But since the news of the taking of Bar, Zagloba had become gloomy, lost his humor and vivacity, and no longer visited Pan Lashch. Pan Lashch, indeed, thought that the jovial nobleman had gone somewhere from the army, when suddenly he saw him. He extended his hand, and said, —
“My greetings to you. Why don’t you come to see me? What are you doing?”
“I am attending Skshetuski,” answered Zagloba, gloomily.
The colonel did not like Skshetuski on account of his dignity, and nicknamed him “The Grave.” He knew of his misfortune perfectly well, for he was present at the banquet in Zbaraj when news of the capture of Bar came in. But being of unrestrained nature, and drunk at the moment, he did not respect human suffering, and seizing the lieutenant by the button, inquired, —
“So, then, you are crying for a girl? And was she pretty, hei?”
“Let me go, please,” said Skshetuski.
“Wait!”
“On my way to service you cannot command me. I am free of you.”
“Wait!” said Lashch, with the stubbornness of a drunken man. “You have service, but I have none. There is no one to command me here.” Then lowering his voice, he repeated the question, “But she was pretty, hei?”
The lieutenant frowned, “I tell you, sir, better not touch a sore spot.”
“Not touch? Never fear! If she was pretty, she is alive.”
Skshetuski’s face was covered with a deathly pallor, but he restrained himself, and said: “I hope I shall not forget with whom I am talking—”
Lashch stuck out his eyes. “What! Are you threatening me, threatening me, — for one little wench?”
“Go your way!” shouted old Zatsvilikhovski, trembling with anger.
“Ah, sneaks, rabble, lackeys!” roared the commander. “Gentlemen, to your sabres!”
Drawing his own, he sprang at Skshetuski; but that moment the steel whistled in Skshetuski’s hand, and the sabre of the commander hopped like a bird through the air, and staggered by the blow, he fell his whole length on the ground.
Skshetuski did not strike again. He became pale as a corpse, as if stunned, and that moment a tumult arose. From one side rushed in the soldiers of the commander; from the other Volodyovski’s dragoons hurried like bees from a hive. Many hastened up, not knowing what the matter was; sabres began to rattle; any moment the tumult might have changed into a general battle. Happily Lashch’s comrades, seeing that Vishnyevetski’s men were arriving every moment, made sober from fear, seized the commander and started off with him.
In truth, if Lashch had had to do with other and less disciplined forces, they would have cut him into small pieces with their swords; but old Zatsvilikhovski, recollecting himself, merely cried, “Stop!” and the sabres were sheathed. Nevertheless there was excitement throughout the whole camp, and the echo of the tumult reached the ears of the prince just as Pan Kushel, who was on duty, rushed into the room in which the prince was holding counsel with the voevoda of Kieff, the starosta of Stobnik, and Pan Denhoff, and shouted, —
“Your Highness, the soldiers are fighting with sabres!”
At that moment Lashch, pale and beside himself with rage, but sober, shot in like a bomb.
“Your Highness, justice! It is in this camp as with Hmelnitski, — no respect for blood or rank. Dignitaries of the Crown are slashed with sabres! If your Highness will not mete out justice, will not punish with death, then I myself will mete it out.”
The prince sprang up from the table. “What has happened? Who has attacked you?”
“Thy officer, Skshetuski.”
Genuine astonishment was reflected on the face of the prince. “Skshetuski?”
Suddenly the doors were opened, and in walked Zatsvilikhovski. “Your Highness, I was a witness,” said he.
“I have not come here to give reasons, but to demand punishment,” cried Lashch.
The prince turned and fastened his eyes upon him. “Stop! stop!” said he, quietly and with emphasis.
There was something so terrible in his eyes and in his hushed voice that Lashch, though notorious for insolence, became silent at once, as if he had lost his speech, and the spectators grew pale.
“Speak!” said the prince to Zatsvilikhovski.
Zatsvilikhovski described the whole affair, — how the commander, led by an ignoble sentiment, unworthy not only of a dignitary but of a noble, began to blaspheme against the suffering of Pan Skshetuski, and then rushed upon him with a sabre; with moderation, in truth unusual to his age, the lieutenant had used his weapon only to ward off the aggressor. Finally the old man ended his story thus, —
“And since, as your Highness knows, up to my seventieth year lying has not stained my lips, nor will it while I live, I could not under oath change one word in my story.”
The prince knew that Zatsvilikhovski’s words were equal to gold, and besides he knew Lashch too well. He gave no answer then; he merely took a pen and began to write. When he had finished he looked at the commander. “Justice will be meted out to you,” said he.
The commander opened his mouth and wished to speak, but somehow the words did not come to him; he merely put his hand on his hip, bowed, and went out proudly from the room.
“Jelenski,” said the prince, “you will give this letter to Pan Skshetuski.”
Volodyovski, who had not left the lieutenant, was astonished somewhat at seeing the messenger come in, for he was sure that they would have to appear at once before the prince. The messenger left the letter and went out in silence. When he had read it Skshetuski handed the letter to his friend. “Read!” said he.
Volodyovski glanced at it, and shouted: “Promotion to the head of the regiment!” And seizing Skshetuski by the neck, he kissed him on both cheeks.
A full lieutenant in the hussar regiment was almost a military dignitary. The captain of that one in which Skshetuski served was the prince himself, and the titular lieutenant was Pan Sufchinski, of Senchi, a man already old and out of service. Skshetuski had long performed the active duties of both offices, — a condition of service often found in regiments like his, in which the first two places were not infrequently merely titular offices. Captain in the royal regiment was the king himself; in that of the primate, the primate. The lieutenant and captain in both were high dignitaries of the court. They were actually commanded by deputies, who on this account were called in ordinary speech colonels and lieutenants. Such an actual lieutenant or colonel was Skshetuski. But between the actual filling of the office, between the dignity accorded in current speech and the real one, there was still a great difference. In the present instance, by virtue of his appointment, Skshetuski became one of the first officers of the prince.
But while his friends were overflowing with joy, congratulating him on his new honor, his face did not change for a moment, but remained just the same, severe and stone-like; for there were not offices nor dignities in the world that could brighten it. He rose, however, and went to thank the prince.
Meanwhile little Volodyovski walked up and down in his quarters rubbing his hands. “Well, well,” he said, “appointed lieutenant in the hussar squadron in youthful years. I think this has happened to no one before.”
“If God would only return his happiness!” said Zagloba.
“That is it, that is it. Did you see that he did not quiver?”
“He would prefer resigning,” said Pan Longin.
“Gentlemen,” sighed Zagloba, “what wonder! I would give these five fingers of mine for her, though I captured a banner with them.”
“Sure enough.”
“But Pan Sufchinski must be dead,” remarked Volodyovski.
“He is surely dead.”
“Who will take the lieutenancy then? The banneret is a stripling, and performs the duties only since the battle at Konstantinoff.”
This question remained unanswered; but the colonel himself, Skshetuski, brought the answer to it when he returned.
“My dear sir,” said he to Pan Podbipienta
, “the prince has appointed you lieutenant.”
“Oh, my God, my God!” groaned Pan Longin, placing his hands together as if in prayer.
“He might as well have appointed his Livonian mare,” muttered Zagloba.
“Well, and the scouting-party?” asked Volodyovski,
“We shall go without delay,” answered Skshetuski.
“Has the prince given orders to take many troops?”
“One Cossack and one Wallachian squadron, five hundred men altogether.”
“Hallo! that is an expedition, not a party. If that is the case, it is time for us to take the road.”
“To the road, to the road!” repeated Zagloba. “Maybe God will help us to get some tidings.”
Two hours later, precisely at sunset, the four friends rode out from Cholganski Kamen toward the south. About the same time Lashch left the camp with his men. A multitude of knights from different regiments witnessed his departure, not sparing shouts and sneers. The officers crowded around Pan Kushel, who told the reason why the commander was dismissed, and how it happened.
“I delivered the order of the prince,” said Kushel; “and you may believe it was a perilous mission, gentlemen, for when he read it he began to bellow like a bullock when branded with iron. He was rushing at me with a sword, — a wonder he didn’t hit me; but it appears that he saw Pan Koritski’s Germans surrounding his quarters, and my dragoons with spears in their hands. Then he began to shout: ‘All right! all right! I’ll go away, since they drive me off. I’ll go to Prince Dominik, who will receive me thankfully. I will not,’ said he, ‘serve with minstrels; but as I am Lashch, I will have vengeance, as I am Lashch; and from that sneak,’ said he, ‘I must have satisfaction!’ I thought he would stifle from venom; he slashed the table from rage time after time. And I tell you, gentlemen, that I am not sure some evil will not come on Skshetuski, for there is no trifling with the commander. He is a stubborn and proud man, who has never yet allowed an offence to pass. He is daring, and a dignitary besides.”
“What can touch Skshetuski under the protection of the prince?” asked one of the officers. “The commander, though ready for everything, will be wary of such a hand.”
Meanwhile the lieutenant, knowing nothing of the vows which the commander had made against him, withdrew at the head of his party farther and farther from the camp, turning his way toward Ojigovtsi to the Bug and Medvedovka. Though September had withered the leaves on the trees, the night was calm and warm as in July; for such, indeed, was that whole year, in which there was scarcely any winter, and in spring everything was in bloom at a time when in former years deep snow was still lying on the steppes. After a rather moist summer, the first months of autumn were dry and mild, with clear days and bright moonlight nights. They travelled along the easy road, not taking special care, for they were still too near the camp to be threatened by any attack. They rode briskly; Skshetuski ahead with a few horsemen, and behind him Volodyovski, Zagloba, and Podbipienta.
“Look, gentlemen, how the light of the moon shines on that hill!” whispered Zagloba. “You might swear that it is day. It is said that only in time of war are there such nights, so that spirits may leave their bodies without knocking their heads against trees in the dark, like sparrows against the cross-pieces in a barn, and more easily find the way. Today is Friday, the day of the Saviour, in which poisonous vapors do not issue from the ground, and evil powers have no approach to men. I feel somehow easier, and hope takes possession of me.”
“That is because we are now on the way and will undertake some rescue.”
“The worst thing, in grief, is to sit in one place. When you get on horseback, all your despair flies down from the shaking, till you shake it off completely and entirely.”
“I do not believe,” whispered Volodyovski, “that you can shake off everything in that way, — for example, love, which clings to the heart like a wood-tick.”
“If love is genuine,” said Pan Longin, “then even if you should wrestle with it as with a bear, it would throw you.”
Having said this, Podbipienta relieved his swollen breast with a sigh which was like the puff of a blacksmith’s bellows; but little Volodyovski raised his eyes to heaven, as if seeking among the stars that one which was shining on Princess Barbara.
The horses began to snort in the whole company, and the soldiers answered, “Health, health!” Then all was silent till some melancholy voice began to sing in the rear ranks:
“You are going to the war, my boy,
You are going to the war!
Your nights will be cold,
And your days will be hot—”
“Old soldiers say that horses always snort as a good omen, as my deceased father used to tell me,” said Volodyovski.
“Something whispers, as it were, in my ear, that we are not going for nothing,” answered Zagloba.
“God grant that some consolation enter the heart of the lieutenant!” sighed Pan Longin.
Zagloba began to nod and turn his head like a man who is unable to conquer some idea, and at last said, —
“Something altogether different is in my head, and I must get rid of the thought, for I cannot endure it. Have you noticed that for some time Skshetuski — I am not sure, maybe he dissembles — but still he, as it were, thinks less than any of us of saving that unfortunate lady.”
“Nonsense!” said Volodyovski. “It is his disposition never to confess anything to any one. He has never been different.”
“Yes, that so far as it goes; but just remember, when we gave him hope, he said, ‘God reward you,’ both to me and to you, as coldly as if it had been some common affair. And God is witness, on his part that was black ingratitude; for what that poor woman has wept and grieved for him could not be inscribed on an ox-hide. I have seen it with my own eyes.”
Volodyovski shook his head. “It cannot be that he has given her up, though it is true that the first time when that devil seized her from him in Rozlogi, he despaired so that we feared he would lose his mind; but now he shows more reflection. If God has poured peace into his soul, it is better. As true friends, it is our duty to be comforted by this.”
Volodyovski then spurred his horse and sped on toward Pan Yan, but Zagloba rode for some time in silence by the side of Podbipienta.
“Are you not of my opinion, that if there were no love affairs a power of evil would cease in the world?”
“Whatever God has destined to any one, will not avoid him,” answered the Lithuanian.
“But you never answer to the point. That is one affair, and this is another. Who caused the destruction of Troy, hei? And isn’t this war about fair locks? Hmelnitski wanted Chaplinski’s woman, or Chaplinski wanted Hmelnitski’s; and we are breaking our necks on account of their sinful desires.”
“Those are dishonorable loves; but there are honorable ones, through which the glory of God is increased.”
“Now you have hit the point better. But are you going soon to work in that vineyard yourself? I hear that a scarf is bound to you for the war.”
“Ah, brother! brother!”
“But three heads are in the way, are they?”
“Ah, that’s the truth!”
“Well, I tell you: give a good blow, and cut them off at once from Hmelnitski, the Khan, and Bogun.”
“Oh, if they would only stand in a row!” said Pan Longin, in a voice full of emotion, raising his eyes to heaven.
Meanwhile Volodyovski rode by Skshetuski, and looked from under his helmet in silence at his pallid face, till at last their stirrups touched.
“Yan,” said he, “it is bad for you to forget yourself.”
“I am not forgetting myself, I am praying,” answered Skshetuski.
“That is a holy and praiseworthy thing; but you are not a monk, to be occupied in prayer alone.”
Pan Yan turned his suffering face slowly to Volodyovski, and inquired with a dull voice, full of deathly resignation: “Tell me, Michael, what is left to me now but a
monk’s habit?”
“It remains to you to rescue her,” answered Volodyovski.
“I will do that, if it takes my last breath. But even if I should find her alive, will it not be too late? Preserve me, O God, for I can think of everything, only not of that, God save my reason! I desire nothing more than to rescue her from those infamous hands and let her find an asylum, such as I myself shall seek. Evidently it was not the will of God. Let me pray, Michael, and don’t touch my bleeding wound.”
Volodyovski’s heart was pressed. He wished still to console his friend, to speak of hope; but the words would not pass his lips, and they rode on in dull silence. Only the lips of Skshetuski moved rapidly in prayer, with which he wished evidently to drive away terrible thoughts. But the little knight was afraid when he looked at that face in the moonlight; for it seemed to him altogether like the face of a monk, stern, emaciated by fasting and mortification. And then that voice began again to sing, in the rear, —
“You will find when the war is over, poor fellow,
You will find when the war is over,
Everything empty at home,
And your skin full of wounds.”
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
Skshetuski so marched with his detachment that he rested during the day in forests and ravines, throwing out pickets carefully, and pushed forward only in the night. Whenever he approached a village he usually surrounded it so that not a man went out, took provisions, feed for his horses, but above all collected information concerning the enemy; then he marched away without inflicting harm on the people. But when out of sight he changed his road abruptly, so that the enemy in the village might not know in what direction he had gone. The object of his expedition was to discover whether Krívonos with his forty thousand men was still besieging Kamenyets, or having given up the fruitless siege, was marching to assist Hmelnitski so as to join him for a general engagement; and further what the Dobrudja Tartars were doing, — whether they had crossed the Dnieper already and joined Krívonos, or were still on the other bank. These were important items for the Polish army, which the commanders should have tried to obtain; but being men without experience, it did not enter their heads to do so. Yeremi therefore took that burden on himself. If it should appear that Krívonos, with the hordes of Bélgorod and Dobrudja, had abandoned the siege of the impregnable Kamenyets and was marching to Hmelnitski, then it behooved them to attack the latter as quickly as possible before he had grown to his highest power.
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 53