Since thou wilt be equal to him who is owner of nothing on earth;
For he who moves all things is manager now, the mighty, the merciful God!
And he puts on his scales all our woes, and he weighs them to know.
Halt! look around! stand in amaze, thou who dost soar,
With thy mind seeing wisdom down deep and afar!”
The minstrel was silent, and sighed; and after him the peasants sighed. Every moment more of them collected around him. But Skshetuski, though he knew that all his men must be ready now, did not give the signal for attack. The calm night, the blazing fires, the wild figures, and the song about Nikolai Pototski, still unfinished, roused in the knight certain wonderful thoughts, certain feelings and yearnings of which he could not himself give account. The uncured wounds of his heart opened; deep sorrow for the near past, for lost happiness, for those hours of quiet and peace, pressed his heart. He fell to thinking, and was sad. Then the “grandfather” sang on, —
“Halt! look around! stand in amaze, thou who mak’st war
With arrows, bows, powder, and ball, with the sharp-cutting sword!
For knights, too, and horsemen, before thee were many,
Who fought with such weapons and fell by the sword.
Halt! look around! stand in amaze, forget thou thy pride!
Thou who from Potok to Slavuta farest, turn then this way.
Innocent men thou tak’st by the ears and stripp’st them of will;
Thou heedest no king, thou knowest no Diet, art thy own single law;
Hei! be amazed, grow not enraged! thou in thy power,
With thy baton alone, as thou lustest, thou turnest the whole Polish land.”
The “grandfather” stopped again, and at that time a pebble slipped from under the arm of one of the Cossacks, which had been resting on it, and began to roll down, rattling as it fell. A number of peasants shaded their eyes with their hands, and looked up quickly into the tree; then Skshetuski saw that the time had come, and fired his pistol into the middle of the crowd.
“Kill! slash!” cried he. Thirty Cossacks fired as it were straight into the faces of the crowd, and after the firing slipped like lightning down the steep walls of the ravine, among the terrified and confused peasants.
“Kill! slay!” was thundered at one end of the ravine.
“Kill! slay!” was repeated by furious voices at the other end.
“Yeremi! Yeremi!”
The attack was so unexpected, the terror so great, that the peasants, though armed, offered no resistance. It had been related in the camp of the rebellious mob that Yeremi, by the aid of the evil spirit, was able to be present and to fight at the same time in a number of places. This time, his name falling upon men who expected nothing and felt safe — really like the name of an evil spirit — snatched the weapons from their hands. Besides, the pikes and scythes could not be used in the narrow place; so that, driven like a flock of sheep to the opposite wall of the ravine, hewn down with sabres through the foreheads and faces, beaten, cut up, trampled under foot, in the madness of fear they stretched out their hands, and seizing the merciless steel, perished. The still forest was filled with the ominous uproar of the fight. Some tried to escape over the steep wall of the ravine, and wounding their hands with climbing, fell back on the sabre’s edge. Some died calmly, others cried for mercy; some covered their faces with their hands, not wishing to see the moment of death; others threw themselves on the ground, face downward; but above the whistling of sabres, the groans of the dying, rose the shout of the assailants, “Yeremi! Yeremi!” — a shout which made the hair stand erect on the heads of the peasants, and death seem more terrible.
The minstrel gave a blow on the forehead to one of the Cossacks, and knocked him down; seized another by the hand, to stop the blow of the sabre, and bellowed from fear like a buffalo. Others, seeing him, ran up to cut him to pieces; but Skshetuski interfered.
“Take him alive!” shouted he.
“Stop!” roared the minstrel. “I am a noble. Loquor latine! I am no minstrel. Stop, I tell you! Robbers, bullock-drivers, sons of—”
But the minstrel had not yet finished his litany when Pan Yan looked into his face, and cried, till the walls of the ravine gave back the echo, “Zagloba!” And suddenly rushing upon him like a wild beast, he drove his fingers into the shoulders and thrust his face up to the face of the man, and shaking him as he would a pear-tree, roared: “Where is the princess? where is the princess?”
“Alive, well, safe!” roared back the minstrel; “unhand me! The devil take you, you are shaking the soul out of me!”
Then that knight, whom neither captivity nor wounds nor grief nor the terrible Burdabut could bring down, was brought down by happiness. His hands dropped at his side, great drops of sweat came out on his forehead; he fell on his knees, covered his face with his hands, and leaning his head against the wall of the ravine, remained in silence, evidently thanking God.
Meanwhile the unfortunate peasants had been slaughtered, and were lying dead on the ground, except a few who were bound for the executioner in the camp so as to torture a confession from them. The struggle was over, the uproar at an end. The Cossacks gathered around their leader, and seeing him kneeling under the rock, looked at him with concern, not knowing but he was wounded. He rose, however, with a face as bright as though the light of morning were shining in his soul.
“Where is she?” asked he of Zagloba.
“In Bar.”
“Safe?”
“The castle is a strong one; no attack is feared. She is under the care of Pani Slavoshevska and with the nuns.”
“Praise be to God in the highest!” said the knight; and in his voice there trembled deep emotion. “Give me your hand; I thank you from my very soul.”
Suddenly he turned to the Cossacks. “Are there many prisoners?”
“Seventeen.”
“A great joy has met me, and mercy is in me,” said Pan Yan. “Let them be free!”
The Cossacks could not believe their ears. There was no such custom as that in the armies of Vishnyevetski.
The lieutenant frowned slightly. “Let them go free!” he repeated.
The Cossacks went away; but after a while the first essaul returned and said: “They do not believe as; they do not dare to go.”
“Are their bonds loose?”
“Yes.”
“Then leave them here, and to horse yourselves!”
Half an hour later the party was moving on again along the quiet, narrow road. The moon had risen, and sent long white streaks to the centre of the forest and lighted its dark depths. Zagloba and Skshetuski, riding ahead, conversed together.
“But tell me everything about her that you know,” said the knight. “Then you rescued her from the hands of Bogun?”
“Of course; and besides, when going away, I bound up his face so that he could not scream.”
“Well, you acted splendidly, as God is dear to me! But how did you get to Bar?”
“That IS a long story, better at another time; for I am terribly tired, and my throat is dried up from singing to those rapscallions. Haven’t you anything to drink?”
“I have a little flask of gorailka; here it is.”
Zagloba seized the flask and raised it to his mouth. A protracted gurgling was heard; and Pan Yan, impatient, without waiting the end, inquired further: “Did you say well?”
“What a question!” answered Zagloba; “everything is well in a dry throat.”
“But I was inquiring about the princess.”
“Oh, the princess! She is as well as a deer.”
“Praise be to God on high! And she is comfortable in Bar?”
“As comfortable as in heaven, — couldn’t be more so. Every one cleaves to her for her beauty. Pani Slavoshevska loves her as her own daughter. And how many men are in love with her! You couldn’t count them on a rosary. But she, in constant love for you, thinks as much of them as I do now of this empty flask of yo
urs.”
“May God give health to her, the dearest!” said Skshetuski, joyfully. “Then she remembers me with pleasure?”
“Remembers you? I tell you that I myself couldn’t understand where she got breath for so many sighs; these sighs made every one pity her, and most of all the little nuns, for she brought them to her side through her sweetness. Then she sent me too into these dangers, in which I have almost lost my life, to find you without fail and see if you were alive and well. She tried several times to send messengers, but no one would go. At last I took pity on her, and set out for your camp. If it hadn’t been for the disguise, I should have laid down my head surely. But the peasants took me for a minstrel everywhere, as I sing very beautifully.”
Skshetuski became silent from joy. A thousand thoughts and reminiscences thronged into his head. Helena stood as if living before him, as he had seen her the last time in Rozlogi, just before leaving for the Saitch, — charming, beautiful, graceful, and with those eyes black as velvet, full of unspeakable allurement. It seemed to him that he saw her, felt the warmth beating from her cheeks, heard her sweet voice. He recalled that walk in the cherry-garden and the cuckoo, and those questions which he gave the bird, and the bashfulness of Helena. Indeed the soul went out of him; his heart grew weak from love and joy, in presence of which all his past sufferings were like a drop in the sea. He did not know himself what was happening to him. He wanted to shout, fall on his knees and thank God again, then inquire without end. At last he began to repeat: —
“She is alive, well?”
“Alive, well,” answered Zagloba, like an echo.
“And she sent you out?”
“Yes.”
“And you have got a letter?”
“I have.”
“Give it to me.”
“It is sewed into my clothes; besides, it is night now. Restrain yourself.”
“I cannot. You see yourself.”
“I see.”
Zagloba’s answers became more and more laconic; at last he nodded a couple of times and fell asleep.
Skshetuski saw there was no help; therefore he gave himself up again to meditation, which was interrupted after a while by the tramp of a considerable body of cavalry approaching quickly. It was Ponyatovski with Cossacks of the guard, whom the prince had sent out to meet Skshetuski, fearing lest some harm might have met him.
CHAPTER XXIX.
It is easy to understand how the prince received the statement which Skshetuski made of the refusal of Osinski and Koritski. Everything had so combined that it needed such a great soul as that iron prince possessed, not to bend, not to waver, or let his hands drop. In vain was he to spend a colossal fortune on the maintenance of armies; in vain was he to struggle like a lion in a net; in vain was he to tear off one head of the rebellion after another, showing wonders of bravery all for nothing. A time was coming in which he must feel his own impotence, withdraw somewhere to a distance, to a quiet place, and remain a silent spectator of what was being done in the Ukraine. And what was it that rendered him powerless? Not the swords of the Cossacks, but the ill-will of his own people. Was it not reasonable for him to hope when he marched from the Trans-Dnieper in May that when like an eagle from the sky he should strike rebellion, when in the general dismay and confusion he should first raise his sword over his head, the whole Commonwealth would come to his aid, and put its power and its punishing sword in his hand? But what did happen? The king was dead, and after his death the command was put into other hands, and he, the prince, was passed by ostentatiously. That was the first concession to Hmelnitski. The soul of the prince did not suffer for the office he had lost; but it suffered at the thought that the insulted Commonwealth had fallen so low that it did not seek a death-struggle, but drew back before one Cossack, and preferred to restrain his insolent right hand by negotiations.
From the time of the victory at Makhnovka worse and worse tidings were brought to the camp, — first news of negotiations sent through Pan Kisel; then news that Volynian Polesia was covered with the waves of insurrection; then the refusal of the colonels, showing clearly how far the commander-in-chief, Prince Dominik Zaslavski-Ostrogski, was hostile. During Skshetuski’s absence Pan Korsh Zenkovich came to camp with information that all Ovruch was on fire. The people had been quiet, and not anxious for rebellion; but the Cossacks, coming under Krechovski and Polksenjits, forced the mob to enter their ranks. Castles and villages were burned; the nobles who did not escape were cut to pieces, and among others old Pan Yelets, a former servant and friend of the Vishnyevetskis. In view of this, the prince had decided after a juncture with Osinski and Koritski to overwhelm Krívonos, and then move north toward Ovruch, and after an agreement with the hetman of Lithuania, to seize the rebels between two fires. But all these plans had fallen through now on account of the refusal of both colonels caused by Prince Dominik. For Yeremi, after all the marches, battles, and labors, was not strong enough to meet Krívonos, especially when not sure of the voevoda of Kieff, who belonged heart and soul to the peace party. Pan Yanush yielded before the importance and power of Yeremi, and had to go with him; but the more he saw his authority broken the more inclined was he to oppose the warlike wishes of the prince, as was shown at once.
Skshetuski gave his account, and the prince listened to it in silence. All the officers were present; their faces were gloomy at the news of the refusal. All eyes turned to the prince when he said, —
“Prince Dominik, of course, sent them the order.”
“Yes, they showed it to me in writing.”
Yeremi rested his arms on the table and covered his face with his hands; after a while he said, —
“This indeed is more than a man can bear. Am I to labor alone, and instead of assistance meet only obstructions? Could I not have gone to my estates in Sandomir and lived quietly? And what prevented me from doing so, except love of country? This is my reward for toil, for loss of fortune and blood.”
The prince spoke quietly, but such bitterness and pain trembled in his voice that all present were straitened with sorrow. Old colonels — veterans from Putívl, Starets, Kuméiki, — and young men victorious in the last conflicts, looked at him with unspeakable sorrow in their eyes; for they knew what a heavy struggle that iron man was having with himself, how terribly his pride must suffer from the humiliation put upon him. He, a prince, “by the grace of God;” he, a voevoda in Russia, senator of the Commonwealth, — must yield to some Hmelnitski or Krívonos. He, almost a monarch, who recently had received ambassadors from foreign rulers, must withdraw from the field of glory, and confine himself in some little castle, waiting for the outcome of a war directed by others or for humiliating negotiations. He, predestined for great things, conscious of ability to direct them, had to confess that he was without power.
This suffering, together with his labors, was marked on his figure. He had become greatly emaciated; his eyes had sunk; his hair, black as the wing of a raven, had begun to grow gray. But a certain grand tragic calm was spread over his countenance, for pride guarded him from betraying his suffering.
“Well, let it be so,” said he; “we will show this unthankful country that we are able not only to fight, but to die for it. Indeed I should prefer a more glorious death, — to fall in some other war than in a domestic squabble with serfs—”
“Do not speak of death,” interrupted the voevoda of Kieff; “for though it is unknown what God has predestined to any man, still death may be far away. I do homage to your military genius and your knightly spirit; but I cannot take it ill, either of the viceroy, the chancellor, or the commanders, if they try to stem civil war by negotiations, for in it the blood of brothers is flowing, and who, unless a foreign enemy, can reap advantage from the stubbornness of both sides?”
The prince looked long into the eyes of the voevoda, and said emphatically, —
“Show favor to the conquered, and they will accept it with thanks and will remember it, but you will be only despised by conquerors. Woul
d that no one had ever done injustice to these people! But when once insurrection has flamed up, we must quench it with blood, not negotiations; if we do not, disgrace and destruction to us!”
“Speedy ruin will come if we wage war each on his own account,” answered the voevoda.
“Does that mean that you will not go on with me?”
“I call God to witness that this is out of no ill-will to you; but my conscience tells me not to expose my men to evident destruction, for their blood is precious, and will be of value to the Commonwealth yet.”
The prince was silent awhile; then turning to his colonels, he said, —
“You, my old comrades, will not leave me now!”
At these words the colonels, as if impelled by one power and one will, rushed to the prince. Some kissed his garments; some embraced his knees; others, raising their hands to heaven, cried, —
“We are with you to the last breath, to the last drop of blood! Lead us, lead us! we will serve without pay.”
“And let me die with you,” cried young Pan Aksak, blushing like a girl.
At sight of this the voevoda of Kieff was moved; but the prince went from one to another, pressed the head of each one, and thanked him. A mighty enthusiasm seized on young and old. From the eyes of the warriors sparks flashed; they grasped their sabres from moment to moment.
“I will live with you, die with you!” said the prince.
“We will conquer!” cried the officers. “Against Krívonos! On Polónnoe! Whoever wishes to leave us, let him leave. We will do without aid. We wish to share neither glory nor death.”
“It is my will,” said the prince, “that before moving on Krívonos we take even a short rest to restore our strength. It is now the third month that we are on horseback, scarcely ever dismounting. The flesh is leaving our bones from excessive toil and change of climate. We have no horses; the infantry are barefoot. Let us go then to Zbaraj; there we will recruit and rest. Perhaps too some soldiers will join us, and we will move into the fire with new forces.”
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 42