At last came the day of departure. The party moved out of Yedlinka at daylight, with beautiful weather, and with horses and men in good number. Besides the iron and leather-covered carriage intended for the ladies and the priest, in case his old gun-wound should annoy him on horseback too greatly, there were three well-laden wagons drawn each by four horses. At each wagon were three men, including the driver. Behind Pan Serafin six mounted attendants, in turquoise-colored livery, led reserve horses. The priest had two men, each Bukoyemski had two also, besides a forester who guarded the trunk-laden wagons, altogether thirty-four persons well armed with muskets and sabres. It is true that in case of attack some could not aid in defending, since they would have to guard wagons and horses, but even in that case the Bukoyemskis felt sure that they could go through the world with those attendants, and that it would not be healthy for a party three or four times their number to attack them. Their hearts were swelling with a delight so enormous that hardly could they stay in their saddles. They had fought manfully in their time against Tartars and Cossacks, but those were common, small wars, and later on, when they settled in the wilderness, their youth had passed merely in inspecting inclosures, in a ceaseless watch over foresters, in killing bears when it was their duty to preserve them, and in drunken frolics at Kozenitse and Radom and Prityk. But now, for the first time, when each put his stirrup near the stirrup of his brother, when they were going to a war against the immense might of Turkey, they felt that this was their true destination, that their past life had been vain and wretched, and that now had begun in reality the deeds and achievements for which God the Father had created Polish nobles, God the Son redeemed them, and the Holy Ghost made them sacred. They could not think this out clearly, or express it in phrases, for in those things they had never been powerful, but they wished to fire off their guns then in ecstasy. Their advance seemed too slow to them. They wished to let out their horses and rush like a whirlwind, fly toward that great destination, to that great battle of the Poles with the pagans, to that triumph through Polish hands of the cross above the crescent, to a splendid death, and to glory for the ages. They felt loftier in some way, purer, more honorable, and in their nobility still more ennobled.
They had scarcely a thought then for Martsian and his rioting company, or for barriers and engagements on the roadway. All that seemed to them now something trivial, vain, and unworthy of attention. And if whole legions had stood in their way, they would have shot over them like a tempest, they would have ridden across them just in passing, put them under the bellies of their horses, and rushed along farther. Their native leonine impulses were roused, and warlike, knightly blood had begun to play in them with such vigor that if command had been given those four men to charge the whole bodyguard of the Sultan, they would not have hesitated one instant.
But similar feelings, and founded, moreover, on old recollections, filled the hearts of Pan Serafin and Father Voynovski. The priest had passed the flower of his life on the field with a lance in his hand, or a sabre. He remembered whole series of reverses and victories, he remembered the dreadful rebellion of Hmelnitski, Joltevody, Korsun, Pilavtse, Zbaraj the renowned, and the giant battle of Berestechko. He remembered the Swedish war, with its never-ending record of struggles and the attack of Rakotsi. He had been in Denmark, for a triumphing people, not satisfied with crushing and driving out Sweden, had sent in pursuit of it Charnyetski's invincible regiments to the borders of a distant ocean; he had helped to defeat Dolgoruki and Hovanski; he had known the noblest knights and greatest men of the period; he had been a pupil of Pan Michael the immortal; he had been enamoured of slaughter, storms, battles, and bloodshed, but all that had lasted only till personal misfortune had broken his spirit, and he took on himself holy orders. From that day he changed altogether, and when, turning to people in front of the altar, he said to them: "Peace be with you;" he believed himself uttering Christ's own commandment, and that every war, as opposed to that commandment, "is abhorrent" to Heaven, a sin against mercy, a stain on Christian nations. But a war against Turks was the one case which he excepted. "God," said he, "put the Polish people on horseback, and turned their breasts eastward; by that same act He showed them His will and their calling. He knew why He chose us for that position, and put others behind our shoulders; hence, if we wish to fulfil His command and our mission with worthiness, we must face that vile sea, and break its waves with our bosoms."
Father Voynovski judged, therefore, that God had placed on the throne purposely a sovereign who, when hetman, had shed pagan blood in such quantity, that his hands might give the last blow to the enemy, and avert ruin from Christians at once and forever. It seemed to him that just then had appeared the great day of destination, the day to accomplish God's purpose; hence he considered that war as a sacred way of the cross, and was charmed at the thought, that age, toil, and wounds had not pressed him to the earth so completely, that he might not take part in it.
He would be able yet to wave a flag, he, the old soldier of Christ, would spur on his horse, and spring with a cross in his hand to the thickest of the battle, with the certainty in his heart that behind him and that cross a thousand sabres would bite on the skulls of the pagans and a thousand lances would enter their bodies.
Finally thoughts flew to his head which were personal, and more in accord with his earlier disposition. He could hold the cross in his left, but in the right hand a sabre. As a priest he could not do this against Christians, but against Turks it was proper! Oh, proper! Now he would show young men for the first time how pagan lights should be extinguished, how pagan champions must be mowed down and cut to pieces; he would show of what kind were the warriors of his day. Nay! on more fields than one men had marvelled at his prowess. It may happen now that even the king will be astounded! And this thought at that moment so filled him with rapture that he failed in his rosary: "Hail Mary--slay! kill!--full of grace--at them!--The Lord is with Thee--cut them down!" Till at last he recovered. "Tfu! to the evil one with this--glory is smoke. Has insanity seized me? non nobis, non nobis sed nomini tuo" (not to us, not to us, but to Thy name) and he passed the beads through his fingers more attentively.
Pan Serafin was repeating also his litany of the morning, but from time to time he looked now at the priest, now at the young lady, now at the Bukoyemskis, who were riding at the side of the carriage, now at the trees and the dew-covered grassy openings between them. At last, when he had finished the final "Hail, Mary!" he turned to the old man, and said, sighing deeply,--
"Your grace seems to be in rather good spirits?"
"And also your grace," said Father Voynovski.
"Yes, that is true. Until a man starts, he is bustling and hurrying and in trouble; only when the wind blows around him in the field is it light at his heartstrings. I remember how when, ten years ago, we were marching to Hotsim, there was a wonderful willingness in every warrior, so that though the action took place in the harsh weather of November, more than one threw his coat off because of the warmth which came out of his heart then. Well, God, who gave such a victory that time, will give it undoubtedly now, for the leader is the same, and the vigor and valor of the men not inferior. I know nations splendidly, Swedes, French, even Germans, but against Turks there is no one superior to our men."
"I have heard how his grace the king said the same," replied Father Voynovski. "'The Germans,' said he, 'stand under fire patiently, though they blink when attacking, but,' said he, 'if I can bring mine up nose to nose I am satisfied, for they will sweep everything before them as can no other cavalry in existence.' And this is true. The Lord Jesus has gifted us richly with this power, not only the nobles, but the peasants. For instance, our field infantry, when they spit on their palms and advance with their muskets, the best of the Janissaries cannot in any way equal them. I have seen both more than once in the struggle."
"If God has preserved in health Yatsek and Stashko, I am glad that their earliest campaign will be made against Turkish warriors. But how does your grace think, against whom will the Turks turn their main forces?"
"Against the emperor, as it seems, for they are warring against him, and helping rebellion in Hungary. But the Turks have two or three armies, hence it is unknown where we shall meet them decisively. For this cause, beyond doubt, no main camp has been organized, and regiments move from one place to another, as reports come. The regiments under Pan Yablonovski are now at Trembovla; others are concentrating on Cracow; others as happens to each of them. I know not where the voevoda of Volynia is quartered at present, nor where Zbierhovski's command is. At moments I think that my son has not written this long time because his regiment may be moving toward these parts."
"If he is commanded to Cracow, he must march near us, surely. That, however, depends upon where he was earlier and whence he is starting at present. We may get news at Radom. Is not our first night halt at Radom?"
"It is. I should wish too that the prelate Tvorkovski saw Panna Anulka and gave her final counsels. He will furnish us letters to help her in Cracow."
The conversation stopped for a time; then Pan Serafin raised his eyes again to Father Voynovski.
"But," asked he, "what will happen, think you, should she meet Yatsek in Cracow?"
"I know not. In every case that will take place which God wishes. Yatsek might win a fortune by marriage, while she is as poor as a Turkish saint--but wealth alone is mere nonsense, the splendor of a family is the great point in this case."
"Panna Anulka is of high lineage, and she is like gold--besides we know well that they are love-stricken, mortally."
"Of course, mortally, mortally."
The priest did not speak very willingly on this point, that was clear, for he turned the conversation to other subjects.
"Well," said he, "but let us think of this, that a robber is watching for that golden maiden. Do you remember Vilchopolski's words?"
Pan Serafin looked at the depth of the forest on all sides.
"Yes. But the Krepetskis will not dare," said he. "They will not dare! Our party is fairly large, and your grace sees the calmness of everything around us. I wish the girl to be in that carriage for safety, but she begged to be on horseback--she has no fear of anything."
"Well, she has good blood. But I note that she masters you thoroughly."
"And you, too, somewhat," answered Pan Serafin. "But as to me I confess right away; when she begs for a thing she knows how to move her eyes in such fashion that you must yield where you stand. Women have various methods, but have you noticed that she has that sort of blinking before which a man drops his arms. Near Belchantska I will tell her to enter the carriage, but so far she wishes absolutely to be on horseback, because, as she says, it is healthier."
"In such weather it is surely healthier."
"Look how rosy the girl is, just like a euphorbia laurel."
"What is her rosiness to me?" replied Father Voynovski. "But in truth the dear day is lovely."
In fact the weather was really wonderful, and the morning fresh and dewy. Single drops on the needlelike pine leaves glittered with the rainbow-like colors of diamonds. The forest interior was brightened by hazel trees filled with the sun rays of morning. Farther in, orioles were twittering with joyousness. Roundabout was the odor of pine, the whole earth seemed rejoicing, and the blue air was cloudless.
Thus pushing forward, they reached the same tar pit at which Martsian had been seized by the brothers. But the fear that some ambush might be there lurking proved groundless. Near the well were two tar-laden wagons, nothing more. To these, which belonged to peasants, were attached two wretched little horses, whose heads were sunk in bags of oats to their foreheads; the drivers, each near the side of his horse, were eating cheese and bread, but at sight of the showy party they put away these provisions; when asked if they had seen armed men, they answered that since morning a mounted man had been waiting, but that shortly before, on seeing this party from a distance, he had rushed away with all the speed of his beast in the opposite direction. The news alarmed Pan Serafin. It seemed to him that this horseman had been sent as a scout by Krepetski; and he redoubled his watchfulness. He commanded two attendants to ride at both sides and examine the forest; he sent two others ahead with this order: "If ye see an armed group fire your muskets, and return with all haste to the wagons." An hour passed, however, without a report from them. The party pushed forward slowly, watching in front and at both sides with carefulness, but it was quiet in the forest, except that the orioles twittered, while here and there was heard the hammering of those little smiths of the forest, the hard-working woodpeckers.
At last they reached a wide plain, but before going out on it Pan Serafin and the priest directed Anulka to sit in the carriage, since they had to pass now not far from Belchantska, the trees of which, and even the mansion between them, were visible to the eye without glasses. The young lady looked on that house with emotion, for in it she had passed very many of the best, and the bitterest, days of her existence. She had wished to look first of all at Vyrambki, but the Belchantska lindens so covered it that the dwelling was not to be seen from the carriage. It occurred to Anulka that she might never again in her life see those places, so she sighed quietly and became sorrowful.
The Bukoyemskis looked challengingly and quickly at the mansion, the village, and the neighborhood, but great quiet reigned in those places. Along broad fallow lands, which were flooded in sunlight, were grazing cows and sheep, guarded by dogs, and crowds of children. Here and there flocks of geese seemed white spots, and had it not been for summer heat, one might have thought from afar that they were bits of snow lying on the hill slopes; for the rest the region seemed empty.
Pan Serafin, who lacked not the daring of a cavalier, wished to show the Krepetskis how little he cared for them, and directed to make the first halt at that place, and give rest to the horses. So the party stopped; on one side were fields of wheat waving under the wind and rustling gently; on the other was the silence of the plain broken only by the snorting of horses.
"Health! health!" said the attendants in answer to the snorting.
But that calm was not to the taste of the youngest Bukoyemski, who turned toward the mansion and cried to the absent Krepetskis, while he beckoned with his hand an invitation.
"But come out here, ye sons of a such a one! O Stump, show thy dog snout; we will soon put a cross on it with our sabres!"
Then he bent toward the carriage.
"Your ladyship," said he, "that Martsian and his company are not in a hurry to attack us, neither he nor his bandits from the wilderness."
"But do bandits attack?" asked the lady.
"Oh-ho! they do, but not us. And there are many of them in the wilderness of Kozenitse, and in the forest toward Cracow. If his Grace the King would grant pardon, enough would be found of those bandits right here in this neighborhood to make two good regiments."
"I should rather meet bandits than Pan Martsian's company, of which people tell in Belchantska such terrible stories. I have not heard of bandits attacking a mansion."
"They do not, for a bandit has the same kind of sense that a wolf has. Consider, young lady, that a wolf never kills sheep or horned cattle in the neighborhood where his lair is."
"He speaks truth," said the other brothers.
Yan, glad of this praise, explained further.
"The bandit attacks no village or mansion near his hiding place. For if neighboring people should pursue, they, knowing the forests and secret spots in them, would hunt him out the more easily. So bandits go to a distance, and plunder houses or fall upon travellers in great or small parties."
"Have they no fear?"
"They have no fear of God. Why should they fear men?"
But Panna Anulka had turned her mind elsewhere, so, when Pan Serafin came to the carriage, she began to blink and implore him.
"Why should I stay in the carriage when no attack threatens? May I not go on horseback?"
"Why?" asked Pan Serafin. "The sun is high. It would burn your face. There is one who would not like that."
Thereupon she withdrew on a sudden to the depth of the carriage, and Pan Serafin turned to the brothers,--
"Have I not told her the truth?"
But not being quick-witted, they missed the point of the answer.
"Who would not like?" inquired they. "Who?"
Pan Serafin shrugged his shoulders.
"The prince bishop of Cracow, the German emperor, and the king of France," answered he.
He gave the sign then, and all started.
They passed Belchantska, and advanced again among tilled fields, fallow land, meadows, and broad wind-swept spaces which were bordered on the horizon by a blue rim of forest. At Yedlina they stopped for a second rest, during which the brewers, the citizens, and the peasants took farewell of Father Voynovski--and before evening they stopped for their first night rest at Radom.
Martsian had not given the least sign of life. They learned that he had passed the day previous in Radom, and had drunk with his company, but had gone home for the night; hence the priest and Pan Serafin breathed with more freedom, judging that no danger threatened them now on the journey.
The prelate Tvorkovski furnished letters to Father Hatski, to Gninski, the vice-chancellor who, as they knew, was enrolling a whole regiment for the coming war at his own cost, and one also to Pan Matchynski. He was rejoiced to see Panna Anulka and Father Voynovski, for whom he felt a great friendship, and Pan Serafin, in whom he prized a skilled Latinist, who understood every quotation and maxim. He, too, had heard of Martsian's threats, but had lent no great weight to them, judging that if an attack had been planned it would have been made in the wilds of Kozenitse, more favorable for that kind of deed than the forests between Radom and Kieltse.
"Martsian will not attack you," said he to Pan Serafin, "and his father will not bring an action, for he would meet me; he knows that I have other weapons against him besides the church censure."
The prelate entertained them all day, and let them start only toward evening. Since danger seemed set aside most decidedly, Pan Serafin agreed to night travel, all the more since great heat was beginning. The first five miles, however, they passed during daylight. On the river Oronka, which here and there formed morasses, began again, in those days, extensive pine forests, which surrounded Oronsk, Sucha, Krogulha, and extended as far as Shydlovets, and beyond, toward Mrochkov and Bzin, down to Kieltse. They moved slowly, for in some places the old road lay among sandy hillocks and holes, while in others it sank very notably and became a muddy, stick-covered ridgeway. This ridge lay in a quagmire through which a man could pass neither with wagon nor horse, nor go on foot at any season, unless during very dry summers. These places enjoyed no good repute, but for this Pan Serafin and his party cared little; they were confident of their strength, and glad to move in cool air when heat did not trouble men, or flies annoy horses.
A clear and pleasant night came down quickly, with a full moon which appeared above the pine woods, enormous and ruddy, decreasing and growing pale as it rose, till in time it was white, and sailed like a silver swan through the dark blue of the night sky. The wind ceased, and the motionless pine wood was buried in a stillness broken only by the voices of gnats flying in from broad pools, and by the playing of landrails in the grass of the neighboring meadows.
Father Voynovski intoned: "Hail, O Wise Lady! and Mansions dear to God," to which the four bass voices of the Bukoyemskis and Pan Serafin answered immediately: "Adorned by the golden table and seven columns." Panna Anulka joined the chorus, after her the attendants, and soon that pious hymn was resounding through the forest. But when they had finished all the "Hours," and repeated all the "Hail, Marys!" silence set in again. The priest, the brothers, and Pan Serafin conversed for some time yet in lowered voices; then they began to doze, and at last fell asleep soundly.
They did not hear either the "Vio! Vio!" of the drivers, or the snorting of horses, or the explosive sound made when hoofs were drawn out of mud on that long ridge way which lay in the sticky and reed-covered quagmire. The party came to the ridge somewhat before midnight. The shouts of attendants, who were advancing in front, first roused the sleepers.
"Stop! stop!"
All opened their eyes. The Bukoyemskis straightened in their saddles and sprang ahead promptly.
"But what is the matter?"
"The road is barred. There is a ditch across it, and beyond the ditch a breastwork."
The sabres of the brothers came biting from their scabbards and gleamed in the moonlight.
"To arms! an ambuscade!"
Pan Serafin found himself at the obstruction in one moment, and understood that there was no chance of being mistaken: a broad ditch had been dug across the ridgeway. Beyond the ditch lay whole pine trees which, with their branches sticking up, formed a great breastwork. The men who stopped the road in that fashion had evidently intended to let the party in on the ridge, from which there was no escape on either side, and attack in the rear then.
"To your guns! to muskets!" thundered Father Voynovski. "They are coming!"
In fact about a hundred yards in the rear certain dark, square forms, strange, quite unlike men, appeared on the ridge, and ran toward the wagons very quickly.
"Fire!" commanded the priest.
A report was heard, and brilliant flashes rent the night gloom. Only one form rolled to the earth, but the other men ran the more swiftly toward the wagons, and after them denser groups made their appearance.
Instructed by whole years of war, the priest divined straightway that those men were carrying bundles before them, straw, reeds, or willows, and that was why the first discharge had effected so little.
"Fire! In order! four at a time!--and at their knees!" cried he.
Two attendants held guns charged with slugs. These men took their places with others, and spat at the knees of the attackers. A cry of pain was heard promptly, and this time the whole front rank of bundles tumbled down to the mud on the ridgeway, but the next rank of men sprang over those who were prostrate, and came still nearer the wagons.
"Fire!" was commanded a third time.
Again came a salvo, with more effect this time, for the onrush was stopped, and disorder appeared among the attackers.
The priest acquired courage, for he knew that the attackers had outwitted themselves in the choice of position. It is true that not a living soul would escape in case they should triumph, and the bandits had this in view specially; but, not having men to hem in the party on all sides, they were forced to attack only over the ridgeway, hence in a thin body, which again lightened defence beyond common, so that five or six valiant warriors might ward off attack until daylight.
The attackers, too, began to use muskets, but caused no great damage, clearly because of poor weapons. Their first fire struck only a horse and one attendant. The Bukoyemskis begged to charge the enemy, guaranteeing to sweep right and left into the quagmire any men whom they might not crush in the mud of the roadway. But the priest, who kept their strength for the last, would not send them; he commanded the brothers, however, as excellent marksmen, to roast the attackers from a distance, and Pan Serafin commanded to watch the ditch sharply, and the breastwork.
"If they attack us from that side," said he, "they may do something, but they will not get us cheaply."
Then he hastened for a moment to the carriage where the ladies were praying without great fear, though audibly.
"Oh, this is nothing!" said he. "Have no fear!"
"I have no fear," answered Panna Anulka. "But I should like to be on horseback."
Shots drowned further words. The attackers, confused for a moment, pressed along the ridge now, with wonderful and simply blind daring, since it was clear that they would not effect much on that side.
"Hm!" thought the priest. "Were it not for the women, we might charge them."
And he had begun to think of sending the four brothers with four other good warriors, when he looked at both flanks and trembled.
On the two sides of that quagmire appeared crowds of men, who, springing from hillock to hillock, or along sheaves of reeds, which had been fixed in soft places on purpose, were running toward the wagons.
The priest turned to them, in the shortest time possible, two ranks of attendants, but he understood in a flash the extent of his peril. His party was surrounded on three sides. The attendants were, it is true, chosen men, who had been more than once in sharp struggles, but they were insufficient in number, especially as some had to guard extra horses. Hence it was evident that after the first fire, inadequate because of so many attackers, there would be a hand-to-hand struggle before guns could be loaded a second time, and the side which proved weaker would be forced to go down in that trial.
Only one plan remained, to retreat by the ridgeway, that is, leave the wagons, command the Bukoyemskis to sweep all before them, and push on behind the four brothers, keeping the women among the horses in the centre. So when they had fired at both sides again, the priest ordered the women to mount, and arranged all for the onrush. In the first rank were the four brothers, behind them six attendants, then Panna Anulka and Pani Dzvonkovski, at the side the priest and Pan Serafin, behind them eight attendants, four in a rank. After the charge and retreat from the ridgeway he intended to reach the first village, collect all the peasants, return then and rescue the wagons.
Still he stopped for a moment, and only when the attackers were little more than twenty yards distant, and when on a sudden wild sounds were heard beyond the breastwork, did he shout the order,--
"Strike!"
"Strike!" roared the Bukoyemskis, and they moved like a hurricane which destroys all things before it. When they had ridden to the enemy the horses rose on their haunches and plunged into the dense crowd of robbers, trampling some, pushing others to the quagmire, overthrowing whole lines of people. The brothers cut with sabres unsparingly, and without stopping. There was great shouting, and splashing of bodies as men fell into the water near the ridgeway, but the four dreadful horsemen pushed forward; their arms moving like those of a windmill to which a gale gives dreadful impetus. Some attackers sprang willingly into the water to save themselves; others put forks and bill-hooks against the onrushing brothers. Clubs and spears were raised also; but again the horses reared, and, breaking everything before them, swept on like a whirlwind in a young forest.
Had not the road been so narrow, and those who were slashed had all escape barred to them, and those behind not pushed on those in front, the Bukoyemskis would have passed the whole ridgeway. But since more than one of the bandits preferred battle to drowning, resistance continued, and, besides, it became still more stubborn. The hearts of the robbers were raging. They began to fight then not merely for plunder, or seizing some person, but from venom. At moments when shouts ceased, the gritting of teeth became audible and curses rose loudly. The rush of the Bukoyemskis was arrested. It came to their minds at that moment that they would have to die, perhaps. And when, on a sudden, they heard still farther out there the tramping of horses, and loud shouts were raised in all parts of the thicket surrounding the quagmire, they felt sure that the moment of death was approaching. Hence they smashed terribly; they would not sell their lives cheaply in any case.
But now something marvellous happened. Many voices were heard all at once shouting: "Strike!" Sabres gleamed in the moonlight. Certain horsemen fell to cutting and hewing in the rear of the robbers, who, because of this sudden attack, were seized in one instant with terror. Escape in the rear was now closed to them; nothing remained but escape at either side of the roadway. Only some, therefore, offered a desperate resistance. The more numerous sprang like ducks to the turfy quagmire on both sides. The quagmire broke under them; then grasping grass, clumps, and reeds, they clung to hillocks, or lay on their bellies not to sink the first moment.
Only a small company, armed with scythes fixed to poles, defended themselves for some time yet with madness. Because of this many horsemen were wounded. But at last even this handful, seeing that for them there was no rescue whatever, threw down their weapons, fell on their knees, and begged mercy. They were taken alive to be witnesses.
Meanwhile horsemen from both sides stood facing one another, and raised their voices.
"Halt! halt! Who are ye?"
"But who are ye?"
"Tsyprianovitch of Yedlinka."
"For God's sake! these are our people!"
And two riders pushed from the ranks quickly. One inclined to Pan Serafin, seized his hand straightway, and covered it with kisses; the other rushed to the priest's shoulder.
"Stanislav!" cried Pan Serafin.
"Yatsek!" shouted the priest.
The greetings and embraces continued till speech came to Pan Serafin,--
"For God's sake, whence come ye?"
"Our regiment was marching to Cracow. Yatsek and I had permission to visit you at Yedlinka. Meanwhile we learned at Radom, while halting for food there, that thou, father, and the priest, and the Bukoyemskis had set out an hour earlier by the highroad toward Kieltse."
"Did the prelate tell thee?"
"No! We did not see him. Radom Jews told us; we did not go then to Yedlinka, but moved on at once lest we might miss you. At midnight we heard firing, so we all rushed to give aid, thinking that bandits had fallen upon travellers. It did not occur to us that ye were the persons. God be thanked, God be thanked, that we came up in season!"
"Not bandits attacked us, but the Krepetskis. It is a question of Panna Anulka, who is with us."
"As God lives!" exclaimed Stanislav. "Then I think that his soul will leave Yatsek."
"I wrote to thee about her, but it is evident that my letter did not reach thee."
"No, for we are marching these three weeks. I have not written of late because I had to come hither."
Shouts from the Bukoyemskis, the attendants, and the warriors stopped further converse. At that moment also attendants ran up with lighted torches. A supply had been taken by Pan Serafin that he might have wherewith to give light during darkness. It was as clear on the road as in daylight, and in those bright gleams Yatsek saw the gray horse on which Panna Anulka was sitting.
He grew dumb at sight of her.
"Yes, she is with us," said Father Voynovski, seeing his astonishment.
Then Yatsek urged his horse forward, and halted before her. He uncovered his head, and remained there lost as he looked at her. His face was as white as chalk, his breath had almost left him, and he was speechless.
After a moment the cap fell to the earth from his fingers, his head dropped to the mane of the horse, and his eyes closed.
"But he is wounded!" cried Lukash Bukoyemski.
Yatsek was really wounded. One of those robbers, who defended themselves to the utmost, cut him, with a scythe in the left shoulder, and since he and the men marched without mail, the very end of the iron had cut into his arm rather deeply from the shoulder to the elbow. The wound was not over grievous, but it bled quite profusely; because of this the young man had then fainted. The experienced Father Voynovski commanded to put him in a wagon, and, when the wound had been dressed, he left him in care of the women. Yatsek opened his eyes somewhat later, and began again to look, as at a rainbow, into the face of Panna Anulka, which was there bending over him.
Meanwhile the attendants filled the ditch and removed all obstructions. The wagons and the men passed to the dry road beyond, where they halted to bring the train into order, take some rest, and question the prisoners. From Tachevski the priest went to the Bukoyemskis to see if they had suffered. But they had not. The horses were torn and even stabbed with forks, but not seriously; the men themselves were in excellent humor, for all were admiring their valor, since they had crushed before war, more opponents than had many others during years of campaigning.
"Now, gentlemen, ye may join Pan Zbierhovski," said the hussars here and there. "From of old it is known, and God grant that men will see soon, that our regiment is the first even among hussars. Pan Zbierhovski admits no common men, or any man easily, but he will accept you with gladness, and we shall be charmed from our hearts to find you in our company."
The Bukoyemskis knew that this might not be, for they could not have the attendants, or the outfit demanded in such a high regiment, but they listened to those speeches with rapture, and when cups went the round, they let no man surpass them.
When that part was ended, the captured bandits were seized by their heads, and led from the mud to Zbierhovski and the priest and Pan Serafin. No bandit had escaped, for with a detachment of twelve hundred there were men to surround the whole quagmire and both ends of the ridgeway. The appearance of the prisoners astonished Pan Serafin. He had thought to find Martsian among them, as he had told Stanislav, and Martsian's Radom outcasts also; meanwhile he saw before him a ragged rabble reeking with turf and bespattered with mud of the ridgeway, a company made up, like all bodies of that kind, of deserters from the infantry, of runaway servants and serfs, in a word, of all kinds of wicked, wild scoundrels working at robbery in remote places and forests. Many such parties were raging, especially in the wooded region of Sandomir, and since they were strengthened by men who were eager for anything, men who if captured were threatened with terrible punishment, their attacks were uncommonly daring, and they fought savage battles.
The search through the quagmire continued for a time yet, then Pan Serafin turned to Zbierhovski.
"Gracious colonel," said he. "These are highway robbers. We thought them quite different. This was an attack of common bandits. We thank you, and all your men with grateful hearts for effective assistance, without which, as is possible, we should not have seen the sun rise this morning."
"These night marches are good," said Zbierhovski, and he smiled while he was speaking. "The heat does not trouble, and it is possible to serve others. Do you wish to examine these captives immediately?"
"Since I have looked at them closely already, it is not needed. The court in the town will examine them, and the headsman will guide them."
At this a tall, bony fellow, with a gloomy face, and light hair pushed out from the captives and said, as he bent to Pan Serafin's stirrup.
"Great mighty lord, spare our lives, and we will tell truth. We are common bandits, but the attack was not common."
The priest and Pan Serafin, on hearing this, looked at each other with roused curiosity.
"Who art thou?" asked the priest.
"I am a chief. There were two of us, for this party was formed of two bands, but the other man fell. Give me pardon, and I will tell everything."
Father Voynovski stopped for a moment.
"We cannot save you from justice," said he, "but for you it is better in every case to tell truth, than be forced to declare it under torture. Besides, if ye confess, God's judgment and man's will be more lenient."
The bandit looked at his companions, uncertain whether to speak or be silent. Meanwhile the priest added,--
"And if ye tell the whole truth, we can intercede with the king, and commend you to his mercy. He accepts offenders in the infantry, and recommends mercy now to judges."
"In that case," said the man, "I will tell everything. My name is Obuh; the leader of the other band was Kos, and a noble engaged us to fall on your graces."
"But do ye know the name of that noble?"
"I did not know him, for I am from distant places, but Kos knew him, and said his name was Vysh."
The priest and Pan Serafin looked at each other with astonishment.
"Vysh,[6] didst thou say?"
"Yes."
"But was there no one with him?"
"There was another, a lean, thin, young man."
"Not they," said Pan Serafin to the priest in a whisper.
"But they may have been Martsian's company."
Then he said aloud to the man,--
"What did they tell you to do?"
"This: 'Do what ye like with the people,' said they; 'the wagons and plunder are yours; but in the company there is a young lady whom ye are to take and bring by roundabout ways between Radom and Zvolenie to Polichna. Beyond Polichna a party will attack you and take the lady. Ye will pretend to defend her, but not so as to harm our men. Ye will get a thaler apiece for this, besides what ye find in the wagons.'"
"That is as if on one's palm," said the priest.
"Then did only those two talk with Kos and thee?"
"Later, a third person came in the night with them; he gave us a ducat apiece to bind the agreement. Though the place was as dark as in a cellar, one of our men who had been a serf of his recognized that third person as Pan Krepetski."
"Ha! that is he!" cried Pan Serafin.
"And is that man here, or has he fallen?" inquired Father Voynovski.
"I am here!" called out a voice from some distance.
"Come nearer. Didst thou recognize Pan Krepetski? But how, since it was so dark, that thou couldst hit a man on the snout without knowing it?"
"Because I know him from childhood. I knew him by his bow-legs and his head, which sits, as it were, in a hole between his shoulders, and by his voice."
"Did he speak to you?"
"He spoke with us, and afterward I heard him speak to those who came with him."
"What did he say to them?"
"He said this: 'If I could have trusted money with you, I should not have come, even if the night were still darker.'"
"And wilt thou testify to this before the mayor in the town, or the starosta?"
"I will."
"When he heard this, Pan Zbierhovski turned to his attendants and said,--
"Guard this man with special care, for me."
They began now to counsel. The advice of the Bukoyemskis was to disguise some peasant woman in the dress of a lady, put her on horseback, give her attendants and soldiers dressed up as bandits, and go to the place designated by Martsian, and, when he made the attack as agreed upon, surround him immediately, and either wreak vengeance there, or take him to Cracow and deliver him to justice. They offered to go themselves, with great willingness, to carry out the plan, and swore that they would throw Martsian in fetters at the feet of Panna Anulka.
This proposal pleased all at the first moment, but when they examined it more carefully the execution seemed needless and difficult. Pan Zbierhovski might rescue from danger people whom he met on his march, but he had not the right to send soldiers on private expeditions, and he had no wish either to do so. On the other hand, since there was a bandit who knew and was ready to indicate to the courts the chief author of the ambush, it was possible to bring that same author to account any moment, and to have issued against him a sentence of infamy. For this reason both Pan Serafin and Father Voynovski grew convinced that there would be time for that after the war, since there was no fear that the Krepetskis, who owned large estates, would flee and abandon them. This did not please the Bukoyemskis, however, for they desired keenly to finish the question. They even declared that since that was the decision, they would go themselves with their attendants for Martsian. But Pan Serafin would not permit this, and they were stopped finally by Yatsek, who implored them by all that was sacred to leave Krepetski to him, and him only.
"I," said he, "will not act through courts against Martsian, but after all that I have heard from you here, if I do not fall in the war, as God is in heaven, I will find the man, and it will be shown whether infamy would not be pleasanter and easier also than that which will meet him."
And his "maiden" eyes glittered so fiercely that though the Bukoyemskis were unterrified warriors a shiver went through them. They knew in what a strange manner passion and mildness were intertwined in the spirit of Yatsek, together with an ominous remembrance of injustice.
He said then repeatedly: "Woe to him!--Woe to him!" and again he grew pale from his blood loss. Day had come already, and the morning light had tinted the world in green and rose colors; that light sparkled in the dewdrops, on the grass and the reeds, and the tree leaves and the needles of dwarf pines here and there on the edge of the quagmire. Pan Zbierhovski had commanded to bury the bodies of the fallen bandits, which was done very quickly, for the turf opened under spades easily, and when no trace of battle was left on that roadway, the march was continued toward Shydlovets.
Pan Serafin advised the young lady to sit again in the carriage, where she might have a good sleep before they reached the next halting place, but she declared so decisively that she would not desert Yatsek that even Father Voynovski did not try to remove her. So they went together, only two besides the driver, for sleep was so torturing Pani Dzvonkovski, that after a while they transferred her to the carriage.
Yatsek was lying face upward on bundles of hay arranged lengthwise in one side of the wagon, while she sat on the other, bending every little while toward his wounded shoulder, and watching to see if blood might not come through the bandages. At times she put a leather bottle of old wine to the mouth of the wounded man. This wine acted well to all seeming, for after a while he was wearied of lying, and had the driver draw out the bundle on which his feet were then resting.
"I prefer to ride sitting," said he, "since I feel all my strength now."
"But the wound, will that not pain you more if you are sitting?"
Yatsek turned his eyes to her rosy face, and said in a sad and low voice, "I will give the same answer as that knight long ago when King Lokietek saw him pierced with spears by the Knights of the Cross, on a battlefield. 'Is thy pain great?' asked the king. The knight showed his wounds then. 'These pain least of all,' said he in answer."
Panna Sieninski dropped her eyes. "But what pains you more?" inquired she in a whisper.
"A yearning heart, and separation, and the memory of wrongs inflicted."
For a while silence continued, but the hearts began to throb in both with power which increased every moment, for they knew that the time had come then in which they could and should confess everything which each had against the other.
"It is true," said she, "I did you an injustice, when, after the duel, I received you with angry face, and inhumanly. But that was the only time, and, though God alone knows how much I regretted that afterward, still I say it is my fault! and from my whole soul I implore you." Yatsek put his sound hand to his forehead.
"Not that," answered he, "was the thorn, not that the great anguish!"
"I know it was not that, but the letter from Pan Gideon. How could you suspect me of knowing the contents of the letter, or having suggested them?"
And she began to tell, with a broken voice, how it happened: how she had implored Pan Gideon to make a step toward being reconciled: how he had promised to write a heartfelt and fatherly letter, but he wrote entirely the opposite. Of this she learned only later from Father Voynovski, and from this it was shown that Pan Gideon having other plans, simply wanted to separate them from each other forever.
At the same time, since her words were a confession, and also a renewal of painful and bitter memories, her eyes were dimmed with tears, and from constraint and shame a deep blush came out on her cheeks from one instant to another.
"Did Father Voynovski," asked she at last, "not write to you that I knew nothing, and that I could not even understand why I received for my sincere feelings a recompense of that kind?"
"Father Voynovski," answered Yatsek, "only wrote me that you were going to marry Pan Gideon."
"But did he not write that I consented to do so only through orphanhood and pain and desertion, and out of gratitude to my guardian? For I knew not then how he had treated you; I only knew that I was despised and forgotten."
When he heard this Yatsek closed his eyes and began to speak with great sadness.
"Forgotten? Is that God's truth? I was in Warsaw, I was at the king's court, I went through the country with my regiment, but whatever I did, and wherever I travelled, not for one moment didst thou go from my heart and my memory. Thou didst follow me as his shadow a man. And during nights without sleep, in suffering and in pain, which came simply from torture, many a time have I called to thee: 'Take pity, have mercy! grant to forget thee!' But thou didst not leave me at any time, either in the day, or the night, or in the field, or under a house roof, until at last I understood that only then could I tear thee from my heart when I had torn the heart itself from my bosom."
Here he stopped, for his voice was choked from emotion; but after a time he continued,--
"So after that often and often I said in my prayers: 'O God, grant me death, for Thou seest that it is impossible for me to attain her, and impossible for me to be without her!' And that was before I had hoped for the favor of seeing thee in life again--thou, the only one in the world--thou, beloved!"
As he said this he bent toward her and touched her arm with his temple.
"Thou," whispered he, "art as that blood which gives life to me, as that sun in the heavens. The mercy of God is upon me, that I see thee once more-- O beloved! beloved!"
And it seemed to her that Yatsek was singing some marvellous song at that moment. Her eyes were filled with a wave of tears then, and a wave of happiness flooded her heart. Again there was silence between them; but she wept long with such a sweet weeping as she had never known in her life till that morning.
"Yatsek," said she at last, "why have we so tormented each other?"
"God has rewarded us a hundred fold," said he in answer.
And for the third time there was silence between them; only the wagon squeaked on, pushing forward slowly over the ruts of the roadway. Beyond the forest they came out onto great fields bathed in sunlight; on those fields wheat was rustling, dotted richly with red poppies and blue star thistles. There was great calm in that region. Above fields on which the grain had been reaped, here and there skylarks were soaring, lost in song, motionless; on the edges of the fields sickles glittered in the distance; from the remoter green pastures came the cries and songs of men herding cattle. And to both it seemed that the wheat was rustling because of them; that the poppies and star thistles were blooming because of them; that, the larks were singing because of them; that the calls of the herdsmen were uttered because of them; that all the sunny peace of those fields and all those voices were simply repeating their ecstasy and happiness.
They were roused from this oblivion by Father Voynovski, who had pushed up unnoticed to the wagon.
"How art thou, Yatsus?" asked he.
Yatsek trembled and looked with shining eyes at him, as if just roused from slumber.
"What is it, benefactor?"
"How art thou?"
"Eh! it will not be better in paradise!"
The priest looked seriously first at him, then at the young lady.
"Is that true?" asked he.
And he galloped off to the company. But the delightful reality embraced them anew. They began to look on each other, and sink in the eyes of each other.
"O, thou not-to-be-looked-at-sufficiently!" said Yatsek.
But she lowered her eyes, smiled at the corners of her mouth till dimples appeared in her rosy cheeks, and asked in a whisper,--
"But is not Panna Zbierhovski more beautiful?"
Yatsek looked at her with amazement.
"What, Panna Zbierhovski?"
She made no answer; she simply laughed in her fist, with a laugh as resonant as a silver bell.
Meanwhile, when the priest had galloped to the company, the men, who loved Yatsek, fell to inquiring,--
"Well, how is it there? How is our wounded man?"
"He is no longer in this world!" replied Father Voynovski.
"As God lives! What has happened? How is he not in the world?"
"He is not, for he says that he is in paradise--a woman!!!"
The Bukoyemskis, as men who understand without metaphor all that is said to them, did not cease to look at the priest with astonishment and, removing their caps, were just ready to say, "eternal rest," when a general outbreak of laughter interrupted their pious thoughts and intention. But in that laughter of the company there was sincere good-will and sympathy for Yatsek. Some of the men had learned from Pan Stanislav how sensitive that cavalier was, and all divined how he must have suffered, hence the words of the priest delighted them greatly. Voices were heard at once, therefore: "God knows! we have seen how he fought with his feelings, how he answered questions at random, how he left buckles unfastened, how he forgot himself when eating or drinking, how he turned his eyes to the moon during night hours."
"Those are infallible signs of unfortunate love," added some. "It is true," put in others, "that he is now as if in paradise, for if no wounds give more pain than those caused by Love, there is no sweeter thing than mutuality."
These and similar remarks were made by Yatsek's comrades. Some of them, having learned of the hardships which the lady had passed through, and how shamefully Krepetski had treated her, fell to shaking their sabres, and crying; "Give him hither!" Some became sensitive over the maiden, some, having learned how Martsian had been handled by the Bukoyemskis, raised to the skies the native valor and wit of those brothers. But after a while universal attention was centred again on the lovers: "Well," cried out all, "let us shout to their health and good fortune et felices rerum successus!" and immediately a noisy throng moved toward the wagon on horseback. In one moment almost the whole regiment had surrounded Pan Yatsek and Panna Anulka. Loud voices thundered: "Vivant! floreant!" others cried before the time: "Crescite et multiplicamini!" Whether Panna Anulka was really frightened by those cries, or rather as an "insidious woman," she only feigned terror father Voynovski himself could not have decided. It is enough that, sheltering her bright head at the unwounded shoulder of Yatsek, she asked with shamefaced confusion,--
"What is this, Yatsek? what are they doing?"
He surrounded her with his sound arm, and said,--
"People are giving thee, dearest flower, and I am taking thee."
"After the war?"
"Before the war."
"In God's name, why so hurried?"
But it was evident that Yatsek had not heard this query for instead of replying, he said to her,--
"Let us bow to the dear comrades for this good-will, and thank them."
Hence they bowed toward both sides, which roused still greater enthusiasm. Seeing the blushing face of the maiden, which was as beautiful as the morning dawn, the warriors struck their thighs with their palms from admiration.
"By the dear God!" cried they. "One might be dazzled!"
"An angel would be enamoured; what can a sinful man do?"
"It is no wonder that he was withering with sorrow."
And again hundreds of voices thundered more powerfully,--
"Vivant! crescant! floreant!"
Amid those shouts, and in clouds of golden dust they entered Shydlovets. At the first moment the inhabitants were frightened, and, leaving in front of their houses the workshops in which they were cutting out whetstones from sandrock, they ran to their chambers. But, learning soon that those were the shouts of a betrothal, and not of anger, they rushed in a crowd to the street and followed the soldiers. A throng of horses and men was formed straightway. The kettledrums of the horsemen were beaten, the trumpets and crooked horns sounded. Gladness became universal. Even the Jews, who through fear had stayed longer in the houses, shouted: "Vivait!"[7] though they knew not well what the question was.
But Tachevski said to Panna Anulka,--
"Before the war, before the war, even though death were to come one hour later."