Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

“Be quick, or we answer from guns. It will be better for thee to hurry. Take us to the house; if not, we will cook thee in thy own pitch.”

  “I cannot defend myself alone, but there will be more of us. Ye will lay down your lives here.”

  “There will be more of us too; lead on!”

  “Go on yourselves; it is not my affair.”

  “What thou hast to eat, give us, and gorailka. We are carrying a man who will pay.”

  “If he leaves here alive.”

  Thus conversing, they entered the cabin; a fire was burning in the chimney, and from pots, hanging by the handles, came the odor of boiling meat. The cabin was quite large. Soroka saw at the walls six wooden beds, covered thickly with sheepskins.

  “This is the resort of some company,” muttered he to his comrades. “Prime your guns and watch well. Take care of this scoundrel, let him not slip away. The owners sleep outside to-night, for we shall not leave the house.”

  “The men will not come to-day,” said the pitch-maker.

  “That is better, for we shall not quarrel about room, and to-morrow we will go on,” replied Soroka; “but now dish the meat, for we are hungry, and spare no oats on the horses.”

  “Where can oats be found here, great mighty soldiers?”

  “We heard horses under the shed, so there must be oats; thou dost not feed them with pitch.”

  “They are not my horses.”

  “Whether they are yours or not, they must eat as well as ours. Hurry, man, hurry! if thy skin is dear to thee!”

  The pitch-maker said nothing. The soldiers entered the house, placed the sleeping Kmita on a bed, and sat down to supper. They ate eagerly the boiled meat and cabbage, a large kettle of which was in the chimney. There was millet also, and in a room at the side of the cabin Soroka found a large decanter of spirits.

  He merely strengthened himself with it slightly, and gave none to the soldiers, for he had determined to hold it in reserve for the night. This empty house with six beds for men, and a shed in which a band of horses were neighing, seemed to him strange and suspicious. He judged simply that this was a robbers’ retreat, especially since in the room from which he brought the decanter he found many weapons hanging on the wall, and a keg of powder, with various furniture, evidently plundered from noble houses. In case the absent occupants of the cabin returned, it was impossible to expect from them not merely hospitality, but even mercy. Soroka therefore resolved to hold the house with armed hand, and maintain himself in it by superior force or negotiations.

  This was imperative also in view of the health of Pan Kmita, for whom a journey might be fatal, and in view of the safety of all.

  Soroka was a trained and seasoned soldier, to whom one feeling was foreign, — the feeling of fear. Still in that moment, at thought of Prince Boguslav, fear seized him. Having been for long years in the service of Kmita, he had blind faith, not only in the valor, but the fortune of the man; he had seen more than once deeds of his which in daring surpassed every measure, and touched almost on madness, but which still succeeded and passed without harm. With Kmita he had gone through the “raids” on Hovanski; had taken part in all the surprises, attacks, fights, and onsets, and had come to the conviction that Pan Andrei could do all things, succeed in all things, come out of every chaos, and destroy whomsoever he wished. Kmita therefore was for him the highest impersonation of power and fortune, — but this time he had met his match seemingly, nay, he had met his superior. How was this? One man carried away, without weapons, and in Kmita’s hands, had freed himself from those hands; not only that, he had overthrown Kmita, conquered his soldiers, and terrified them so that they ran away in fear of his return. That was a wonder of wonders, and Soroka lost his head pondering over it. To his thinking, anything might come to pass in the world rather than this, that a man might be found who could ride over Kmita.

  “Has our fortune then ended?” muttered he to himself, gazing around in wonder.

  It was not long since with eyes shut he followed Pan Kmita to Hovanski’s quarters surrounded by eighty thousand men; now at the thought of that long-haired prince with lady’s eyes and a painted face, superstitious terror seized him, and he knew not what to do. The thought alarmed him, that to-morrow or the next day he would have to travel on highways where the terrible prince himself or his pursuers might meet him. This was the reason why he had gone from the road to the dense forest, and at present wished to stay in that cabin until pursuers were deluded and wearied.

  But since even that hiding-place did not seem to him safe for other reasons, he wished to discover what course to take; therefore he ordered the soldiers to stand guard at the door and the windows, and said to the pitch-maker, —

  “Here, man, take a lantern and come with me.”

  “I can light the great mighty lord only with a pitch-torch, for we have no lantern.”

  “Then light the torch; if thou burn the shed and the horses, it is all one to me.”

  After such words a lantern was found right away. Soroka commanded the fellow to go ahead, and followed himself with a pistol in his hand.

  “Who live in this cabin?” asked he on the road.

  “Men live here.”

  “What are their names?”

  “That is not free for me to say.”

  “It seems to me, fellow, that thou’lt get a bullet in thy head.”

  “My master,” answered the pitch-maker, “if I had told in a lie any kind of name, you would have to be satisfied.”

  “True! But are there many of those men?”

  “There is an old one, two sons, and two servants.”

  “Are they nobles?”

  “Surely nobles.”

  “Do they live here?”

  “Sometimes here, and sometimes God knows where.”

  “But the horses, whence are they?”

  “God knows whence they bring them.”

  “Tell the truth; do thy masters not rob on the highway?”

  “Do I know? It seems to me they take horses, but whose, — that’s not on my head.”

  “What do they do with the horses?”

  “Sometimes they take ten or twelve of them, as many as there are, and drive them away, but whither I know not.”

  Thus conversing, they reached the shed, from which was heard the snorting of horses.

  “Hold the light,” said Soroka.

  The fellow raised the lantern, and threw light on the horses standing in a row at the wall. Soroka examined them one after another with the eye of a specialist, shook his head, smacked his lips, and said, —

  “The late Pan Zend would have rejoiced. There are Polish and Muscovite horses here, — there is a Wallachian, a German, — a mare. Fine horses! What dost thou give them to eat?”

  “Not to lie, my master, I sowed two fields with oats in springtime.”

  “Then thy masters have been handling horses since spring?”

  “No, but they sent a servant to me with a command.”

  “Then art thou theirs?”

  “I was till they went to the war.”

  “What war?”

  “Do I know? They went far away last year, and came back in the summer.”

  “Whose art thou now?”

  “These are the king’s forests.”

  “Who put thee here to make pitch?”

  “The royal forester, a relative of these men, who also brought horses with them; but since he went away once with them, he has not come back.”

  “And do guests come to these men?”

  “Nobody comes here, for there are swamps around, and only one road. It is a wonder to me that ye could come, my master; for whoso does not strike the road, will be drawn in by the swamp.”

  Soroka wanted to answer that he knew these woods and the road very well; but after a moment’s thought he determined that silence was better, and inquired, —

  “Are these woods very great?”

  The fellow did not understand the question. “How is that?”
>
  “Do they go far?”

  “Oh! who has gone through them? Where one ends another begins, and God knows where they are not; I have never been in that place.”

  “Very well!” said Soroka.

  Then he ordered the man to go back to the cabin, and followed himself.

  On the way he was pondering over what he should do, and hesitated. On one hand the wish came to him to take the horses while the cabin-dwellers were gone, and flee with this plunder. The booty was precious, and the horses pleased the old soldier’s heart greatly; but after a while he overcame the temptation. To take them was easy, but what to do further. Swamps all around, one egress, — how hit upon that? Chance had served him once, but perhaps it would not a second time. To follow the trail of hoofs was useless, for the cabin-dwellers had surely wit enough to make by design false and treacherous trails leading straight into quagmires. Soroka knew clearly the methods of men who steal horses, and of those who take booty.

  He thought awhile, therefore, and meditated; all at once he struck his head with his fist, —

  “I am a fool!” muttered he. “I’ll take the fellow on a rope, and make him lead me to the highway.”

  Barely had he uttered the last word when he shuddered, “To the highway? But that prince will be there, and pursuit. To lose fifteen horses!” said the old fox to himself, with as much sorrow as if he had cared for the beasts from their colthood. “It must be that our fortune is ended. We must stay in the cabin till Pan Kmita recovers, — stay with consent of the owners or without their consent; and what will come later, that is work for the colonel’s head.”

  Thus meditating, he returned to the cabin. The watchful soldiers were standing at the door, and though they saw a lantern shining in the dark from a distance, — the same lantern with which Soroka and the pitch-maker had gone out, — still they forced them to tell who they were before they let them enter the cabin. Soroka ordered his soldiers to change the watch about midnight, and threw himself down on the plank bed beside Kmita.

  It had become quiet in the cabin; only the crickets raised their usual music in the adjoining closet, and the mice gnawed from moment to moment among the rubbish piled up there. The sick man woke at intervals and seemed to have dreams in his fever, for to Soroka’s ears came the disconnected words, —

  “Gracious king, pardon — Those men are traitors — I will tell all their secrets — The Commonwealth is a red cloth — Well, I have you, worthy prince — Hold him! — Gracious king, this way, for there is treason!”

  Soroka rose on the bed and listened; but the sick man, when he had screamed once and a second time, fell asleep, and then woke and cried, —

  “Olenka, Olenka, be not angry!”

  About midnight he grew perfectly calm and slept soundly. Soroka also began to slumber; but soon a gentle knocking at the door of the cabin roused him.

  The watchful soldier opened his eyes at once, and springing to his feet went out.

  “But what is the matter?” asked he.

  “Sergeant, the pitch-maker has escaped.”

  “A hundred devils! he’ll bring robbers to us right away.”

  “Who was watching him?”

  “Biloüs.”

  “I went with him to water our horses,” said Biloüs, explaining. “I ordered him to draw the water, and held the horses myself.”

  “And what? Did he jump into the well?”

  “No, Sergeant, but between the logs, of which there are many near the well, and into the stump-holes. I let the horses go; for though they scattered there are others here, and sprang after him, but I fell into the first hole. It was night, — dark; the scoundrel knows the place, and ran away. May the pest strike him!”

  “He will bring those devils here to us, — he’ll bring them. May the thunderbolts split him!”

  The sergeant stopped, but after a while said, —

  “We will not lie down; we must watch till morning. Any moment a crowd may come.”

  And giving an example to the others, he took his place on the threshold of the cabin with a musket in his hand. The soldiers sat near him talking in an undertone, listening sometimes to learn if in the night sounds of the pine-woods the tramp and snort of coming horses could reach them.

  It was a moonlight night, and calm, but noisy. In the forest depths life was seething. It was the season of mating; therefore the wilderness thundered with terrible bellowing of stags. These sounds, short, hoarse, full of anger and rage, were heard round about in all parts of the forest, distant and near, — sometimes right there, as if a hundred yards from the cabin.

  “If men come, they will bellow too, to mislead us,” said Biloüs.

  “Eh! they will not come to-night. Before the pitch-maker finds them ‘twill be day,” said the other soldiers.

  “In the daytime, Sergeant, it would be well to examine the cabin and dig under the walls; for if robbers dwell here there must be treasures.”

  “The best treasures are in that stable,” said Soroka, pointing with his finger to the shed.

  “But we’ll take them?”

  “Ye are fools! there is no way out, — nothing but swamps all around.”

  “But we came in.”

  “God guided us. A living soul cannot come here or leave here without knowing the road.”

  “We will find it in the daytime.”

  “We shall not find it, for tracks are made everywhere purposely, and the trails are misleading. It was not right to let the man go.”

  “It is known that the highroad is a day’s journey distant, and in that direction,” said Biloüs.

  Here he pointed with his finger to the eastern part of the forest.

  “We will ride on till we pass through, — that’s what we’ll do! You think that you will be a lord when you touch the highway? Better the bullet of a robber here than a rope there.”

  “How is that, father?” asked Biloüs.

  “They are surely looking for us there.”

  “Who, father?”

  “The prince.”

  Soroka was suddenly silent; and after him were silent the others, as if seized with fear.

  “Oi!” said Biloüs, at last. “It is bad here and bad there; though you twist, you can’t turn.”

  “They have driven us poor devils into a net; here robbers, and there the prince,” said another soldier.

  “May the thunderbolts burn them there! I would rather have to do with a robber than with a wizard,” added Biloüs; “for that prince is possessed, yes, possessed. Zavratynski could wrestle with a bear, and the prince took the sword from his hands as from a child. It can only be that he enchanted him, for I saw, too, that when he rushed at Vitkovski Boguslav grew up before the eyes to the size of a pine-tree. If he had not, I shouldn’t have let him go alive.”

  “But you were a fool not to jump at him.”

  “What had I to do, Sergeant? I thought this way: he is sitting on the best horse; if he wishes, he will run away, but if he attacks me I shall not be able to defend myself, for with a wizard is a power not human! He becomes invisible to the eye or surrounds himself with dust—”

  “That is truth,” answered Soroka; “for when I fired at him he was surrounded as it were by a fog, and I missed. Any man mounted may miss when the horse is moving, but on the ground that has not happened to me for ten years.”

  “What’s the use in talking?” said Biloüs, “better count: Lyubyenyets, Vitkovski, Zavratynski, our colonel; and one man brought them all down, and he without arms, — such men that each of them has many a time stood against four. Without the help of the devil he could not have done this.”

  “Let us commend our souls to God; for if he is possessed, the devil will show him the road to this place.”

  “But without that he has long arms for such a lord.”

  “Quiet!” exclaimed Soroka, quickly; “something is making the leaves rustle.”

  The soldiers were quiet and bent their ears. Near by, indeed, were heard some kind of he
avy steps, under which the fallen leaves rustled very clearly.

  “I hear horses,” whispered Soroka.

  But the steps began to retreat from the cabin, and soon after was heard the threatening and hoarse bellowing of a stag.

  “That is a stag! He is making himself known to a doe, or fighting off another horned fellow.”

  “Throughout the whole forest are entertainments as at the wedding of Satan.”

  They were silent again and began to doze. The sergeant raised his head at times and listened for a while, then dropped it toward his breast. Thus passed an hour, and a second; at last the nearest pine-trees from being black became gray, and the tops grew whiter each moment, as some one had burnished them with molten silver. The bellowing of stags ceased, and complete stillness reigned the forest depths. Dawn passed gradually into day; the white and pale light began to absorb rosy and gold gleams; at last perfect morning had come, and lighted the tired faces of the soldiers sleeping a firm sleep at the cabin.

  Then the door opened, Kmita appeared on the threshold and called, —

  “Soroka! come here!”

  The soldiers sprang up.

  “For God’s sake, is your grace on foot?” asked Soroka.

  “But you have slept like oxen; it would have been possible to cut off your heads and throw them out before any one would have been roused.”

  “We watched till morning, Colonel; we fell asleep or in the broad day.”

  Kmita looked around. “Where are we?”

  “In the forest, Colonel.”

  “I see that myself. But what sort of a cabin is this?”

  “We know not ourselves.”

  “Follow me,” said Kmita. And he turned to the inside of the cabin. Soroka followed.

  “Listen,” said Kmita, sitting on the bed. “Did the prince fire at me?”

  “He did.”

  “And what happened to him?”

  “He escaped.”

  A moment of silence followed.

  “That is bad,” said Kmita, “very bad! Better to lay him down than to let him go alive.”

  “We wanted to do that, but—”

  “But what?”

  Soroka told briefly all that had happened. Kmita listened with wonderful calmness; but his eyes began to glitter, and at last he said, —