returned joyously, for
with an equally favorable result. Some of the soldiers had brought
back hammers, drills, and pickaxes as a proof that they had been in
the mine itself.

“But where is Mushalski?” asked Pan Michael.

“True; where is Pan Mushalski?” repeated a number of voices.

The men under command of the celebrated bowman stared at one
another; then a dragoon, who was wounded severely, said, with a
weak voice,--

“Pan Mushalski has fallen. I saw him when he fell. I fell at his
side; but I rose, and he remained.”

The knights were grieved greatly on hearing of the bowman’s
death, for he was one of the first cavaliers in the armies of the
Commonwealth. They asked the dragoon again how it had happened;
but he was unable to answer, for blood was flowing from him in a
stream, and he fell to the ground like a grain-sheaf.

The knights began to lament for Pan Mushalski.

“His memory will remain in the army,” said Pan Kvasibrotski, “and
whoever survives the siege will celebrate his name.”

“There will not be born another such bowman,” said a voice.

“He was stronger in the arm than any man in Hreptyoff,” said the
little knight. “He could push a thaler with his fingers into a
new board. Pan Podbipienta, a Lithuanian, alone surpassed him in
strength; but Podbipienta was killed in Zbaraj, and of living men
none was so strong in the hands, unless perhaps Pan Adam.”

“A great, great loss,” said others. “Only in old times were such
cavaliers born.”

Thus honoring the memory of the bowman, they mounted the wall. Pan
Michael sent a courier at once with news to the starosta and the
bishop that the mines were destroyed, and the miners cut down by a
sortie. This news was received with great astonishment in the town,
but--who could expect it?--with secret dislike. The starosta and
the bishop were of opinion that those passing triumphs would not
save Kamenyets, but only rouse the savage lion still more. They
could be useful only in case surrender were agreed on in spite of
them; therefore the two leaders determined to continue further
negotiations.

But neither Pan Michael nor Ketling admitted even for a moment
that the happy news could have such an effect. Nay, they felt
certain now that courage would enter the weakest hearts, and that
all would be inflamed with desire for a passionate resistance. It
was impossible to take the town without taking the castle first;
therefore if the castle not merely resisted, but conquered, the
besieged had not the least need to negotiate. There was plenty of
provisions, also of powder; in view of this it was only needful to
watch the gates and quench fires in the town.

During the whole siege this was the night of most joy for Pan
Michael and Ketling. Never had they had such great hope that they
would come out alive from those Turkish toils, and also bring out
those dearest heads in safety.

“A couple of storms more,” said the little knight, “and as God is
in heaven the Turks will be sick of them, and will prefer to force
us with famine. And we have supplies enough here. September is at
hand; in two months rains and cold will begin. Those troops are
not over-enduring; let them get well chilled once, and they will
withdraw.”

“Many of them are from Ethiopian countries,” said Ketling, “or from
various places where pepper grows; and any frost will nip them. We
can hold out two months in the worst case, even with storms. It
is impossible too to suppose that no succor will come to us. The
Commonwealth will return to its senses at last; and even if the
hetman should not collect a great force, he will annoy the Turk
with attacks.”

“Ketling! as it seems to me, our hour has not struck yet.”

“It is in the power of God, but it seems to me also that it will
not come to that.”

“Even if some one has fallen, such as Pan Mushalski. Well, there is
no help for it! I am terribly sorry for Mushalski, though he died a
hero’s death.”

“May God grant us no worse one, if only not soon! for I confess to
you, Michael, I should be sorry for--Krysia.”

“Yes, and I too for Basia; we will work earnestly, and maybe there
is mercy above us. I am very glad in soul for some reason. We must
do a notable deed to-morrow as well.”

“The Turks have made protections of plank. I have thought of a
method used in burning ships; the rags are now steeping in tar, so
that to-morrow before noon we will burn all those works.”

“Ah!” said the little knight, “then I will lead a sortie. During
the fire there will be confusion in every case, and it will not
enter their heads that there can be a sortie in daylight. To-morrow
may be better than to-day, Ketling.”

Thus did they converse with swelling hearts, and then went to rest,
for they were greatly wearied. But the little knight had not slept
three hours when Lusnia roused him.

“Pan Commandant,” said the sergeant, “we have news.”

“What is it?” cried the watchful soldier, springing up in one
moment.

“Pan Mushalski is here.”

“For God’s sake! what do you tell me?”

“He is here. I was standing at the breach, and heard some one
calling from the other side in Polish, ‘Do not fire; it is I.’ I
looked; there was Pan Mushalski coming back dressed as a janissary.”

“Praise be to God!” said the little knight; and he sprang up to
greet the bowman.

It was dawning already. Pan Mushalski was standing outside the wall
in a white cap and armor, so much like a real janissary that one’s
eyes were slow in belief. Seeing the little knight, he hurried to
him, and began to greet him joyously.

“We have mourned over you already!” cried Volodyovski.

With that a number of other officers ran up, among them Ketling.
All were amazed beyond description, and interrupted one another
asking how he came to be in Turkish disguise.

“I stumbled,” said he, “over the body of a janissary when I was
returning, and struck my head against a cannon-ball; though I had
a cap bound with wire, I lost consciousness at once. My head was
tender after that blow which I got from Hamdi Bey. When I came to
myself I was lying on a dead janissary, as on a bed. I felt my
head; it was a trifle sore, but there was not even a lump on it.
I took off my cap; the rain cooled my head, and I thought: ‘This
is well for us. It would be a good plan to take that janissary’s
uniform, and stroll among the Turks. I speak their tongue as well
as Polish, and no one could discover me by my speech; my face is
not different from that of a janissary. I will go and listen to
their talk.’ Fear seized me at times, for I remembered my former
captivity; but I went. The night was dark; there was barely a
light here and there. I tell you, gentlemen, I went among them
as if they had been my own people. Many of them were lying in
trenches under cover; I went to them. This and that one asked,
‘Why are you strolling about?’ ‘Because I cannot sleep,’ answered
I. Others were talking in crowds about the siege. There is great
consternation. I heard with my own ears how they complained of our
Hreptyoff commandant here present,” at this Pan Mushalski bowed
to Volodyovski. “I repeat their _ipsissima verba_” (very words),
“because an enemy’s blame is the highest praise. ‘While that little
dog,’ said they, thus did the dog brothers call your grace,--‘while
that little dog defends the castle, we shall not capture it.’
Others said, ‘Bullets and iron do not harm him; but death blows
from him as from a pestilence.’ Then all in the crowd began to
complain: ‘We alone fight,’ said they, ‘and other troops are doing
nothing; the volunteers are lying with their bellies to the sky.
The Tartars are plundering; the spahis are strolling about the
bazaars. The Padishah says to us, “My dear lambs;” but it is clear
that we are not over-dear to him, since he sends us here to the
shambles. We will hold out,’ said they, ‘but not long; then we will
go back to Hotin, and if they do not let us go, some lofty heads
may fall.’”

“Do you hear, gracious gentlemen?” cried Volodyovski. “When the
janissaries mutiny, the Sultan will be frightened, and raise the
siege.”

“As God is dear to me, I tell the pure truth,” said Mushalski.
“Rebellion is easy among the janissaries, and they are very much
dissatisfied. I think that they will try one or two storms more,
and then will gnash their teeth at their aga, the kaimakan, or even
the Sultan himself.”

“So it will be,” cried the officers.

“Let them try twelve storms; we are ready,” said others.

They rattled their sabres and looked with bloodshot eyes at the
trenches, while drawing deep breaths; hearing this, the little
knight whispered with enthusiasm to Ketling, “A new Zbaraj! a new
Zbaraj!”

But Pan Mushalski began again: “I have told you what I heard. I
was sorry to leave them, for I might have heard more; but I was
afraid that daylight might catch me. I went then to those trenches
from which they were not firing; I did this so as to slip by in the
dark. I look; I see no regular sentries, only groups of janissaries
strolling, as everywhere. I go to a frowning gun; no one says
anything. You know that I took spikes for the cannon. I push a
spike into the priming quickly; it won’t go in,--it needs a blow
from a hammer. But since the Lord God gave some strength to my hand
(you have seen my experiments more than once), I pressed the spike;
it squeaked a little, but went in to the head. I was terribly glad.”

“As God lives! did you do that? Did you spike the great cannon?”
asked men on every side.

“I spiked that and another, for the work went so easily that I was
sorry to leave it; and I went to another gun. My hand is a little
sore, but the spike went in.”

“Gracious gentlemen,” cried Pan Michael, “no one here has done
greater things; no one has covered himself with such glory. Vivat
Pan Mushalski!”

“Vivat! vivat!” repeated the officers.

After the officers the soldiers began to shout. The Turks in their
trenches heard those shouts, and were alarmed; their courage fell
the more. But the bowman, full of joy, bowed to the officers, and
showed his mighty palm, which was like a shovel; on it were two
blue spots. “True, as God lives! you have the witness here,” said
he.

“We believe!” cried all. “Praise be to God that you came back in
safety!”

“I passed through the planking,” continued the bowman. “I wanted to
burn that work; but I had nothing to do it with.”

“Do you know, Michael,” cried Ketling, “my rags are ready. I am
beginning to think of that planking. Let them know that we attack
first.”

“Begin! begin!” cried Pan Michael.

He rushed himself to the arsenal, and sent fresh news to the town:
“Pan Mushalski was not killed in the sortie, for he has returned,
after spiking two heavy guns. He was among the janissaries, who
think of rebelling. In an hour we shall burn their woodworks; and
if it be possible to make at the same time a sortie, I will make
it.”

The messenger had not crossed the bridge when the walls were
trembling from the roar of cannon. This time the castle began the
thundering dialogue. In the pale light of the morning the flaming
rags flew like blazing banners, and fell on the woodwork. The
moisture with which the night rain had covered the wood helped
nothing. Soon the timbers caught fire, and were burning. After
the rags Ketling hurled bombs. The wearied crowds of janissaries
left the trenches in the first moments. They did not play the
kindya. The vizir himself appeared at the head of new legions; but
evidently doubt had crept even into his heart, for the pashas heard
how he muttered,--

“Battle is sweeter to those men than sleep. What kind of people
live in that castle?”

In the army were heard on all sides alarmed voices repeating, “The
little dog is beginning to bite! The little dog is beginning to
bite!”




CHAPTER LVII.


That happy night, full of omens of victory, was followed by August
26,--the day most important in the history of that war. In the
castle they expected some great effort on the part of the Turks.
In fact, about sunrise there was heard such a loud and mighty
hammering along the left side of the castle as never before.
Evidently the Turks were hurrying with a new mine, the largest of
all. Strong detachments of troops were guarding that work from a
distance. Swarms began to move in the trenches. From the multitude
of colored banners with which the field on the side of Dlujek had
bloomed as with flowers, it was known that the vizir was coming
to direct the storm in person. New cannon were brought to the
intrenchments by janissaries, countless throngs of whom covered the
new castle, taking refuge in its fosses and ruins, so as to be in
readiness for a hand-to-hand struggle.

As has been said, the castle was the first to begin the converse
with cannon, and so effectually that a momentary panic rose in the
trenches. But the bimbashes rallied the janissaries in the twinkle
of an eye; at the same time all the Turkish cannon raised their
voices. Bombs, balls, and grapeshot were flying; at the heads of
the besieged flew rubbish, bricks, plaster; smoke was mingled
with dust, the heat of fire with the heat of the sun. Breath was
failing in men’s breasts; sight left their eyes. The roar of guns,
the bursting of bombs, the biting of cannon-balls on the rocks,
the uproar of the Turks, the cries of the defenders, formed one
terrible concert which was accompanied by the echoes of the cliffs.
The castle was covered with missiles; the town, the gates, all the
bastions, were covered. But the castle defended itself with rage;
it answered thunders with thunders, shook, flashed, smoked, roared,
vomited fire, death, and destruction, as if Jove’s anger had borne
it away,--as if it had forgotten itself amid flames; as if it
wished to drown the Turkish thunders and sink in the earth, or else
triumph.

In the castle, among flying balls, fire, dust, and smoke, the
little knight rushed from cannon to cannon, from one wall to
another, from corner to corner; he was like a destroying flame.
He seemed to double and treble himself: he was everywhere. He
encouraged; he shouted. When a gunner fell he took his place, and
rousing confidence in men, ran again to some other spot. His fire
was communicated to the soldiers. They believed that this was
the last storm, after which would come peace and glory; faith in
victory filled their breasts. Their hearts grew firm and resolute;
the madness of battle seized their minds. Shouts and challenges
issued every moment from their throats. Such rage seized some that
they went over the wall to close outside with the janissaries
hand-to-hand.

The janissaries, under cover of smoke, went twice to the breach in
dense masses; and twice they fell back in disorder after they had
covered the ground with their bodies. About midday the volunteer
and irregular janissaries were sent to aid them; but the less
trained crowds, though pushed from behind with darts, only howled
with dreadful voices, and did not wish to go against the castle.
The kaimakan came; that did no good. Every moment threatened
disorder, bordering on panic. At last the men were withdrawn; and
the guns alone worked unceasingly as before, hurling thunder after
thunder, lightning after lightning.

Whole hours were spent in this manner. The sun had passed the
zenith, and rayless, red, and smoky, as if veiled by haze, looked
at that struggle.

About three o’clock in the afternoon the roar of guns gained such
force that in the castle the loudest words shouted in the ear were
not audible. The air in the castle became as hot as in a stove. The
water which they poured on the cannon turned into steam, mixing
with the smoke and hiding the light; but the guns thundered on.

Just after three o’clock, the largest Turkish culverines were
broken. Some “Our Fathers” later, the mortar standing near them
burst, struck by a long shot. Gunners perished like flies. Every
moment it became more evident that that irrepressible castle was
gaining in the struggle, that it would roar down the Turkish
thunder, and utter the last word of victory.

The Turkish fire began to weaken gradually.

“The end will come!” shouted Volodyovski, with all his might, in
Ketling’s ear. He wished his friend to hear those words amid the
roar.

“So I think,” answered Ketling. “To last till to-morrow, or longer?”

“Perhaps longer. Victory is with us to-day.”

“And through us. We must think of that new mine.”

The Turkish fire was weakening still more.

“Keep up the cannonade!” cried Volodyovski. And he sprang among
the gunners, “Fire, men!” cried he, “till the last Turkish gun is
silent! To the glory of God and the Most Holy Lady! To the glory of
the Commonwealth!”

The soldiers, seeing that the storm was nearing its end, gave forth
a loud shout, and with the greater enthusiasm fired at the Turkish
trenches.

“We’ll play an evening kindya for you, dog brothers,” cried many
voices.

Suddenly something wonderful took place. All the Turkish guns
ceased at once, as if some one had cut them off with a knife. At
the same time, the musketry fire of the janissaries ceased in the
new castle. The old castle thundered for a time yet; but at last
the officers began to look at one another, and inquire,--

“What is this? What has happened?”

Ketling, alarmed somewhat, ceased firing also.

“Maybe there is a mine under us which will be exploded right away,”
said one of the officers.

Volodyovski pierced the man with a threatening glance, and said,
“The mine is not ready; and even if it were, only the left side of
the castle could be blown up by it, and we will defend ourselves in
the ruins while there is breath in our nostrils. Do you understand?”

Silence followed, unbroken by a shot from the trenches or the
town. After thunders from which the walls and the earth had
been quivering, there was something solemn in that silence, but
something ominous also. The eyes of each were intent on the
trenches; but through the clouds of smoke nothing was visible.
Suddenly the measured blows of hammers were heard on the left side.

“I told you that they are only making the mine,” said Pan Michael.
“Sergeant, take twenty men and examine for me the new castle,”
commanded he, turning to Lusnia.

Lusnia obeyed quickly, took twenty men, and vanished in a moment
beyond the breach. Silence followed again, broken only by groans
here and there, or the gasp of the dying, and the pounding of
hammers. They waited rather long. At last the sergeant returned.

“Pan Commandant,” said he, “there is not a living soul in the new
castle.”

Volodyovski looked with astonishment at Ketling. “Have they raised
the siege already, or what? Nothing can be seen through the smoke.”

But the smoke, blown by the wind, became thin, and at last its veil
was broken above the town. At the same moment a voice, shrill and
terrible, began to shout from the bastion,--

“Over the gates are white flags! We are surrendering!”

Hearing this, the soldiers and officers turned toward the town.
Terrible amazement was reflected on their faces; the words died on
the lips of all; and through the strips of smoke they were gazing
toward the town. But in the town, on the Russian and Polish gates,
white flags were really waving. Farther on, they saw one on the
bastion of Batory.

The face of the little knight became as white as those flags waving
in the wind.

“Ketling, do you see?” whispered he, turning to his friend.

Ketling’s face was pale also. “I see,” replied he.

And they looked into each other’s eyes for some time, uttering
with them everything which two soldiers like them, without fear
or reproach, had to say,--soldiers who never in life had broken
their word, and who had sworn before the altar to die rather than
surrender the castle. And now, after such a defence, after a
struggle which recalled the days of Zbaraj, after a storm which had
been repulsed, and after a victory, they were commanded to break
their oath, to surrender the castle, and live.

As, not long before, hostile balls were flying over the castle, so
now hostile thoughts were flying in a throng through their heads.
And sorrow simply measureless pressed their hearts,--sorrow for
two loved ones, sorrow for life and happiness; hence they looked
at each other as if demented, as if dead, and at times they turned
glances full of despair toward the town, as if wishing to be sure
that their eyes were not deceiving them,--to be sure that the last
hour had struck.

At that time horses’ hoofs sounded from the direction of the town;
and after a while Horaim, the attendant of the starosta, rushed up
to them.

“An order to the commandant!” cried he, reining in his horse.

Volodyovski took the order, read it in silence, and after a time,
amid silence as of the grave, said to the officers,--

“Gracious gentlemen, commissioners have crossed the river in a
boat, and have gone to Dlujek to sign conditions. After a time they
will come here. Before evening we must withdraw the troops from the
castle, and raise a white flag without delay.”

No one answered a word. Nothing was heard but quick breathing.

At last Kvasibrotski said, “We must raise the white flag. I will
muster the men.”

Here and there the words of command were heard. The soldiers began
to take their places in ranks, and shoulder arms. The clatter of
muskets and the measured tread roused echoes in the silent castle.

Ketling pushed up to Pan Michael. “Is it time?” inquired he.

“Wait for the commissioners; let us hear the conditions! Besides, I
will go down myself.”

“No, I will go! I know the places better; I know the position of
everything.”

“The commissioners are returning! The commissioners are returning!”

The three unhappy envoys appeared in the castle after a certain
time. They were Grushetski, judge of Podolia, the chamberlain
Revuski, and Pan Myslishevski, banneret of Chernigoff. They came
gloomily, with drooping heads; on their shoulders were gleaming
kaftans of gold brocade, which they had received as gifts from the
vizir.

Volodyovski was waiting for them, resting against a gun turned
toward Dlujek. The gun was hot yet, and steaming. All three greeted
him in silence.

“What are the conditions?” asked he.

“The town will not be plundered; life and property are assured to
the inhabitants. Whoever does not choose to remain has the right to
withdraw and betake himself to whatever place may please him.”

“And Kamenyets?”

The commissioners dropped their heads: “Goes to the Sultan forever.”

The commissioners took their way, not toward the bridge, for
throngs of people had blocked the road, but toward the southern
gate at the side. When they had descended, they sat in the boat
which was to go to the Polish gate. In the low place lying along
the river between the cliffs, the janissaries began to appear.
Greater and greater streams of people flowed from the town, and
occupied the place opposite the old bridge. Many wished to run to
the castle; but the outgoing regiments restrained them, at command
of the little knight.

When Volodyovski had mustered the troops, he called Pan Mushalski
and said to him,--

“Old friend, do me one more service. Go this moment to my wife,
and tell her from me--” Here the voice stuck in the throat of the
little knight for a while. “And say to her from me--” He halted
again, and then added quickly, “This life is nothing!”

The bowman departed. After him the troops went out gradually. Pan
Michael mounted his horse and watched over the march. The castle
was evacuated slowly, because of the rubbish and fragments which
blocked the way.

Ketling approached the little knight. “I will go down,” said he,
fixing his teeth.

“Go! but delay till the troops have marched out. Go!”

Here they seized each other in an embrace which lasted some time.
The eyes of both were gleaming with an uncommon radiance. Ketling
rushed away at last toward the vaults.

Pan Michael took the helmet from his head. He looked awhile yet on
the ruin, on that field of his glory, on the rubbish, the corpses,
the fragments of walls, on the breastwork, on the guns; then
raising his eyes, he began to pray. His last words were, “Grant
her, O Lord, to endure this patiently; give her peace!”

Ah! Ketling hastened, not waiting even till the troops had marched
out; for at that moment the bastions quivered, an awful roar
rent the air; bastions, towers, walls, horses, guns, living men,
corpses, masses of earth, all torn upward with a flame, and mixed,
pounded together, as it were, into one dreadful cartridge, flew
toward the sky.

       *       *       *       *       *

Thus died Volodyovski, the Hector of Kamenyets, the first soldier
of the Commonwealth.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the monastery of St. Stanislav stood a lofty catafalque in the
centre of the church; it was surrounded with gleaming tapers, and
on it lay Pan Volodyovski in two coffins, one of lead and one of
wood. The lids had been fastened, and the funeral service was just
ending.

It was the heartfelt wish of the widow that the body should rest in
Hreptyoff; but since all Podolia was in the hands of the enemy, it
was decided to bury it temporarily in Stanislav, for to that place
the “exiles” of Kamenyets had been sent under a Turkish convoy, and
there delivered to the troops of the hetman.

All the bells in the monastery were ringing. The church was filled
with a throng of nobles and soldiers, who wished to look for the
last time at the coffin of the Hector of Kamenyets, and the first
cavalier of the Commonwealth. It was whispered that the hetman
himself was to come to the funeral; but as he had not appeared so
far, and as at any moment the Tartars might come in a chambul, it
was determined not to defer the ceremony.

Old soldiers, friends or subordinates of the deceased, stood in
a circle around the catafalque. Among others were present Pan
Mushalski, the bowman. Pan Motovidlo, Pan Snitko, Pan Hromyka, Pan
Nyenashinyets, Pan Novoveski, and many others, former officers of
the stanitsa. By a marvellous fortune, no man was lacking of those
who had sat on the evening benches around the hearth at Hreptyoff;
all had brought their heads safely out of that war, except the man
who was their leader and model. That good and just knight, terrible
to the enemy, loving to his own; that swordsman above swordsmen,
with the heart of a dove,--lay there high among the tapers, in
glory immeasurable, but in the silence of death. Hearts hardened
through war were crushed with sorrow at that sight; yellow gleams
from the tapers shone on the stern, suffering faces of warriors,
and were reflected in glittering points in the tears dropping down
from their eyelids.

Within the circle of soldiers lay Basia, in the form of a cross,
on the floor, and near her Zagloba, old, broken, decrepit, and
trembling. She had followed on foot from Kamenyets the hearse
bearing that most precious coffin, and now the moment had come when
it was necessary to give that coffin to the earth. Walking the
whole way, insensible, as if not belonging to this world, and now
at the catafalque, she repeated with unconscious lips, “This life
is nothing!” She repeated it because that beloved one had commanded
her, for that was the last message which he had sent her; but in
that repetition and in those expressions were mere sounds, without
substance, without truth, without meaning and solace. No; “This
life is nothing” meant merely regret, darkness, despair, torpor,
merely misfortune incurable, life beaten and broken,--an erroneous
announcement that there was nothing above her, neither mercy nor
hope; that there was merely a desert, and it will be a desert which
God alone can fill when He sends death.

They rang the bells; at the great altar Mass was at its end. At
last thundered the deep voice of the priest, as if calling from
the abyss: “_Requiescat in pace!_” A feverish quiver shook Basia,
and in her unconscious head rose one thought alone, “Now, now,
they will take him from me!” But that was not yet the end of the
ceremony. The knights had prepared many speeches to be spoken at
the lowering of the coffin; meanwhile Father Kaminski ascended the
pulpit,--the same who had been in Hreptyoff frequently, and who in
time of Basia’s illness had prepared her for death.

People in the church began to spit and cough, as is usual before
preaching; then they were quiet, and all eyes were turned to the
pulpit. The rattling of a drum was heard on the pulpit.

The hearers were astonished. Father Kaminski beat the drum as if
for alarm; he stopped suddenly, and a deathlike silence followed.
Then the drum was heard a second and a third time; suddenly the
priest threw the drumsticks to the floor of the church, and
called,--

“Pan Colonel Volodyovski!”

A spasmodic scream from Basia answered him. It became simply
terrible in the church. Pan Zagloba rose, and aided by Mushalski
bore out the fainting woman.

Meanwhile the priest continued: “In God’s name, Pan Volodyovski,
they are beating the alarm! there is war, the enemy is in the
land!--and do you not spring up, seize your sabre, mount your
horse? Have you forgotten your former virtue? Do you leave us alone
with sorrow, with alarm?”

The breasts of the knights rose; and a universal weeping broke out
in the church, and broke out several times again, when the priest
lauded the virtue, the love of country, and the bravery of the dead
man. His own words carried the preacher away. His face became pale;
his forehead was covered with sweat; his voice trembled. Sorrow for
the little knight carried him away, sorrow for Kamenyets, sorrow
for the Commonwealth, ruined by the hands of the followers of the
Crescent; and finally he finished his eulogy with this prayer:--

“O Lord, they will turn churches into mosques, and chant the Koran
in places where till this time the Gospel has been chanted. Thou
hast cast us down, O Lord; Thou hast turned Thy face from us, and
given us into the power of the foul Turk. Inscrutable are Thy
decrees; but who, O Lord, will resist the Turk now? What armies
will war with him on the boundaries? Thou, from whom nothing in
the world is concealed,--Thou knowest best that there is nothing
superior to our cavalry! What cavalry can move for Thee, O Lord, as
ours can? Wilt Thou set aside defenders behind whose shoulders all
Christendom might glorify Thy name? O kind Father, do not desert
us! show us Thy mercy! Send us a defender! Send a crusher of the
foul Mohammedan! Let him come hither; let him stand among us; let
him raise our fallen hearts! Send him, O Lord!”

At that moment the people gave way at the door; and into the church
walked the hetman, Pan Sobieski. The eyes of all were turned to
him; a quiver shook the people; and he went with clatter of spurs
to the catafalque, lordly, mighty, with the face of a Cæsar. An
escort of iron cavalry followed him.

“Salvator!” cried the priest, in prophetic ecstasy.

Sobieski knelt at the catafalque, and prayed for the soul of
Volodyovski.




EPILOGUE.


More than a year after the fall of Kamenyets, when the dissensions
of parties had ceased in some fashion, the Commonwealth came forth
at last in defence of its eastern boundaries; and it came forth
offensively. The grand hetman, Sobieski, marched with thirty-one
thousand cavalry and infantry to Hotin, in the Sultan’s territory,
to strike on the incomparably more powerful legions of Hussein
Pasha, stationed at that fortress.

The name of Sobieski had become terrible to the enemy. During the
year succeeding the capture of Kamenyets the hetman accomplished so
much, injured the countless army of the Padishah to such a degree,
crushed out so many chambuls, rescued such throngs of captives,
that old Hussein, though stronger in the number of his men, though
standing at the head, of chosen cavalry, though aided by Kaplan
Pasha, did not dare to meet the hetman in the open field, and
decided to defend himself in a fortified camp.

The hetman surrounded that camp with his army; and it was known
universally that he intended to take it in an offensive battle.
Some thought surely that it was an undertaking unheard of in the
history of war to attack a superior with an inferior army when the
enemy was protected by walls and trenches. Hussein had a hundred
and twenty guns, while in the whole Polish camp there were only
fifty. The Turkish infantry was threefold greater in number than
the power of the hetman; of janissaries alone, so terrible in
hand-to-hand conflict, there were eighty thousand. But the hetman
believed in his star, in the magic of his name,--and finally in
the men whom he led. Under him marched regiments trained and
tempered in fire,--men who had grown up from years of childhood in
the bustle of war, who had passed through an uncounted number of
expeditions, campaigns, sieges, battles. Many of them remembered
the terrible days of Hmelnitski, of Zbaraj and Berestechko; many
had gone through all the wars, Swedish, Prussian, Moscovite, civil,
Danish, and Hungarian. With him were the escorts of magnates,
formed of veterans only; there were soldiers from the stanitsas,
for whom war had become what peace is for other men,--the ordinary
condition and course of life. Under the voevoda of Rus were fifteen
squadrons of hussars,--cavalry considered, even by foreigners,
as invincible; there were light squadrons, the very same at the
head of which the hetman had inflicted such disasters on detached
Tartar chambuls after the fall of Kamenyets; there were finally the
land infantry, who rushed on janissaries with the butts of their
muskets, without firing a shot.

War had reared those veterans, for it had reared whole generations
in the Commonwealth; but hitherto they had been scattered, or in
the service of opposing parties. Now, when internal agreement
had summoned them to one camp and one command, the hetman hoped
to crush with such soldiers the stronger Hussein and the equally
strong Kaplan. These old soldiers were led by trained men whose
names were written more than once in the history of recent wars, in
the changing wheel of defeats and victories.

The hetman himself stood at the head of them all like a sun, and
directed thousands with his will; but who were the other leaders
who at this camp in Hotin were to cover themselves with immortal
glory? There were the two Lithuanian hetmans,--the grand hetman,
Pats, and the field hetman, Michael Kazimir Radzivill. These two
joined the armies of the kingdom a few days before the battle, and
now, at command of Sobieski, they took position on the heights
which connected Hotin with Jvanyets. Twelve thousand warriors
obeyed their commands; among these were two thousand chosen
infantry. From the Dniester toward the south stood the allied
regiments of Wallachia, who left the Turkish camp on the eve of the
battle to join their strength with Christians. At the flank of the
Wallachians stood with his artillery Pan Kantski, incomparable in
the capture of fortified places, in the making of intrenchments,
and the handling of cannon. He had trained himself in foreign
countries, but soon excelled even foreigners. Behind Kantski stood
Korytski’s Russian and Mazovian infantry; farther on, the field
hetman of the kingdom, Dmitri Vishnyevetski, cousin of the sickly
king. He had under him the light cavalry. Next to him, with his own
squadron of infantry and cavalry, stood Pan Yendrei Pototski, once
an opponent of the hetman, now an admirer of his greatness. Behind
him and behind Korytski stood, under Pan Yablonovski, voevoda of
Rus, fifteen squadrons of hussars in glittering armor, with helmets
casting a threatening shade on their faces, and with wings at their
shoulders. A forest of lances reared their points above these
squadrons; but the men were calm. They were confident in their
invincible force, and sure that it would come to them to decide the
victory.

There were warriors inferior to these, not in bravery, but in
prominence. There was Pan Lujetski, whose brother the Turks had
slain in Bodzanoff; for this deed he had sworn undying vengeance.
There was Pan Stefan Charnyetski, nephew of the great Stefan,
and field secretary of the kingdom. He, in time of the siege of
Kamenyets, had been at the head of a whole band of nobles at
Golemb, as a partisan of the king, and had almost roused civil
war; now he desired to distinguish himself with bravery. There
was Gabriel Silnitski, who had passed all his life in war, and
age had already whitened his head; there were other voevodas and
castellans, less acquainted with previous wars, less famous, but
therefore more greedy of glory.

Among the knighthood not clothed with senatorial dignity,
illustrious above others, was Pan Yan, the famous hero of Zbaraj, a
soldier held up as a model to the knighthood. He had taken part in
every war fought by the Commonwealth during thirty years. His hair
was gray; but six sons surrounded him, in strength like six wild
boars. Of these, four knew war already, but the two younger had to
pass their novitiate; hence they were burning with such eagerness
for battle that their father was forced to restrain them with words
of advice.

The officers looked with great respect on this father and his sons;
but still greater admiration was roused by Pan Yarotski, who, blind
of both eyes, like the Bohemian king[31] Yan, joined the campaign.
He had neither children nor relatives; attendants led him by the
arms; he hoped for no more than to lay down his life in battle,
benefit his country, and win glory. There too was Pan Rechytski,
whose father and brother fell during that year.

There also was Pan Motovidlo, who had escaped not long before from
Tartar bondage, and gone to the field with Pan Myslishevski. The
first wished to avenge his captivity; the second, the injustice
which he had suffered at Kamenyets, where, in spite of the
treaty and his dignity of noble, he had been beaten with sticks
by the janissaries. There were knights of long experience from
the stanitsas of the Dniester,--the wild Pan Rushchyts and the
incomparable bowman, Mushalski, who had brought a sound head out
of Kamenyets, because the little knight had sent him to Basia with
a message; there was Pan Snitko and Pan Nyenashinyets and Pan
Hromyka, and the most unhappy of all, young Pan Adam. Even his
friends and relatives wished death to this man, for there remained
no consolation for him. When he had regained his health, Pan
Adam exterminated chambuls for a whole year, pursuing Lithuanian
Tartars with special animosity. After the defeat of Pan Motovidlo
by Krychinski, he hunted Krychinski through all Podolia, gave him
no rest, and troubled him beyond measure. During those expeditions
he caught Adurovich and flayed him alive; he spared no prisoners,
but found no relief for his suffering. A month before the battle he
joined Yablonovski’s hussars.

This was the knighthood with which Pan Sobieski took his position
at Hotin. Those soldiers were eager to wreak vengeance for the
wrongs of the Commonwealth in the first instance, but also for
their own. In continual battles with the Pagans in that land soaked
in blood, almost every man had lost some dear one, and bore within
him the memory of some terrible misfortune. The grand hetman
hastened to battle then, for he saw that rage in the hearts of his
soldiers might be compared to the rage of a lioness whose whelps
reckless hunters have stolen from the thicket.

On Nov. 9, 1674, the affair was begun by skirmishes. Crowds of
Turks issued from behind the walls in the morning; crowds of Polish
knights hastened to meet them with eagerness. Men fell on both
sides, but with greater loss to the Turks. Only a few Turks of
note or Poles fell, however. Pan May, in the very beginning of the
skirmish, was pierced by the curved sabre of a gigantic spahi; but
the youngest son of Pan Yan with one blow almost severed the head
from that spahi. By this deed he earned the praise of his prudent
father, and notable glory.

They fought in groups or singly. Those who were looking at the
struggle gained courage; greater eagerness rose in them each
moment. Meanwhile, detachments of the army were disposed around
the Turkish camp, each in the place pointed out by the hetman. Pan
Sobieski, taking his position on the old Yassy road, behind the
infantry of Korytski, embraced with his eyes the whole camp of
Hussein; and on his face he had the serene calmness which a master
certain of his art has before he commences his labor. From time to
time he sent adjutants with commands; then with thoughtful glance
he looked at the struggle of the skirmishers. Toward evening Pan
Yablonovski, voevoda of Rus, came to him.

“The intrenchments are so extensive,” said he, “that it is
impossible to attack from all sides simultaneously.”

“To-morrow we shall be in the intrenchments; and after to-morrow
we shall cut down those men in three quarters of an hour,” said
Sobieski, calmly.

Night came in the mean while. Skirmishers left the field. The
hetman commanded all divisions to approach the intrenchments in
the darkness; this Hussein hindered as much as he could with guns
of large calibre, but without result. Toward morning the Polish
divisions moved forward again somewhat. The infantry began to throw
up breastworks. Some regiments had pushed on to within a good
musket-shot. The janissaries opened a brisk fire from muskets. At
command of the hetman almost no answer was given to these volleys,
but the infantry prepared for an attack hand-to-hand. The soldiers
were waiting only for the signal to rush forward passionately. Over
their extended line flew grapeshot with whistling and noise like
flocks of birds. Pan Kantski’s artillery, beginning the conflict
at daybreak, did not cease for one moment. Only when the battle
was over did it appear what great destruction its missiles had
wrought falling in places covered most thickly with the tents of
janissaries and spahis.

Thus passed the time until midday; but since the day was short,
as the month was November, there was need of haste. On a sudden
all the trumpets were heard, and drums, great and small. Tens of
thousands of throats shouted in one voice; the infantry, supported
by light cavalry advancing near them, rushed in a dense throng to
the onset.

They attacked the Turks at five points simultaneously. Yan
Dennemark and Christopher de Bohan, warriors of experience, led
the foreign regiments. The first, fiery by nature, hurried forward
so eagerly that he reached the intrenchment before others, and
came near destroying his regiment, for he had to meet a salvo from
several thousand muskets. He fell himself. His soldiers began to
waver; but at that moment De Bohan came to the rescue and prevented
a panic. With a step as steady as if on parade, and keeping
time to the music, he passed the whole distance to the Turkish
intrenchment, answered salvo with salvo, and when the fosse was
filled with fascines passed it first, under a storm of bullets,
inclined his cap to the janissaries, and pierced the first banneret
with a sabre. The soldiers, carried away by the example of such a
colonel, sprang forward, and then began dreadful struggles in which
discipline and training vied with the wild valor of the janissaries.

But dragoons were led quickly from the direction of Taraban by
Tetwin and Doenhoff; another regiment was led by Aswer Greben and
Haydepol, all distinguished soldiers who, except Haydepol, had
covered themselves with great glory under Charnyetski in Denmark.
The troops of their command were large and sturdy, selected from
men on the royal domains, well trained to fighting on foot and
on horseback. The gate was defended against them by irregular
janissaries, who, though their number was great, were thrown
into confusion quickly and began to retreat; when they came to
hand-to-hand conflict they defended themselves only when they could
not find a place of escape. That gate was captured first, and
through it cavalry went first to the interior of the camp.

At the head of the Polish land infantry Kobyletski, Jebrovski,
Pyotrkovchyk, and Galetski struck the intrenchments in three
other places. The most tremendous struggle raged at the main
gate, on the Yassy road, where the Mazovians closed with the
guard of Hussein Pasha. The vizir was concerned mainly with that
gate, for through it the Polish cavalry might rush to the camp;
hence he resolved to defend it most stubbornly, and urged forward
unceasingly detachments of janissaries. The land infantry took the
gate at a blow, and then strained all their strength to retain it.
Cannon-balls and a storm of bullets from small arms pushed them
back; from clouds of smoke new bands of Turkish warriors sprang
forth to the attack every moment. Pan Kobyletski, not waiting till
they came, rushed at them like a raging bear; and two walls of men
pressed each other, swaying backward and forward in close quarters,
in confusion, in a whirl, in torrents of blood, and on piles of
human bodies. They fought with every manner of weapon,--with
sabres, with knives, with gunstocks, with shovels, with clubs, with
stones; the crush became at moments so great, so terrible, that men
grappled and fought with fists and with teeth. Hussein tried twice
to break the infantry with the impact of cavalry; but the infantry
fell upon him each time with such “extraordinary resolution” that
the cavalry had to withdraw in disorder. Pan Sobieski took pity at
last on his men, and sent all the camp servants to help them.

At the head of these was Pan Motovidlo. This rabble, not employed
usually in battle and armed with weapons of any kind, rushed
forward with such desire that they roused admiration even in the
hetman. It may be that greed of plunder inspired them; perhaps
the fire seized them which enlivened the whole army that day. It
is enough that they struck the janissaries as if they had been
smoke, and overpowered them so savagely that in the first onset
they forced them back a musket-shot’s length from the gate. Hussein
threw new regiments into the whirl of battle; and the struggle,
renewed in the twinkle of an eye, lasted whole hours. At last
Korytski, at the head of chosen regiments, beset the gate in force;
the hussars from a distance moved like a great bird raising itself
lazily to flight, and pushed toward the gate also.

At this time an adjutant rushed to the hetman from the Eastern side
of the camp.

“The voevoda of Belsk is on the ramparts!” cried he, with panting
breast.

After him came a second,--

“The hetmans of Lithuania are on the ramparts!”

After him came others, always with similar news. It had grown dark
in the world, but light was beaming from the face of the hetman.
He turned to Pan Bidzinski, who at that moment was near him, and
said,--

“Next comes the turn of the cavalry; but that will be in the
morning.”

No one in the Polish or the Turkish army knew or imagined that the
hetman intended to defer the general attack till the following
morning. Nay, adjutants sprang to the captains with the command to
be ready at any instant. The infantry stood in closed ranks; sabres
and lances were burning the hands of the cavalry. All were awaiting
the order impatiently, for the men were chilled and hungry.

But no order came; meanwhile hours passed. The night became as
black as mourning. Drizzling rain had set in at one o’clock in the
day; but about midnight a strong wind with frozen rain and snow
followed. Gusts of it froze the marrow in men’s bones; the horses
were barely able to stand in their places; men were benumbed. The
sharpest frost, if dry, could not be so bitter as that wind and
snow, which cut like a scourge. In constant expectation of the
signal, it was not possible to think of eating and drinking or
of kindling fires. The weather became more terrible each hour.
That was a memorable night,--“a night of torture and gnashing of
teeth.” The voices of the captains--“Stand! stand!”--were heard
every moment; and the soldiers, trained to obedience, stood in the
greatest readiness without movement, and patiently.

But in front of them, in rain, storm, and darkness, stood in equal
readiness the stiffened regiments of the Turks. Among them, too,
no one kindled a fire, no one ate, no one drank. The attack of all
the Polish forces might come at any moment, therefore the spahis
could not drop their sabres from their hands; the janissaries stood
like a wall, with their muskets ready to fire. The hardy Polish
soldiers, accustomed to the sternness of winter, could pass such
a night; but those men reared in the mild climate of Rumelia, or
amid the palms of Asia Minor, were suffering more than their powers
could endure. At last Hussein discovered why Sobieski did not begin
the attack. It was because that frozen rain was the best ally of
the Poles. Clearly, if the spahis and janissaries were to stand
through twelve hours like those, the cold would lay them down on
the morrow as grain sheaves are laid. They would not even try to
defend themselves,--at least till the heat of the battle should
warm them.

Both Poles and Tartars understood this. About four o’clock in
the morning two pashas came to Hussein,--Yanish Pasha and Kiaya
Pasha, the leader of the janissaries, an old warrior of renown and
experience. The faces of both were full of anxiety and care.

“Lord!” said Kiaya, first, “if my ‘lambs’ stand in this way till
daylight, neither bullets nor swords will be needed against them.”

“Lord!” said Yanish Pasha, “my spahis will freeze, and will not
fight in the morning.”

Hussein twisted his beard, foreseeing defeat for his army and
destruction to himself. But what was he to do? Were he to let his
men break ranks for even a minute, or let them kindle fires to warm
themselves with hot food, the attack would begin immediately. As it
was, the trumpets were sounded at intervals near the ramparts, as
if the cavalry were just ready to move.

Kiaya and Yanish Pasha saw only one escape from disaster,--that
was, not to wait for the attack, but to strike with all force on
the enemy. It was nothing that he was in readiness; for though
ready to attack, he did not expect attack himself. Perhaps they
might drive him out of the intrenchments; in the worst event defeat
was likely in a night battle, in the battle of the morrow it was
certain.

But Hussein did not venture to follow the advice of the old
warriors.

“How!” said he; “you have furrowed the camp-ground with
ditches, seeing in them the one safeguard against that hellish
cavalry,--that was your advice and your precaution; now you say
something different.”

He did not give that order. He merely gave an order to fire from
cannon, to which Pan Kantski answered with great effect instantly.
The rain became colder and colder, and cut more and more cruelly;
the wind roared, howled, went through clothing and skin, and froze
the blood in men’s veins. So passed that long November night,
in which the strength of the warriors of Islam was failing, and
despair, with a foreboding of defeat, seized hold of their hearts.

At the very dawn Yanish Pasha went once more to Hussein with advice
to withdraw in order of battle to the bridge on the Dniester and
begin there the game of war cautiously. “For,” said he, “if the
troops do not withstand the onrush of the cavalry, they will
withdraw to the opposite bank, and the river will give them
protection.” Kiaya, the leader of the janissaries, was of another
opinion, however. He thought it too late for Yanish’s advice,
and moreover he feared lest a panic might seize the whole army
immediately, if the order were given to withdraw. “The spahis with
the aid of the irregular janissaries must sustain the first shock
of the enemy’s cavalry, even if all are to perish in doing so. By
that time the janissaries will come to their aid, and when the
first impetus of the unbelievers is stopped, perhaps God may send
victory.”

Thus advised, Kiaya and Hussein followed. Mounted multitudes of
Turks pushed forward; the janissaries, regular and irregular,
were disposed behind them, around the tents of Hussein. Their
deep ranks presented a splendid and fear-inspiring spectacle. The
white-bearded Kiaya, “Lion of God,” who till that time had led
only to victory, flew past their close ranks, strengthening them,
raising their courage, reminding them of past battles and their own
unbroken preponderance. To them also, battle was sweeter than that
idle waiting in storm and in rain, in wind which was piercing them
to the bone; hence, though they could barely grasp the muskets and
spears in their stiffened hands, they were still cheered by the
thought that they would warm them in battle. With far less desire
did the spahis await the attack, because on them was to fall its
first fury, because among them were many inhabitants of Asia Minor
and of Egypt, who, exceedingly sensitive to cold, were only half
living after that night. The horses also suffered not a little,
and though covered with splendid caparisons, they stood with heads
toward the earth, puffing rolls of steam from their nostrils. The
men with blue faces and dull eyes did not even think of victory.
They were thinking only that death would be better than torment
like that in which the last night had been passed by them, but best
of all would be flight to their distant homes, beneath the hot rays
of the sun.

Among the Polish troops a number of men without sufficient clothing
had died before day on the ramparts; in general, however, they
endured the cold far better than the Turks, for the hope of victory
strengthened them, and a faith, almost blind, that since the hetman
had decided that they were to stiffen in the rain, the torment
must come out infallibly for their good, and for the evil and
destruction of the Turks. Still, even they greeted the first gleams
of that morning with gladness.

At this same time Sobieski appeared at the battlements.

There was no brightness in the sky, but there was brightness on his
face; for when he saw that the enemy intended to give battle in the
camp he was certain that that day would bring dreadful defeat to
Mohammed. Hence he went from regiment to regiment, repeating: “For
the desecration of churches! for blasphemy against the Most Holy
Lady in Kamenyets! for injury to Christendom and the Commonwealth!
for Kamenyets!” The soldiers had a terrible look on their faces, as
if wishing to say: “We can barely restrain ourselves! Let us go,
grand hetman, and you will see!”

The gray light of morning grew clearer and clearer; out of the
fog rows of horses’ heads, forms of men, lances, banners, finally
regiments of infantry, emerged more distinctly each moment. First
they began to move and advance in the fog toward the enemy, like
two rivers, at the flanks of the cavalry; then the light horse
moved, leaving only a broad road in the middle, over which the
hussars were to rush when the right moment came.

Every leader of a regiment in the infantry, every captain, had
instructions and knew what to do. Pan Kantski’s artillery began
to speak more profoundly, calling out from the Turkish side also
strong answers. Then musketry fire thundered, a mighty shout was
heard throughout the whole camp,--the attack had begun.

The misty air veiled the view, but sounds of the struggle reached
the place where the hussars were in waiting. The rattle of arms
could be heard, and the shouting of men. The hetman, who till
then had remained with the hussars, and was conversing with Pan
Yablonovski, stopped on a sudden and listened.

“The infantry are fighting with the irregular janissaries; those in
the front trenches are scattered,” said he to the voevoda.

After a time, when the sound of musketry was failing, one mighty
salvo roared up on a sudden; after it another very quickly. It was
evident that the light squadrons had pushed back the spahis and
were in presence of the janissaries.

The grand hetman, putting spurs to his horse, rushed like lightning
at the head of some tens of men to the battle; the voevoda of Rus
remained with the fifteen squadrons of hussars, who, standing in
order, were waiting only for the signal to spring forward and
decide the fate of the struggle. They waited long enough after
that; but meanwhile in the depth of the camp it was seething and
roaring more and more terribly. The battle seemed at times to
roll on to the right, then to the left, now toward the Lithuanian
armies, now toward the voevoda of Belsk, precisely as when in time
of storm thunders roll over the sky. The artillery-fire of the
Turks was becoming irregular, while Pan Kantski’s batteries played
with redoubled vigor. After the course of an hour it seemed to the
voevoda of Rus that the weight of the battle was transferred to the
centre, directly in front of his cavalry.

At that moment the grand hetman rushed up at the head of his
escort. Flame was shooting from his eyes. He reined in his horse
near the voevoda of Rus, and exclaimed,--

“At them, now, with God’s aid!”

“At them!” shouted the voevoda of Rus.

And after him the captains repeated the commands. With a terrible
noise that forest of lances dropped with one movement toward
the heads of the horses, and fifteen squadrons of that cavalry
accustomed to crush everything before it moved forward like a giant
cloud.

From the time when, in the three days’ battle at Warsaw, the
Lithuanian hussars, under Prince Polubinski, split the whole
Swedish army like a wedge, and went through it, no one remembered
an attack made with such power. Those squadrons started at a trot,
but at a distance of two hundred paces the captains commanded: “At
a gallop!” The men answering, with a shout, “Strike! Crush!” bent
in the saddles, and the horses went at the highest speed. Then
that column, moving like a whirlwind, and formed of horses, iron
men, and straightened lances, had in it something like the might
of an element let loose. And it went like a storm, or a raging
river, with roar and outburst. The earth groaned under the weight
of it; and if no man had levelled a lance or drawn a sabre, it was
evident that the hussars with their very weight and impact would
hurl down, trample, and break everything before them, just as a
column of wind breaks and crushes a forest. They swept on in this
way to the bloody field, covered with bodies, on which the battle
was raging. The light squadrons were still struggling on the wings
with the Turkish cavalry, which they had succeeded in pushing to
the rear considerably, but in the centre the deep ranks of the
janissaries stood like an indestructible wall. A number of times
the light squadrons had broken themselves against that wall, as a
wave rolling on breaks itself against a rocky shore. To crush and
destroy it was now the task of the hussars.

A number of thousand of muskets thundered, “as if one man had
fired.” A moment more the janissaries fix themselves more firmly
on their feet; some blink at sight of the terrible onrush; the
hands of some are trembling while holding their spears; the
hearts of all are beating like hammers, their teeth are set,
their breasts are breathing convulsively. The hussars are just on
them; the thundering breath of the horses is heard. Destruction,
annihilation, death, are flying at them.

“Allah!” “Jesus, Mary!”--these two shouts meet and mingle as
terribly as if they had never burst from men’s breasts till that
moment. The living wall trembles, bends, breaks. The dry crash of
broken lances drowns for a time every other sound; after that,
is heard the bite of iron, the sound, as it were, of thousands
of hammers beating with full force on anvils, as of thousands of
flails on a floor, and cries singly and collectively, groans,
shouts, reports of pistols and guns, the howling of terror.
Attackers and attacked mingle together, rolling in an unimaginable
whirl. A slaughter follows; from under the chaos blood flows, warm,
steaming, filling the air with raw odor.

The first, second, third, and tenth rank of the janissaries are
lying like a pavement, trampled with hoofs, pierced with spears,
cut with swords. But the white-bearded Kiaya, “Lion of God,” hurls
all his men into the boiling of the battle. It is nothing that
they are put down like grain before a storm. They fight! Rage
seizes them; they breathe death; they desire death. The column
of horses’ breasts pushes them, bends, overturns them. They open
the bellies of horses with their knives; thousands of sabres cut
them without rest; blades rise like lightning and fall on their
heads, shoulders, and hands. They cut a horseman on the legs, on
the knees; they wind around, and bite like venomous worms; they
perish and avenge themselves. Kiaya, “Lion of God,” hurls new
ranks again and again into the jaws of death. He encourages them
to battle with a cry, and with curved sabre erect he rushes into
the chaos himself. With that a gigantic hussar, destroying like a
flame everything before him, falls on the white-bearded old man,
and standing in his stirrups to hew the more terribly, brings down
with an awful sweep a two-handed sword on the gray head. Neither
the sabre nor the headpiece forged in Damascus are proof against
the blow; and Kiaya, cleft almost to the shoulders, falls to the
ground, as if struck by lightning.

Pan Adam, for it was he, had already spread dreadful destruction,
for no one could withstand the strength and sullen rage of the man;
but now he had given the greatest service by hewing down the old
hero, who alone had supported the stubborn battle. The janissaries
shouted in a terrible voice on seeing the death of their leader,
and more than ten of them aimed muskets at the breast of the
cavalier. He turned toward them like dark night; and before other
hussars could strike them, the shots roared, Pan Adam reined in
his horse and bent in the saddle. Two comrades seized him by the
shoulders; but a smile, a guest long unknown, lighted his gloomy
face, his eyeballs turned in his head, and his white lips whispered
words which in the din of battle no man could distinguish.
Meanwhile the last ranks of the janissaries wavered.

The valiant Yanish Pasha tried to renew the battle, but the
terror of panic had seized on his men; efforts were useless. The
ranks were broken and shivered, pushed back, beaten, trampled,
slashed; they could not come to order. At last they burst, as an
overstrained chain bursts, and like single links men flew from one
another in every direction, howling, shouting, throwing down their
weapons, and covering their heads with their hands. The cavalry
pursue them; and they, not finding space sufficient for flight
singly, gather at times into a dense mass, on whose shoulders ride
the cavalry, swimming in blood. Pan Mushalski, the bowman, struck
the valiant Yanish Pasha such a sabre-blow on the neck that his
spinal marrow gushed forth and stained his silk shirt and the
silver scales on his armor.

The irregular janissaries, beaten by the Polish infantry, and a
part of the cavalry which was scattered in the very beginning
of the battle, in fact, a whole Turkish throng, fled now to the
opposite side of the camp, where there was a rugged ravine some
tens of feet deep. Terror drove the mad men to that place. Many
rushed over the precipice, “not to escape death, but death at
the hands of the Poles.” Pan Bidzinski blocked the road to this
despairing throng; but the avalanche of fugitives tore him away
with it, and threw him to the bottom of the precipice, which after
a time was filled almost to the top with piles of slain, wounded,
and suffocated men.

From this place rose terrible groans; bodies were quivering,
kicking one another, or clawing with their fingers in the spasms
of death. Those groans were heard until evening; until evening
those bodies were moving, but more and more slowly, less and less
noticeably, till at dark there was silence.

Awful were the results of the blow of the hussars. Eight thousand
janissaries, slain with swords, lay near the ditch surrounding the
tents of Hussein Pasha, not counting those who perished in the
flight, or at the foot of the precipice. The Polish cavalry were in
the tents; Pan Sobieski had triumphed. The trumpets were raising
the hoarse sounds of victory, when the battle raged up again on a
sudden.

After the breaking of the janissaries the vizir, Hussein Pasha,
at the head of his mounted guards and of all that were left of
the cavalry, fled through the gate leading to Yassy; but when the
squadrons of Dmitri Vishnyevetski, the field hetman, caught him
outside and began to hew without mercy, he turned back to the
camp to seek escape elsewhere, just as a wild beast surrounded in
a forest looks for some outlet. He turned with such speed that
he scattered in a moment the light squadron of Cossacks, put to
disorder the infantry, occupied partly in plundering the camp, and
came within “half a pistol-shot” of the hetman himself.

“In the very camp,” wrote Pan Sobieski, afterward, “we were
near defeat, the avoidance of which should be ascribed to the
extraordinary resolution of the hussars.”

In fact, the pressure of the Turks was tremendous, produced
as it was under the influence of utter despair, and the more
terrible that it was entirely unexpected; but the hussars, not
cooled yet after the heat of battle, rushed at them on the spot,
with the greatest vigor. Prusinovski’s squadron moved first,
and that brought the attackers to a stand; after it rushed Pan
Yan with his men, then the whole army,--cavalry, infantry,
camp-followers,--every one as he was, every one where he was,--all
rushed with the greatest rage on the enemy, and there was a battle,
somewhat disordered, but not yielding in fury to the attack of the
hussars on the janissaries.

When the struggle was over the knights remembered with wonder
the bravery of the Turks, who, attacked by Vishnyevetski and the
hetmans of Lithuania, surrounded on all sides, defended themselves
so madly that though Sobieski permitted the Poles to take prisoners
then, they were able to seize barely a handful of captives. When
the heavy squadrons scattered them at last, after half an hour’s
battle, single groups and later single horsemen fought to the last
breath, shouting, “Allah!” Many glorious deeds were done, the
memory of which has not perished among men. The field hetman of
Lithuania cut down a powerful pasha who had slain Pan Rudomina,
Pan Kimbar, and Pan Rdultovski; but the hetman, coming to him
unobserved, cut off his head at a blow. Pan Sobieski slew in
presence of the army a spahi who had fired a pistol at him. Pan
Bidzinski, escaping from the ravine by some miracle, though bruised
and wounded, threw himself at once into the whirl of battle, and
fought till he fainted from exhaustion. He was sick long, but after
some months recovered his health, and went again to the field, with
great glory to himself.

Of men less known Pan Rushchyts raged most, taking off horsemen
as a wolf seizes sheep from a flock. Pan Yan on his part worked
wonders; around him his sons fought like young lions. With sadness
and gloom did these knights think afterward of what that swordsman
above swordsmen, Pan Michael, would have done on such a day, were
it not that for a year he had been in the earth resting in God
and in glory. But others, taught in his school, gained sufficient
renown for him and themselves on that bloody field.

Two of the old knights of Hreptyoff fell in that renewed battle,
Pan Motovidlo and the terrible bowman, Mushalski. A number of balls
pierced the breast of Motovidlo simultaneously, and he fell as an
oak falls, which has come to its time. Eye-witnesses said that
he fell by the hand of those Cossack brothers who under the lead
of Hohol had struggled to the last against their mother (Poland)
and Christendom. Pan Mushalski, wonderful to relate, perished by
an arrow, which some fleeing Turk had sent after him. It passed
through his throat just in the moment when, at the perfect defeat
of the Pagans, he was reaching his hand to the quiver, to send
fresh, unerring messengers of death in pursuit of the fugitives.
But his soul had to join the soul of Didyuk, so that the friendship
begun on the Turkish galley might endure with the bonds of
eternity. The old comrades of Hreptyoff found the three bodies
after the battle and took farewell tearfully, though they envied
them the glorious death. Pan Adam had a smile on his lips, and calm
serenity on his face; Pan Motovidlo seemed to be sleeping quietly;
and Pan Mushalski had his eyes raised, as if in prayer. They were
buried together on that glorious field of Hotin under the cliff on
which, to the eternal memory of the day, their three names were cut
out beneath a cross.

The leader of the whole Turkish army, Hussein Pasha, escaped on
a swift Anatolian steed, but only to receive in Stambul a silk
string from the hands of the Sultan. Of the splendid Turkish army
merely small bands were able to bear away sound heads from defeat.
The last legions of Hussein Pasha’s cavalry gave themselves into
the hands of the armies of the Commonwealth. In this way the field
hetman drove them to the grand hetman, and he drove them to the
Lithuanian hetmans, they again to the field hetman; so the turn
went till nearly all of them had perished. Of the janissaries
almost no man escaped. The whole immense camp was streaming with
blood, mixed with snow and rain. So many bodies were lying there
that only frost, ravens, and wolves prevented a pestilence, which
comes usually from bodies decaying. The Polish troops fell into
such ardor of battle that without drawing breath well after the
victory, they captured Hotin. In the camp itself immense booty was
taken. One hundred and twenty guns and with them three hundred
flags and banners did Pan Sobieski take from that field, on which
for the second time in the course of a century the Polish sabre
celebrated a grand triumph.

Pan Sobieski himself stood in the tent of Hussein Pasha, which was
sparkling with rubies and gold, and from it he sent news of the
fortunate victory to every side by swift couriers. Then cavalry and
infantry assembled; all the squadrons,--Polish, Lithuanian, and
Cossack,--the whole army, stood in order of battle. A Thanksgiving
Mass was celebrated, and on that same square where the day previous
muezzins had cried: “La Allah illa Allah!” was sounded “Te Deum
laudamus!”

The hetman, lying in the form of a cross, heard Mass and the hymn;
and when he rose, tears of joy were flowing down his worthy face.
At sight of that the legions of knights, the blood not yet wiped
from them, and while still trembling from their efforts in battle,
gave out three times the loud thundering shout:--

“Vivat Joannes victor!”

Ten years later, when the Majesty of King Yan III. (Sobieski)
hurled to the dust the Turkish power at Vienna, that shout was
repeated from sea to sea, from mountain to mountain, throughout the
world, wherever bells called the faithful to prayer.

       *       *       *       *       *

Here ends this series of books, written in the course of a number
of years and with no little toil, for the strengthening of hearts.


THE END.




FOOTNOTES:


[1] “With Fire and Sword,” page 4.

[2] The bishop who visited Zagloba at Ketling’s house, see pages
121-126.

[3] A celebrated bishop of Cracow, famous for ambition and success.

[4] A diminutive of endearment for Anna. Anusia is another form.

[5] One of the chiefs of a confederacy formed against the king, Yan
Kazimir, by soldiers who had not received their pay.

[6] The story in Poland is that storks bring all the infants to the
country.

[7] This refers to the axelike form of the numeral 7.

[8] Diminutive of Barbara.

[9] Diminutive of Krystina, or Christiana.

[10] Drohoyovski is Parma Krysia’s family name.

[11] A diminutive of Anna, expressing endearment.

[12] To place a water-melon in the carriage of a suitor was one way
of refusing him.

[13] “Kot” means “cat,” hence Basia’s exclamations are, “Scot,
Scot! cat, cat!”

[14] In Polish, “I love” is one word, “Kocham.”

[15] In the original this forms a rhymed couplet.

[16] That is let me kiss you.

[17] Injured his head.

[18] The Tsar’s city,--Constantinople.

[19] Zagloba refers here to Pavel Sapyeha, voevoda of Vilna, and
grand hetman of Lithuania.

[20] Poland.

[21] God is merciful! God is merciful.

[22] The territory governed by a pasha, in this case the lands of
the Cossacks.

[23] The Commonwealth.

[24] That means as tall as a stove. The tile or porcelain stores of
eastern Europe are very high.

[25] A barber in that age and in those regions took the place of a
surgeon usually.

[26] Each nearly equal to five English miles.

[27] A hot drink made of gorailka, honey, and spices.

[28] Motovidlo’s words are Russian in the original.

[29] See note after introduction.

[30] Hero.

[31] More likely Yan Zisca, the great leader of the Hussites.