The Deluge- Volume 2

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

  Pan Andrei exhibited himself by throwing a heavy hatchet, which he hurled upward with such force that it was barely visible, and then he sprang under the instrument with his horse and caught it by the handle as it fell. At sight of this the king clapped his hands.

  “I saw that done,” said he, “by Pan Slushka, brother of the vice-chancellor’s wife, but he threw not so high by half.”

  “This is customary with us in Lithuania,” said Pan Andrei; “and when a man practises it from childhood he becomes skilful.”

  “Whence have you those scars across the lip?” asked the king of him once, pointing to Kmita’s scars. “Some one went through you well with a sabre.”

  “That is not from a sabre, Gracious Lord, but from a bullet. I was fired at by a man who put the pistol to my mouth.”

  “An enemy or one of ours?”

  “One of ours; but an enemy whom I shall yet call to account, and till that happens it is not proper for me to speak of it.”

  “Have you such animosity as that?”

  “I have no animosity. Gracious Lord, for on my head I bear a still deeper scar from a sabre, through which cut my soul almost left me; but since an honorable man did it I harbor no offence against him.” Kmita removed his cap and showed the king a deep furrow, the white edges of which were perfectly visible. “I am not ashamed of this wound,” said he, “for it was given me by such a master that there is not another like him in the Commonwealth.”

  “Who is such a master?”

  “Pan Volodyovski.”

  “For God’s sake! I know him. He did wonders at Zbaraj. And I was at the wedding of his comrade, Skshetuski, who was the first to bring me news of the besieged. Those are great cavaliers! And with them was a third, him the whole army glorified as the greatest of all. A fat noble, and so amusing that we almost burst our sides from laughter.”

  “That is Pan Zagloba, I think!” said Kmita; “he is a man not only brave, but full of wonderful stratagems.”

  “Do you know what they are doing now?”

  “Volodyovski used to lead dragoons with the voevoda of Vilna.”

  The king frowned. “And is he serving the Swedes now with the prince voevoda?”

  “He! The Swedes? He is with Pan Sapyeha. I saw myself how, after the treason of the prince, he threw his baton at his feet.”

  “Oh, he is a worthy soldier!” answered the king. “From Pan Sapyeha we have had news from Tykotsin, where he is besieging the voevoda. God give him luck! If all were like him, the Swedish enemy would regret their undertaking.”

  Here Tyzenhauz, who had been listening to the conversation, asked suddenly, “Then were you with Radzivill at Kyedani?”

  Kmita was somewhat confused, and began to throw up his hatchet. “I was,” answered he.

  “Give peace to your hatchet,” said Tyzenhauz. “And what were you doing at the prince’s house?”

  “I was a guest,” answered Kmita, impatiently, “and I ate his bread, until I was disgusted with his treason.”

  “And why did you not go with other honorable soldiers to Pan Sapyeha?”

  “Because I had made a vow to go to Chenstohova, which you will more easily understand when I tell you that our Ostra Brama was occupied by the Northerners.”

  Tyzenhauz began to shake his head and smack his lips; this attracted the attention of the king, so that he looked inquiringly at Kmita. The latter, made impatient, turned to Tyzenhauz and said,—

  “My worthy sir! Why do I not inquire of you where you have been, and what you have been doing?”

  “Ask me,” replied Tyzenhauz; “I have nothing to conceal.”

  “Neither am I before a court; and if I shall ever be, you will not be my judge. Leave me, then, that I lose not my patience.”

  When he had said this, he hurled the hatchet so sharply that it grew small in the height; the king raised his eyes after it, and at that moment he was thinking of nothing save this, would Babinich catch it in its fall, or would he not catch it?

  Babinich put spurs to his horse, sprang forward, and caught it. That same evening Tyzenhauz said to the king,—

  “Gracious Lord, this noble pleases me less and less.”

  “But me more and more,” answered the king, pursing his lips.

  “I heard to-day one of his people call him colonel; he only looked threateningly, and straightway confused the man. There is something in that.”

  “And it seems to me sometimes that he does not wish to tell everything,” added the king; “but that is his affair.”

  “No, Gracious Lord,” exclaimed Tyzenhauz, forcibly, “it is not his affair, it is our affair, and that of the whole Commonwealth. For if he is some traitor who is planning the death or captivity of your Royal Grace, then with your person will perish all those who at this moment have taken arms; the whole Commonwealth will perish, which you alone are competent to save.”

  “I will ask him myself to-morrow.”

  “God grant that I be a false prophet, but nothing good looks out of his eyes. He is too smart, too bold, too daring; and such people are ready for anything.”

  The king looked troubled. Next morning, when they moved on their journey, he beckoned Kmita to approach him.

  “Where were you, Colonel?” asked the king, suddenly.

  A moment of silence followed.

  Kmita struggled with himself; the wish was burning him to spring from his horse, fall at the feet of the king, and throw off the burden he was bearing,—tell the whole truth at once. But he thought of the fearful impression which the name Kmita would make, especially after the letter of Prince Boguslav Radzivill. How could he, who had been the right hand of Radzivill, who had maintained the preponderance of Prince Yanush, who had aided him in scattering his disobedient squadrons, who supported him in treason; how could he, accused and suspected of the most terrible crime,—an attack on the person of the king,—succeed in convincing the king, the bishops, and senators, that he had corrected himself, that he was transformed? With what could he show the sincerity of his intentions? What proofs could he bring save naked words? His former offences pursue him unceasingly, unsparingly, as furious dogs a wild beast in the forest. He determined on silence. But he felt also unspeakable disgust and hatred of subterfuge. Must he throw dust in the eyes of the king, whom he loved with all the power of his soul, and deceive him with fictitious tales?

  He felt that strength failed him for this; therefore he said, after a while: “Gracious King, the time will come, perhaps soon, in which I shall open my whole soul to your Royal Grace as in confession to a priest. But I wish deeds to vouch for me, for my sincere intention, for my loyalty and my love of majesty, not words simply. I have offended against you, my Gracious Lord, and the country, and I have repented too little yet; therefore I am seeking service in which I can find reparation more easily. Besides, who has not offended? Who in the whole Commonwealth does not need to beat his breast? It may be that I have offended more grievously than others, but I was the first also to bethink myself. Do not inquire, Gracious Lord, about anything until the present service will convince you concerning me; do not ask, for I cannot answer without closing the road of salvation to myself, for God is the witness, and the Most Holy Lady, our Queen, that I had no evil intent, that I am ready to give the last drop of my blood for you.”

  Here Pan Andrei’s eyes grew moist, and such sincerity and sorrow appeared on his face that his countenance defended him with greater power than his words.

  “God is looking at my intentions,” said he, “and will account them to me at judgment, but, Gracious Lord, if you do not trust me, dismiss me, remove me from your person. I will follow at a distance, so as to come in time of difficulty, even without being called, and lay down my life for you. And then, Gracious Lord, you will believe that I am not a traitor, but one of that kind of servants of whom you have not many, even among those who cast
suspicion on others.”

  “I believe you to-day,” said the king. “Remain near our person as before, for treason does not speak in such fashion.”

  “I thank your Royal Grace,” answered Kmita; and reining in his horse somewhat, he pushed back among the last ranks of the party.

  But Tyzenhauz did not limit himself to conveying suspicions to the king. The result was that all began to look askance at Kmita. Audible conversation ceased at his approach, and whispers began. Every movement of his was followed, every word considered. Kmita noticed this, and was ill at ease among these men.

  Even the king, though he did not remove confidence from him, had not for Pan Andrei such a joyful countenance as before. Therefore the young hero lost his daring, grew gloomy, sadness and bitterness took possession of his heart. Formerly in front, among the first, he used to make his horse prance; now he dragged on many yards behind the cavalcade, with hanging head and gloomy thoughts.

  At last the Carpathians stood white before the travellers. Snow lay on their slopes, clouds spread their unwieldy bodies on the summits; and when an evening came clear at sunset, those mountains put on flaming garments from which marvellously bright gleams went forth till quenched in the darkness embracing the whole world. Kmita gazed on those wonders of nature which to that time he had never seen; and though greatly grieved, he forgot his cares from admiration and wonder.

  Each day those giants grew greater, more mighty, till at last the retinue of the king came to them and entered a pass which opened on a sudden, like a gate.

  “The boundary must be near,” said the king, with emotion.

  Then they saw a small wagon, drawn by one horse, and in the wagon a peasant. The king’s men stopped him at once.

  “Man,” said Tyzenhauz, “are we in Poland?”

  “Beyond that cliff and that little river is the emperor’s boundary, but you are standing on the king’s land.”

  “Which way is it then to Jivyets?”

  “Go straight ahead; you will come to the road.” And the mountaineer whipped his horse.

  Tyzenhauz galloped to the retinue standing at a distance.

  “Gracious Lord,” cried he, with emotion, “you are now inter regna, for at that little river your kingdom begins.”

  The king said nothing, only made a sign to hold his horse, dismounted, and throwing himself on his knees, raised his eyes and his hands upward.

  At sight of this, all dismounted and followed his example. That king, then a wanderer, fell after a moment in the form of a cross on the snow, and began to kiss that land, so beloved and so thankless, which in time of disaster had refused refuge to his head.

  Silence followed, and only sighs interrupted it.

  The evening was frosty, clear; the mountains and the summits of the neighboring fir-trees were in purple, farther off in the shadow they had begun to put on violet; but the road on which the king was lying turned as it were into a ruddy and golden ribbon, and rays fell on the king, bishops, and dignitaries.

  Then a breeze began from the summits, and bearing on its wings sparks of snow, flew to the valley. Therefore the nearer fir-trees began to bend their snow-covered heads, bow to their lord, and to make a joyous and rustling sound, as if they were singing that old song, “Be welcome to us, thou dear master!”

  Darkness had already filled the air when the king’s retinue moved forward. Beyond the defile was spread out a rather roomy plain, the other end of which was lost in the distance. Light was dying all around; only in one place the sky was still bright with red. The king began to repeat Ave Maria; after him the others with concentration of spirit repeated the pious words.

  Their native land, unvisited by them for a long time; the mountains which night was now covering; the dying twilight, the prayer,—all these caused a solemnity of heart and mind; hence after the prayer the king, the dignitaries, and the knights rode on in silence. Night fell, but in the east the sky was shining still more redly.

  “Let us go toward that twilight,” said the king, at last; “it is a wonder that it is shining yet.”

  Then Kmita galloped up. “Gracious Lord, that is a fire!” cried he.

  All halted.

  “How is that?” asked the king; “it seems to me that ‘tis the twilight.”

  “A fire, a fire! I am not mistaken!” cried Kmita.

  And indeed, of all of the attendants of the king he knew most in that matter. At last it was no longer possible to doubt, since above that supposed twilight were rising as it were red clouds, rolling now brighter, now darker in turn.

  “It is as if Jivyets were burning!” cried the king; “maybe the enemy is ravaging it.”

  He had not finished speaking when to their ears flew the noise of men, the snorting of horses, and a number of dark figures appeared before the retinue.

  “Halt, halt!” cried Tyzenhauz.

  These figures halted, as if uncertain what to do farther.

  “Who are you?” was asked from the retinue.

  “Ours!” said a number of voices. “Ours! We are escaping with our lives from Jivyets. The Swedes are burning Jivyets, and murdering people.”

  “Stop, in God’s name! What do you say? Whence have they come?”

  “They were waiting for our king. There is a power of them, a power! May the Mother of God have the king in Her keeping!”

  Tyzenhauz lost his head for a moment. “See what it is to go with a small party!” cried he to Kmita; “Would that you were killed for such counsel!”

  Yan Kazimir began to inquire himself of the fugitives. “But where is the king?”

  “The king has gone to the mountains with a great army. Two days ago he passed through Jivyets; they pursued him, and were fighting somewhere near Suha. We have not heard whether they took him or not; but to-day they returned to Jivyets, and are burning and murdering.”

  “Go with God!” said Yan Kazimir.

  The fugitives shot past quickly.

  “See what would have met us had we gone with the dragoons!” exclaimed Kmita.

  “Gracious King!” said Father Gembitski, “the enemy is before us. What are we to do?”

  All surrounded the monarch, as if wishing to protect him with their persons from sudden danger. The king gazed on that fire which was reflected in his eyes, and he was silent; no one advanced an opinion, so difficult was it to give good advice.

  “When I was going out of the country a fire lighted me,” said Yan Kazimir, at last; “and when I enter, another gives light.”

  Again silence, only still longer than before.

  “Who has any advice?” inquired Father Gembitski, at last.

  Then the voice of Tyzenhauz was heard, full of bitterness, and insult: “He who did not hesitate to expose the king’s person to danger, who said that the king should go without a guard, let him now give advice.”

  At this moment a horseman pushed out of the circle. It was Kmita.

  “Very well!” said he. And rising in the stirrups he shouted, turning to his attendants standing at some distance, “Kyemliches, after me!”

  Then he urged his horse to a gallop, and after him shot the three horsemen with all the breath that was in the breasts of their horses.

  A cry of despair came from Tyzenhauz: “That is a conspiracy!” said he. “These traitors will give us up surely. Gracious King, save yourself while there is time, for the enemy will soon close the pass! Gracious King, save yourself! Back! back!”

  “Let us return, let us return!” cried the bishops and dignitaries, in one voice.

  Yan Kazimir became impatient, lightnings flashed from his eyes; suddenly he drew his sword from its sheath and cried,—

  “May God not grant me to leave my country a second time. Come what may, I have had enough of that!” And he put spurs to his horse to move forward; but the nuncio himself seized the reins.

&
nbsp; “Your Royal Grace,” said he, seriously, “you bear on your shoulders the fate of the Catholic Church and the country, therefore you are not free to expose your person.”

  “Not free,” repeated the bishops.

  “I will not return to Silesia, so help me the Holy Cross!” answered Yan Kazimir.

  “Gracious Lord! listen to the prayers of your subjects,” said the castellan of Sandomir. “If you do not wish to return to the emperor’s territory, let us go at least from this place and turn toward the Hungarian boundary, or let us go back through this pass, so that our return be not intercepted. There we will wait. In case of an attack by the enemy, escape on horses will remain to us; but at least let them not enclose us as in a trap.”