The excitement of the people of Zulawce rose steadily as the Easter sun was sinking to its rest. The cottages stood forsaken; the community had gathered beneath the linden. The men were fully armed and many a fierce threat was uttered against the "villain in the iron closet"; but the peasants seemed fully resolved to take no part whatever in the coming work of revenge. None of the inmates or dependents of the manor-house were present. The under-steward, Boleslaw, had ordered the gates to be closed, addressing his men in the courtyard. "Let us not act foolishly," he said. "There is no doubt but that Taras will come, since the report of the iron closet is so fully believed in; but he will not harm us, if we open the doors to him to let him see that there is no such thing as an iron closet in the place, and that the mandatar is not with us. Our only fear is that the peasantry may grow revengeful, and attack us when he is gone. Let us be ready to resist them, but we will not fight Taras."
Nor had any of Anusia's people joined the public gathering; her orders had been sufficient. She herself was sitting in the large family-room, holding little Tereska on her lap, while her boys pressed close to her with an indefinable fear. The children dared not speak, for the mother seemed sunk in that strange stupor which had kept her to the bed of sickness but lately.
Father Leo and the little popadja found her thus. A greeting was exchanged, but conversation would not flow. It was impossible to talk of indifferent matters, and they shrank from touching upon that which filled their hearts. So they sat silent, a red light streaming in through the windows; for the sun, like a glowing ball of fire, was sinking behind the fir-covered uplands.
"How red it looks," whispered little Wassilj, pointing to the parting glory.
"It forbodes blood," said Halko, under his breath.
"Blood," echoed the poor mother with staring eyes, pressing her children closer.
Father Leo could bear it no longer. He went near to her, taking her hand gently. "Anusia," he said, "doyoubelieve----?"
"What do I know," she interrupted him, sharply. "Am I of the avenger's band? I am a widow, anxious to keep the peace for my children's sake."
Leo paced the room. "That is well," he said, presently. "I wish all the people were like you. They say they will not join him, but I fear their own wild disposition will be too much for them."
Anusia made no answer, and he sat down again in silence. Thus they continued, amid the sinking shadows, in the darkening room.
But suddenly they started, and the children gave a cry of alarm. There had been a tapping at the window which overlooked the garden. It was the window to the west catching the last glimmer of light; no one outside was visible, but as they gazed a hand was lifted cautiously from below, once more tapping the pane.
"It is father!" cried the children, and the pope rose.
"Hush, children," said Anusia, in a whisper, but so impressively that they forthwith obeyed. "Please keep quiet, Father Leo. It is not Taras, but his messenger ... sit still ... I am his wife and must answer when he calls."
Another tap, and Anusia glided from the room. They heard the outer door creak on its hinges, and knew she was in the garden.
The children fell to sobbing, but the popadja put her arms round them, beginning to say her prayers, good soul. Leo had risen, listening intently; but not a sound was heard till the firm footstep of the returning woman fell on their ear. She entered, carrying a lamp in her hand. They could see her face; the old look of icy calm had once more settled on it.
"Is it good news?" questioned Leo, eagerly.
"Yes--that is to say in some respects." She smiled bitterly. "Anyhow, pope, you will be able to do a good service to your parishioners."
"I am most willing--what is it?"
"Go and tell them to go home quietly, for their own sakes."
"I have told them, and tried my best already. Will you tell me what Taras----?"
"No," she said, fiercely; "I must have intercourse with him--I am his wife; but no one else shall, if I can prevent it. Try yet again, pope; for God's sake, do!"
Father Leo saw his wife home, and hastened to join his expectant parishioners. But the people insisted they must see Taras storm the castle; he was doing it as their own avenger; how should they forbear? The long hours of waiting, and the quantity of spirits which had been consumed, had but added to their excitement; exhortation availed not, and with a sigh the pope desisted.
It was between ten and eleven in the evening. Away in the district town the mandatar was about to undergo the graceful process of kneeling to the Countess Wanda. The night lay deep and still on mountain and plain.
A strange sound broke on the stillness, indistinct at first, but gaining in force. It was as though a mighty waterfall somewhere in the distance had suddenly begun to roar.
"Hark!" cried a hundred voices, "what is it?" "He is coming!" exclaimed the butcher. "No; listen!" said another.
The noise grew perceptibly, as though volumes of water were being added to that far-off cataract. The upland echoes awoke in response, and it was difficult to say whence the sound proceeded.
"A host of them coming from the mountains!" decided one, presently. "No, from the plains--listen!" cried another.
It was like a low rumble of thunder, in the direction of the river unmistakably. The very ground began to vibrate, and the dull noise ever and anon was broken by the quick, sharp sound of a trumpet.
"Horsemen!" a voice cried suddenly. "The hussars! Save yourselves." "No, stay," burst in another; "who should forbid our standing here quietly? Save yourselves!" and the cry was taken up repeatedly; "these hussars are worse than the devil!"
But the people seemed nailed to the spot, some pushing this way, some that; the enclosing darkness, the state of semi-drunkenness most were in, and a knowledge that a squadron of soldiers was bursting upon them, robbed them of all self-possession.
"Go to your homes," the pope kept crying, despairingly. He had caught hold of the torch which served to illumine the inn, and wildly urged the people. But it seemed too late. Already the first of the soldiers, four horsemen in advance of the troop, had reached the place, pulling up their steeds at the near sight of the heaving, howling mass of villagers. Two of the hussars lifted their pistols, firing into the air.
The shots hit no one, but took full effect on the excited minds, producing a wild panic in some, rousing rage and defiance in others. "Save yourselves," was heard again. "We are not going to be killed like sheep; take to your guns, men!" roared others, and bloodshed appeared unavoidable.
The imminent danger inspired Father Leo with an unwonted power. He forced a way through the people with his right arm, some falling back before the blazing torch in his left, and thus he got to the head of the crowd just as the body of soldiers galloped up the street, led by an officer, sword in hand. It was Captain Mihaly; and at the sight of the pale man in priestly dress, standing with a flaring torch between the approaching horse and the overtaken crowd, he called to his men to stop. The troop halted almost face to face with the people. "Surrender!" exclaimed the officer.
But Father Leo lifted his hands. "Sir captain," he cried in German, his voice rising above the turmoil behind him, "this is not the band of Taras, but only the people of this village; they will disperse at once."
"Then the bandit is not among you?"
"No!"
"But your people seem to be waiting for him--to assist him, I daresay."
"No; it is their curiosity only."
"I'll teach them better, then! Tell them I give them five minutes' grace, after which time my men will have leave to cut down any one about the streets at this late hour."
The pope repeated the orders in the people's own language; shrieks and curses were the answer. But, even though they might have been willing, most of the people could not at once free themselves from the struggling crowd, and some refused to stir, in sheer defiance if not for love of fight. The pope kept urging, but in vain. A few only escaped; the confusion was no wise diminished.
The captain's patience appeared exhausted. The word was given, the trumpet sounded, and, brandishing their sabres, the hussars charged the crowd, which fell back amid a deafening tumult of shrieks and groans and efforts of resistance. Father Leo was flung against the inn, his head striking the door-post so violently that he staggered bleeding and stunned with the blow. He was unable to see what happened, for the darkness seemed denser than before, but the sounds which fell on his ear filled him with dismay. He had suffered much of late, but trouble seemed culminating now.
He could not quite tell how long it lasted; the noise decreased, the hussars making their way towards the farms; presently there was silence, save for the groans of some who evidently had been hurt in the fray. His own head was bleeding and his limbs felt heavy, but he shook off the lethargy, and pushing open the door of the inn called for help.
There was no answer. Some few had taken refuge in the parlour, and the innkeeper's family were hiding in corners; the pope had to repeat his calling, and then only a lad appeared with a rushlight in his trembling hand.
The pope made his way into the house, conjuring the frightened people to lend him their assistance. A couple of torches were lighted and reluctant help was given. Matters outside were not quite so bad as Father Leo had anticipated. Five only were lying there, more or less severely wounded: four villagers and one of the hussars. The latter evidently was in the worst plight, a bullet, in an almost hand-to-hand encounter, had gone through his shoulder. Father Leo saw to him first, ordering him to be moved into the inn. An old man was attended to next, he had a sabre-cut on his forehead. The other three were women who had fallen beneath the hoofs of the horses, but were not badly hurt.
Leo set himself to bind up the wounds as well as he could, aided by Avrumko and Maxym Bobra, a soldier on furlough; and while they were thus occupied the troop of horsemen were heard returning. A trumpet sounded. "The signal for dismounting," whispered Maxym to the pope, and almost immediately the door of the inn parlour was flung open. The officer entered, followed by some half-dozen of his men.
"Bring out torches and some faggots!" he cried to the innkeeper, turning to give a look at the wounded.
The pope met him. "Captain," he said modestly, "it might be well to send a messenger to Zablotow, the doctor is badly needed."
"Got our own surgeon," was the gruff reply; and, having given orders for the military Esculapius to attend, the officer stood over the wounded soldier.
"Nice sort of 'curiosity' this on the part of your peaceful sheep," he said, presently. But Father Leo forbore answering, busying himself about the sufferers.
The surgeon entered, examined the wounds, and prepared to dress them. "The peasant will get over it," he said; "but this man of ours will hardly do so, a bullet having pierced his lung."
"Then the churls shall pay for it, by Jove!" returned the officer with rising passion; "and so shall you, sir pope--you have deceived me!"
Leo looked him in the face quietly. "I shall be ready to answer for anything to-morrow," he said; "I will now go along the village street--there may be other sufferers."
The captain somehow felt disarmed. "You are bleeding yourself, your reverence," he said more gently, almost abashed.
But Father Leo turned away in silence, leaving the inn with Maxym Bobra and one or two other men.
The village, which but lately had been the scene of so wild an uproar, lay still as death; a number of soldiers had settled round a watch fire outside the inn, a similar guard being stationed in front of the manor house. The lurid flames rising from these two spots were the only lights visible. The sentries patrolling the village with cocked pistols found no cause of alarm. Neither did good Father Leo, for no one seemed to require his aid except a woman lying terror-stricken at her own cottage door.
He went home, poor Fruzia receiving him with a cry of horror at the sight of his pale, blood-stained countenance. But she, whom lesser troubles would readily overpower, now recovered herself, courageously. "I will not murmur," the faithful wife was saying, with trembling lips, hastening to dress his wound, "you have but done your duty." Nor did she raise the slightest objection on his declaring he would sit up through the night. "I must indeed," he added, "I sadly fear we shell hear of farther trouble; some wounded or dying man may send for me."
And so it proved. In the small hours of the morning a messenger arrived begging him to take the sacrament to the smithy, since Marko had not many minutes to live. He made all possible speed, but death was before him; the towering giant who but a few hours before had spoken so manfully, would never lift his chirping voice again. He had been foremost among those who opposed the soldiers, a sabre-cut had disabled him, and as he endeavoured to drag himself home after the fray a bullet caught him in the back, inflicting his death-wound. He reached the smithy, but only to die. Father Leo offered what consolation he could to the bereaved widow, who in tearless grief held fast the dead man's hand. "Peace!" she replied, gloomily: "there is but one comfort left; I shall know how to use his gun, and the hour of reckoning will come."
Such, indeed, was the frame of mind of most of the people when the good pope in the early morning went his round of the cottages. Few of the villagers had been wounded or hurt, but one and all were burning with resentment. And the strange quiet, blending with their wrath, appeared to him more alarming than the turbulent anger he was accustomed to. "We have suffered wrong," they said, "and we shall pay it back. We cannot do so without a leader, but we may trust Taras. If we waited for him in vain last night, it was no doubt because the mandatar evidently is not at the house--he would have shown his cowardly face under the protection of the military if he were hiding in the place! But no matter, Taras will now be coming for our sakes."
On the afternoon of Easter Monday a body of infantry relieved the hussars, the officer in command proving himself both judicious and kind. On learning from the pope how matters stood, he readily promised to spare the villagers as much as possible; and since the manor house, the protection of which was the main object, offered plenty of room, he would have the men quartered there--all but a few, at least, he added, whom, according to special instructions, he would have to billet on Taras's farm. "I am sorry," he said, "to make acquaintance of this man's family in so unpleasant a way, for it went to one's heart to hear him speak of them."
"Do you know Taras?" inquired Father Leo, wonderingly.
"Yes. I am Captain Stanczuk, and acted as interpreter when he was admitted to the Emperor's presence at Vienna."
The peasants looked on with a savage gloom as the "Whitecoats" made themselves at home in the village, their anger blazing forth when they learned that the officer actually was the son of a Podolian pope. Anusia received her uninvited guests after a similar fashion, treating the officer, first to a withering look, and then to her utmost contempt. The captain had come in person, hoping to smooth matters, but the woman seemed beyond conciliation.
Yet she trembled visibly when Father Leo whispered to her that her visitor was the same captain who had assisted Taras at Vienna, and a deep flush overspread her face.
"What is it?" inquired the pope, surprised. "He is not likely to harm you, seeing he was kind to Taras."
"Yes, yes," she groaned; "I am all the more sorry for him." But her lips closed, and the old stony expression settled on her face.
That same evening the two who on the previous day had opposed each other so strenuously concerning the attitude to be adopted by the village--Wassilj, the butcher, and Hritzko Pomenko--went from farm to farm, from cottage to cottage, evidently of one mind. "On account of the Whitecoats there can be no general meeting," they said; "but we ask you individually, Are you satisfied that tomorrow morning we should start for the mountains, to call hither Taras in the name of the community, for the avenging of this wrong? And do you pledge yourselves to help him?" Every one of the peasants assented, most of them readily, and some for very fear of the prevailing opinion. The horizon hung heavy with bursting clouds.
But the pope only heard of it when the two had started on the Tuesday, and the good man found himself in a painful plight. Should he inform the captain, causing more stringent measures to be adopted against the village, besides being the means of bringing two honest men to grievous punishment? Should he keep silence and let the mischief be done? He came to see that, of the two evils, this latter certainly was the worst, and therefore imparted to the officer what was brewing, but without mentioning names.
The captain smiled. "I know all about it," he said, "and more than you tell me. That corporal, Constantino Turenko, has been before you, embellishing his report, no doubt, with even more than the truth. But let me assure your reverence that my measures have been taken with the utmost circumspection; I hardly needed such information to be prepared for any exigency. I shall not have recourse to harsh treatment; and though that corporal has taken it upon himself so to advise me, I shall not prohibit the public funeral of the smith to-day."
But this mournful occasion brought no cause of disturbance. Nearly all the village attended, and Father Leo would fain have poured out his heart had the widow not begged him to forego the usual discourse. "My husband shall indeed have a funeral sermon by and by," she said, "not in words, but in gun-shots."
On the evening of this day, also, two men went the round of the village, Alexa Sembrow and Wilko Sembratowicz. "It has been announced," they said, "that to-morrow we have to expect a man of the law to take our deposition with regard to Taras's speech. Now Taras himself has desired us to make it known, but we consider the transactions of the general assembly are no lawyer's business, and we propose to refuse information. Do you agree?" which they all did, none having the slightest compunction on this point.
Whilst the inhabitants of Zulawce were thus preparing to circumvent the law after their own fashion, Mr. Ladislas Kapronski, the district commissioner, with his office-clerk behind him, was being driven towards the contumacious parish. He was seated in an open car, an armed constable on either side of him, but nowise at his ease; indeed, so harassed was his appearance, that the simple country folk by the roadside, unable to guess at his position by his looks, kept wondering what so respectable an individual could have done to be taken to prison for! A coward every inch of him, he certainly did not show to advantage with an escort of constables about him.
Nor did the rising sun of another day enhance his spirits; for was he not approaching that desperate village? his craven imagination conjuring up the most lively scenes of the regiment being murdered to a man by that awful Taras. He quite gasped with relief on beholding some of the soldiers patrolling by the Pruth, and their leader, a sergeant, assured him, somewhat surprised, that the regiment, so far, was alive and the people tolerably quiet.
This account seemed cheering, and he fell to determining his mode of action. He would try, in the first place, to bully Anusia; for if the mandatar's advice in this respect was illegal, it was nevertheless useful, and this was not a case to stickle for technical correctness, when positively one's life was in danger, the amiable man said to himself. He instructed his driver, therefore, to put him down near Taras's farm; and, to the astonishment of the constables, he went on his errand alone. The beating of his heart was known to himself only. "No doubt she is a termagant of a woman," he murmured, but face her he must.
He was fortunate in finding her alone in the common sitting-room. She gave a searching look at the man, who entered her presence with an uncertain step.
"I am the district commissioner," Kapronski stammered.
"I am aware of the fact," said Anusia. "What may be your pleasure?"
Her manner was not exactly calculated to rouse any latent courage; nevertheless he gathered himself up with an effort, saying hastily: "I am the bearer of a message from the Board of magistrates. Your husband is a miscreant. Unfortunately we cannot just lay our hands on him; but you and your children and this farm are within our reach. If Taras dares hurt a hair of my head--of my head, do you hear?--or anybody else's, your property will be confiscated, and you shall answer for him to the law. We know you have communication with him; so just send him word!"
The woman had listened quietly--almost with indifference. "Yes, yes," she muttered, when he had finished, "I understand you! All right," she added aloud, "your message shall be delivered."
"Soon?"
"At once."
With this comfortable assurance Kapronski made all possible speed to regain his car. "So far, so good," he said, rejoicing, "a reasonable woman after all! I wonder if I had better have the place watched to find out how Taras is being communicated with; it might be an easy mode of discovering his whereabouts, and a feather in my cap with the Board. But perhaps I had better not disturb the woman in sending so sensible a message!" And therewith he ordered his driver to take him to the judge's next.
But Jewgeni, unequal to the mental conflict of deciding whether his valiant brother or the will of the parish should prevail, had settled the question by beating his retreat to the public house at Zablotow. Constantine, however, was at home, and readily dictated to the commissioner's clerk a towering heap of invectives against all authority, whether in heaven or on earth, declaring such to be a faithful report of Taras's speech. But he was the only witness forthcoming; what further deposition Kapronski could procure was more amusing than valuable. Red Schymko, for instance, invited him politely to be seated, and then harangued him for an hour concerning Taras's personal appearance; but when desired to give his version of the speech in question, he protested with voluble regrets that his memory had failed him from the day he was born, and never a word could he remember. Most of the peasants, however, spurned the idea of thus humbugging the commissioner, flatly declaring they were no tell-tales.
The day passed, and although Kapronski had obtained nothing beyond the corporal's deposition, he decided, with the approach of evening, that he had better return now to those who had sent him. There was no time to be lost, if he meant to pass the most dangerous part of the way before nightfall.
The road from Zulawce to Zablotow runs at first along the Pruth, in a northerly direction, making a sudden bend eastward and traversing the plain. The commissioner's car had reached this bend, and daylight was fast vanishing, when one of the constables suddenly rose from his seat, giving a searching look across the river.
"What is it?" cried Kapronski, clutching the man's arm; he was short-sighted, and could not see for himself.
"Some dozen horsemen," replied the constable, "Huzuls by the look of them--just bursting from yonder cover and making for the ford."
The commissioner could now distinguish the dark figures approaching. "Let us return," he gasped.
"Impossible," declared the constables. "They will have crossed the river before we could out-flank them." Then to the driver: "Make what speed you can to Zablotow."
And the car shot on quick as lightning, passing the fields of Debeslawce. But the sound of hoofs was carried after them; the horsemen had crossed the ford and were coming on in a quick gallop. The distance between them was fast lessening, and voices could be distinguished. The commissioner had closed his eyes, well-nigh swooning.
"Stop!" cried the men in pursuit. "Stop, or we shall fire!"
"Drive on!" urged the constables. But the car stopped, the coachman dropping the reins. "I have not undertaken to be killed like a dog," he muttered. "Besides, there is no escaping this Taras!"
Another moment and the horsemen were on the spot, surrounding the commissioner's party with pointed pistols. A dark-complexioned fellow, lithe and graceful, with the look of an eagle, appeared to be the leader. "Hand over your muskets," he ordered the constables, and they obeyed.
"You may take yourselves off, then; it is not you we want, only this gentleman of the quill. Be so good as to descend, Mr. Commissioner."
"For pity's sake," whined Kapronski.
"We are not going to kill you," said the eagle-eyed leader, with a look of disdain. "Our orders are to take you to our captain, Taras, who wishes to speak to you. He would have come himself had it been worth his while. Have the goodness, then, to descend."
Seeing a pistol pointed at him, the commissioner could not but rise, yet his feet would not carry him, and he had to be lifted to the ground.
"Are you able to ride?" inquired the leader of the troop, beckoning at the same time to one of his men, who was holding a small, shaggy horse by the bridle. "Taras is sure to regret that he cannot place a carriage at your disposal, but this animal won't throw you."
The commissioner groaned.
"Lift him into the saddle," commanded the leader, "and strap him fast. Two of you take him between you."
It was done. The eagle-eyed chief nodded approvingly, and, turning to the constables and the clerk, he wished them good evening and a happy journey.
They drove on gladly enough, and, looking back presently, could see the mounted Huzuls disappearing in the shadows, the wretched commissioner in their midst.
The steep, narrow path which from Zulawce winds westward into the uplands, is not without danger to the pedestrian, but safe enough to the small, sure-footed mountain pony of the Huzuls. Here and there it takes you into one of those cool, dusky clefts which separate the terraced heights, leading for the most part straight across the mountains, so that each sudden rise is succeeded by an equally precipitous descent, and the traveller would hardly imagine he were nearing the very top of the chain, if every successive ridge he gained did not show him a wider and more glorious expanse of the plain left behind. For the view is open from every summit where the growing copse wood is swept away or kept low by the terrific eastern gales which burst upon these elevated regions from the broad level between the Dniester and the Don; tall bracken and giant trees closing in the path elsewhere, one particular spot excepted, where it winds between bare rocks of a brownish yellow and strangely shaped.
This is the Red Hollow, some half-day's journey from Zulawce. Traversing it, you would most likely follow the main path, westward still, to the Black Water and into the Marmaros beyond; indeed, few travellers, on reaching the centre of this rocky glen, where beneath a stunted fir a small red cross is to be seen, would strike off at right angles on what could scarcely be called a path. It is the poorest of tracks, now ascending boldly, now descending abruptly amid boulders and crumbling stones; and the traveller who loves his life, having ventured so far, would do well to surrender himself to the safer instincts of his pony. It is a desperate attempt at best; but whoever has dared it will remember it with rapture. For having traversed a wilderness of nature'sdébris, you pass a rocky entrance overlooking a valley, the very home of beauty bright and still, wondrously fair, and its like hardly to be found even amid the glories of the Carpathians.
Lovely beech woods enclose a small lake of clearest blue; the sheltered slopes around are covered with wild flowers, in a profusion which is rare even in the lower valleys; and between bright leaves, in due season, the luscious, deep-coloured strawberries abound. Eastward the lake has an outlet, a tumbling brook making its way through a narrow cleft towards the Pruth, while all around from the slopes silvery rills come down, just ruffling the blue mirror which receives them. Above and beyond, this gem of mountain scenery is overhung with rugged peaks and solemn fir woods, looking down in proud protection upon this most favoured spot. The people round about have learned to call it again by its ancient name, "The Crystal Springs;" but in the days we write of it came to be known as "The Waters of Taras."
Here was his camp--hither he brought his men on that Palm Sunday of 1839.
The place was well chosen, secluded enough for safety, except in case of treason; a natural fastness, too, which could be held against almost any attack, and yet not far from the lowlands, for in following that outlet of the lake the sedgy banks of the Pruth might be reached in three hours. Moreover, the Red Hollow and its neighbourhood is the best-stocked hunting ground in these game-haunts; a fact not to be overlooked by a captain of outlaws, determined to make honest provision for his men.
For the matter of that, however, it seemed at first as though Taras, apart from this, need never be at a loss how to feed his men. The news of his arrival by the Crystal Springs had scarcely had time to spread before the dwellers in the glens round about arrived with a friendly greeting of bread, sheep's flesh, butter, and milk for the new neighbour. Taras knew what such hospitality cost these people, and he had money enough and to spare; but he could not refuse their gifts, well aware that they would look upon it as an insult to be resented. Nor was he pleased that their young men should offer to join him, bold and fearless as they were, huntsmen and shepherds of the mountain wilds, accustomed to any hardship, and seasoned to any storm. Their sympathy with the avenger was more the love of fighting than anything else; but they were honest, and Taras knew they would not forsake him in any plight, still less play him false in trouble. Nevertheless, to most of them he turned a deaf ear. He knew that these half-savage hordes were strangers to common obedience; he could never have trained them to the discipline he intended to uphold, and though he might perchance have taught them to respect property, he knew there was no trusting them with defenceless women anywhere.
Three of them, however, he admitted, because he believed himself certain of their inmost souls. These were a couple of huntsmen who had acted as his guides on his former visits, and the "Royal Eagle," Julko Rosenko, youngest son of Hilarion the Just, who dwelt by the Black Water. His handsome presence, rare strength and activity, together with a courage so dauntless and daring that it was conspicuous even among that reckless tribe, had gained him the proud name he bore. And of the Huzuls who offered themselves to Taras he was the only one actuated not solely by a spirit of defiant adventurousness, but by a deep longing to take vengeance for violence he had suffered. When a mere youth, he had, by order of a military captain, been dragged from a fair to the barracks at Wiznitz, and declared fit for service, against all show of right. His fine figure had thus brought him to grief. In vain he remonstrated, assuring his captors he was not even near the legal age for conscription; their answer was: "We have no wings, young eagle, to fetch you from your eyry when you may have reached the age. You had better submit; be reasonable, and you will enjoy the life." But the young man refused to be "reasonable;" no punishment, no bullying, could force him to take the military oath. For eight months he held out, when the visit of a higher officer brought sharp censure to the captain and liberation to the youth. He returned to the mountains thirsting for revenge; but Julko loved his father, Hilarion the Just, too dearly to grieve him by joining those who were looked upon as the refuse of the plains; he did not become a hajdamak, the repressed fury eating the deeper into his passionate heart. Now, at last, the longed-for hour of retribution seemed to have come: to join the avenger was no shame, but a glory.
At first then Taras's band consisted of seven in all--the three Huzuls, his own two men, and the youths, Lazarko and Wassilj, the latter of whom was almost always absent reconnoitring. Old Jemilian would shake his faithful head sadly, because the expected reinforcements were slow in appearing; and when Wassilj, after his first day's scouting, made a glowing description of the enthusiasm he had met with, the old man laughed grimly, saying: "I doubt not but they will find us worthy of song, even when we have come to the gallows." Taras was unmoved; his heart having gone through the heaving waters, seemed to have gained the shore of a mysterious calm. He was silent, solemn, and though a rare smile might come to his lips, it never reached his eyes; but that expression of brooding thought, of agonised conflict, had left him. When the news was brought that Anusia had gone out of her mind he shook his head. "I do not believe it," he said to Jemilian; "I know what one can bear and not go mad. I know it from my own experience, but now the worst is over. I have lost much, but I have recovered myself." And he would cheer his followers: "Never fear, we shall lack neither work, nor fit hands to do it." Whereupon he ordered the construction of a storehouse, a shelter for horses, and barracks to lodge thirty men.
Nor was his confidence mistaken; not a week passed before helpers poured in, one of the very first being a man whom neither Taras nor any one else in that country would have expected to volunteer for such service.
It was early in the morning, the rocky heights and the firs above them stood forth against a background of brilliant light; but the lake below and the meadows on the gentle slopes had just caught the first rosy glimmer of day. Taras had relieved the "Royal Eagle," who had done sentry duty through the night, and was sitting with his gun between his knees on the solitary rock against which the barracks were to be erected. He sat motionless, his eye commanding the fair valley from the rocky entrance on the one side to the shrubby cleft on the other, through which the lake found its outlet. The dewy stillness of early morning hung on bush and brae. But suddenly he bent forward, listening. There were steps approaching from the Red Hollow, distant yet, but falling heavily on the rocky soil, as of a traveller unused to such rough descent. The dark outline of a human figure grew visible presently amid the yellowish rocks, and Taras scanned the new comer.
"A Jew!" he exclaimed, with great surprise; "and he carries a firelock! what on earth can he want?"
Well might Taras wonder, for a Jew bearing arms had never crossed his vision. Men of that persuasion in the East have a horror of weapons of any kind, and any humble Israelite who may be met with occasionally in the mountain-wilds is but a pedlar, trudging with his bundle of stuffs from homestead to homestead with no ground of safety but the goodness of the God of Abraham or the knowledge of his own abject poverty. But the son of Jacob now coming hither carried his head high, and his back was bowed by no other burden than the musket, the barrel of which caught sparkles from the rising sun. He was young, tall, and broad-shouldered; and if his ample caftan gave sorry proof of the difficult path he had come by, there was no weariness in his movements. With undaunted step he approached the hetman.
"I greet you, Taras." he said. "I recognised you at first sight, although I daresay you have forgotten me; you used to be kind to me when I was a boy."
Taras gave a searching glance at the face before him, sharp-featured, gloomy, and furrowed as with terrible experience. "Nashko!" he cried, "is it you? Little Nashko, the son of the innkeeper at Ridowa?"
He held out both his hands, and the Jew caught them, his face trembling with delight. "I could hardly be sure of such a welcome," he said. "It is I indeed--your old friend Nashko, son of Berish!"
"But how is it?" cried Taras, making him sit beside him. "When I left my own village, twelve years ago, I cut you a reed-pipe to console you, and now----"
"Now," continued the Jew, with a dark smile, "it is a wonder I am not grey-haired, to judge from this face of mine. I am but four-and-twenty, Taras, but an old man through sorrow and despair."
"Things have gone ill with you? You have suffered wrong, and come to me to redress it?"
Nashko shook his head, yet added quickly, with a scrutinising look in Taras's face. "And if it were so, would you help me, though I am a Jew?"
"Can you doubt it?" exclaimed Taras, warmly. "Does the wrong-doer inquire into his victim's faith? How, then, should I? As they inflict wrong where they list, it is for me to right it wherever I find it. And I would help you, even if I hated the Jews. But I do not hate you, because, from a child upward, I have striven to be just. And whenever I heard people speak ill of them, I thought of you, Nashko, and of your father. Old Berish lived among us honestly and like one of ourselves. He drew a modest livelihood from his tavern, and tilled his fields with diligence. The people of Ridowa respected him, therefore, as they would any other good man among them. And were not you as merry-hearted and plucky a boy as any in the village? The only difference was that you wore no cross, but the Jewish fringe.[6]And I always thought, it is not the difference of race; but the Jews behave to us just as we behave to them. Say on, then; what can I do for you?"
"Thank you, heartily," said the Jew, again seizing his hand. "But I have not come to beg for your help. It is too late for that, both as regards myself and my sister. And if there were a chance of revenge I would do the deed alone! I have come with another prayer, and the words you have just spoken give me courage to ask it. Let me join your band, Taras!"
"You!" cried the outlaw, starting from his seat in sheer amazement. "A Jew fighting for the right in the mountains. This has never been heard of since the beginning of days. To be sure, you have grown up like one of ourselves, as I have just been saying; still it is unheard-of. Poor fellow, what grievous wrong you must have suffered!"
"Grievous, indeed; but after all it is only what has happened to others before and will happen again," replied the Jew, his voice quivering with the deep trouble of his soul. "But while some can rise from their shame and forget it, others are undone for ever.... You will scarcely remember my sister Jutta?"
"O! yes," returned Taras, eagerly, "a dear little golden-haired thing--the prettiest child of the village."
"Well, she grew but the fairer as she grew in years. My father and I guarded her as the apple of our eye; my mother having died early, he and I brought her up, and she was the joy and pride of our life. Several respectable men had asked her in marriage, although we were poor, but my father would not give her to any of them; none seemed good enough for our sweet girl. He regretted it sorely in his dying hour, and could only take comfort in the sacred promise I made him, henceforth to watch over her with double care and let my own happiness in life be subordinate to hers. I kept my promise. Our farm brought in little, and the tavern still less, because the lord of the manor increased the rent from year to year; nevertheless, I remained at Ridowa, because my going forth to look for a living elsewhere would have obliged Jutta to seek service with strangers. For her sake also I remained unmarried, that she might remain mistress of the house and my only care. For both these reasons the Jews of Barnow were dissatisfied with me, for, in the judgment of my people, it is well-nigh a wrong to remain unwedded, and nearly as bad to live apart from one's fellows in the faith without forcible reason. But I had other trouble to think of than the displeasure of the Jews of Barnow! A young nephew of our Count, a certain Baron Kaminski, was visiting at the manor. He saw my sister, and fell in love with her--after the fashion, Taras, in which a young Polish noble will play at love with a poor Jewish maiden! He often came riding by, annoying her with his addresses whenever he knew I was out of the way. She kept it from me as long as she could, knowing my passionate temper, but the poor child at last could not help telling me. She had judged me aright--I was furious; and had I met the youngster in that hour, with these hands of mine I would have strangled him. But, growing calmer, I judged it best to appeal to our Count, begging him to interfere. He promised to speak to his nephew, and we seemed to be left at peace, the young baron never coming near the place, and even condescending to make some sort of apology on meeting me accidentally elsewhere."
"I know their tricks," said Taras, darkly; "it was his cunning to throw you off your guard."
"Yes," cried Nashko, drawing himself up and pacing to and fro wildly; "it was! I had business at the distillery one day, which kept me away over night. On returning, I found that the baron had been with his lackeys and creatures. I barely listened to the poor girl's piteous story, but snatched up my gun and forced my way into the manor-house. The wretch had left the place, thinking himself safer in Poland. My unhappy sister was seized with a burning fever, and, lest she should die without help, there being no doctor near us, I took her to Barnow. The people there had nursed their anger against us, and perhaps not without some reason, as they viewed matters; but pity was strong, and they stood by us in that time of sorrow. My sister was kindly taken care of, and when she had recovered I made over to her all I possessed, and went my way to seek the baron. I knew what awaited me if I did the deed my heart demanded, but go I must. Again I missed him; he had left for Paris. Thither I could not follow. I returned to Barnow, but my sister was gone ..." He covered his face, his bosom heaving.
"Gone after him?" cried Taras, wondering.
"What do you mean!" retorted poor Nashko, with a proud look of disdain. "Was she not an honest Jewish maiden? No; but the Sereth is a deep river and holds fast its prey. I never learned why she did it; whether for maidenly shame only, or because of any evil scorn, repressed while she was ill, but flung at her when she was about again--I cannot tell. But what is now left for me I know; and therefore your call to every wronged one has found an echo in my heart I shook off the lethargy of grief and despair, and I have come to ask you, judge and avenger as you claim to be, will you let me join your band?"
Taras went up to him, laying his hand upon his shoulder. "Nashko," he said, solemnly, "if I still hesitate, it is not because of your being a Jew. A man who has gone through what I have gone through would not deserve a ray of sunlight on his path if he could make any difference between his brethren. And who is my brother but he who has suffered wrong? My doubts, therefore, do not concern your faith, but yourself. Let me ask you, have you really lost all hope that your heart can ever grow still again and capable of being happy?"
"Certainly not," replied the Jew, firmly, and the fire of his eye spoke of terrible possibilities; "such hope, on the contrary, is ever present with me. My heart will grow calm again, and I shall be happy on the day when I shall cleave the head of him who ruined my sister.... Spare yourself any further trouble, Taras; the men of my race are wont to consider before they act. And I have considered. Will you accept me as one of yours?"
"Yes," said Taras, briefly, and called his men, who were not a little taken aback on beholding their new comrade, a scornful remark hovering on the lips of the "Royal Eagle," and shrinking back only at the captain's look of command.
Julko Rosenko, the first volunteer of the mountain wilds, and the Jew, the first one from the lowlands--or as, to this day, they are known in song, the "Royal Eagle" and "Black Nashko"--are the only two of Taras's band who strike the imagination either by their originality or by the motives inspiring their action. All the others, whom a lawless or revengeful disposition brought to his standard, may have been the victims of tyranny, indeed, but they were men of a lower type, and their history is but the outcome of the troublous confusion of oppressors and oppressed struggling for mastery.
Thus there was with him a peasant from the Bukowina, one Thodika Synkow, who to his fortieth year had lived quietly on his bit of land, till the harshness of a tax-gatherer selling the very pillow from under the head of his sick wife drove him to a deed of murder. There was an under-steward from near the frontier, Stas Barilko, who after years of faithful service had been cruelly flogged for having shot a hare without his master's leave. There was a certain Sophron Hlinkowski, the leader of a church choir, who in a dispute between the priest and the parish concerning tithes had sided with the people, and, when the angry pastor, with the approval of his superiors, suspended the church services, had yielded to the entreaty of the peasants, reading prayers when there was a funeral. That was his crime; the priest denounced him, and the unfortunate precentor was sent to prison, finding himself a beggar when his two years had expired. His only child had died, and his wife had gone off with another man. So he joined Taras to "lift his voice now after another fashion, and make the ears tingle of those who used him so cruelly;" and Taras admitted him, as, indeed, he admitted any one whom honest resentment brought to his standard, and who, having nothing to lose, was possessed of the three requisites he looked for--obedience, courage, and frugality. For Taras held strictly by the words he had spoken beneath the linden: "Let none come to me who seeks for pleasure in life, and no happy man shall join me." Many offered themselves, setting aside this primary condition, but the hetman subjected every one to the most rigid examination; and any one hoping to find refuge with him from just punishment was rejected as mercilessly as were the mere ruffians looking for booty. Yet, in spite of such strict investigation, Taras's band on Easter morning consisted of thirty well-armed and resolute men.
But he had to give audience to a host of people besides, peaceful men coming to tell him of their troubles, or delegates pleading for a wronged community. Some of their complaints were worthless enough, but the greater number were well founded, strengthening him in his conviction that this "unhappy land in which justice is not to be found" was sorely in need of an "avenger." The wisdom he had gained at the cost of his life's happiness made him sufficiently cautious not to believe blindly any reports that might reach him, and the only promise any of his suppliants got out of him was to the effect that he would make inquiry, and "woe to you if you have lied to me, but woe to your oppressors if you speak the truth!" And if they grew urgent, protesting their honesty, and entreating for speedy redress, he would answer: "You may look for me soon, but the hour shall not be fixed; for how can I be sure there are no tell-tales among you, enabling the Whitecoats to meet me? And, moreover, I have undertaken, first of all, to settle accounts with the mandatar of Zulawce. Not that I long for his punishment before that of any other evil-doer in the land, but a man must be true to his word."
But, to judge from the intelligence brought to him by Wassilj, who on the Saturday had returned from a reconnoitring expedition to Colomea, it promised to be a desperate venture to get hold of the mandatar, and Taras shrank from the risk of leading his faithful men to the well-garrisoned district town merely to carry out to the letter an assurance given. If, however, his spirits failed him for a moment, his energy and confidence soon rose uppermost. Wassilj was ordered back to Colomea to procure farther information, whilst Sefko and the Royal Eagle were despatched to inquire into the complaints made by two parishes on the plain, and Jemilian was sent off to announce to Anusia, and through her to the village, the impending arrival of the Whitecoats.
"Master," said the faithful old servant, hesitatingly, "have you forgotten that the mistress----"
"Is gone out of her mind?" interrupted Taras. "She never did, and by this time is as collected as you or I, Jemilian. She was stunned for a moment, but she knows what is laid upon her, and will never flinch."
"Have you had farther news?" inquired the man, wondering.
"No, but I know my wife. My own heart tells me."
And Taras continued making his preparations. "I have promised to be ready by Easter Day; that much, at least, I will keep." He assigned to each man his place in the barracks, which, a light wooden structure, had been run up already; he gave orders concerning the daily rations and appointed the regulation of sentries. He also divided his band into two distinct companies, setting a sub-captain over each. The Royal Eagle should command the one, Black Nashko the other.
In naming the latter, Taras, with an imperious look, scanned the faces of his followers as they were drawn up before him. A flush of anger was plainly evident, and one of them, Stas Barilko, was about to speak. But that look of the hetman's silenced him, Taras repeating, "Our brother Nashko shall command these." Not a sound of dissent--and the sign for dispersing was given.
The Jew then came forward. "Taras," he exclaimed, "why did you not take me into your counsel? I fear this will be neither to your advantage, nor to mine. As for me it matters little, but you and your cause must not suffer. You should not have braved needlessly the prejudice in which they have grown up, and which is next to religion with them."
"Needlessly?" exclaimed Taras. "I have appointed you, because after due consideration I take you to be the most earnest and best qualified of my followers. These others--well they will soon see for themselves that you are worthy of my confidence; till then they will just obey."
"Yes, resentfully and under protest," urged the Jew, "and you should avoid that, unless the most sacred principle were at stake. Remember that your influence rests upon their free will alone."
"No!" cried Taras. "They could come to me or stay away of their own free will. But having come, they are what I am, instruments towards the gaining of a common and most holy end."
... The following morning--it was Easter Sunday--rose with all the wondrous fragrance of spring. Taras had caused a plain wooden cross to be erected, and the wild outlaws, bareheaded, gathered beneath the sacred sign. Nashko only held aloof.
And, taking his place beside the cross, Taras spoke to his men. "My brothers," he said, "we have neither priest nor altar to help us to keep this day. But God is to be found wherever the heart of man will turn to Him, and He will listen to the humble prayer we would offer up--a homeless flock, having left all that men count dear for the sake of His own holy justice."
He crossed himself and repeated the Lord's Prayer slowly and solemnly, the men saying it after him; and after that Sophron, of the church choir, stood up beside him, once more to do his duty in leading the ancient Easter Hymn; and all their voices joined in the fine old chorale:--
"Christ, the Lord, is risen to-day!"
Thus the homeless ones kept Easter in the mountains.
They were yet singing when Jemilian returned; and, service over, he informed his master he had found Anusia exactly as Taras had predicted. "She has even made ready for the soldiers," the man said. "The rest of the people seem utterly confident, firmly believing that this night you will storm the manor-house; and they are all preparing to witness it, for Anusia refused to give them your message."
"What!" cried Taras, staggering.
"Refused point-blank," repeated Jemilian. "This is her answer--I took care to remember it: 'Tell him,' she said, 'I shall be grateful for any news of my lord and master, but I entreat him to send me word about himself only, not concerning his plans or the movements of those against him; for I will not speak an untruth when the men of the law ask me, and I will keep a clean heart. That is my prayer, let him grant it or not, as he pleases; but one thing I will never do, however urgently he may demand it--I refuse to be the go-between, carrying his messages to the village. I shall not do so in the present instance, although his news is for the good of the people entirely, and I will not do it in any case whatever. I will not share his guilt, nor his punishment in the end--tell him so, he will understand. He has made our children fatherless, he shall not make them motherless as well.' This is her message!"
Taras grew white as death; but before he could answer another messenger arrived, a lad whom the Royal Eagle had despatched from Zablotow, his news being that the hussars were due at Zulawce by nightfall, to anticipate Taras's expected attempt on the manor.
The hetman looked anxious, Jemilian lending words to his fear. "There will be trouble," he said "if the soldiers come upon the excited villagers in the night."
"There will!" cried Taras, "they must be warned at any risk. You must go back directly, as fast as your horse will carry you. And if my wife still refuses, you must get Father Leo to tell them."
Jemilian promised his best, but Taras continued anxious, growing even more so with the setting sun, "All the misery of my life, so far, has struck me unawares," he said to his friend Nashko, "and I doubt whether a presaging voice is given to the heart of man; yet there is something within me making me sore afraid for my wife and children this night."
On waking in the morning from restless slumbers, he found Jemilian by his side. The old man looked wan, and his brow was clouded.
"They have been killed?" cried Taras, starting up.
"Not the mistress or the children," said Jemilian; "but blood has flowed." He was already on his way back when the tumult arose, and, returning cautiously, he learned what had happened, and that the smith had received his death-wound.
"Do not take it to heart so much, dear master," said the man, interrupting his report, for Taras was groaning pitifully. "The blood which has been shed lies neither at your door nor at your wife's. She did manage to have the people warned through Father Leo."
"Atmydoor!" cried Taras, wildly. But, checking himself, he requested to be left alone. It was some time before he showed himself to his men, and then, with a silent nod only to their greeting, he departed into the lonely wood.
The rough men were at a loss to understand him. "Why, this is excellent news," they said. "Such butchery would rouse the most law-abiding people in the land!" The Jew alone guessed what moved the captain's heart, and took courage to go after him. He found him lying beneath a fir-tree, with a gloomy face and evidently suffering.
"Taras!" he said, taking his hand, "I understand your grief; but the comfort remains that you did your best to avert this trouble."
But the captain shook his head. "A man must reap what he sows," he said.
"Do you repent of the step you have taken?"
"No!" he cried, vehemently. "Oh! how little you understand me! If I had not done so already, I would this day declare war against those that are in power. I have but done what Imustdo. Butwhatthat means--all the fearful scope of my undertaking--has only now grown plain to me.... And more," he added, hoarsely ... "there is another thing! I used to think at times that possibly I might come to an evil end through this work of mine. Now I know it; I see now that my end can not, must not, be a good one...."
"What has come to you, Taras?" cried the Jew, alarmed.
"I cannot explain it," said the captain, with a wistful look; "it is a voice within me, not of the mind, but of the heart. I know it now!"
The following morning the deputies of the village, Wassilj, the butcher, and Hritzko Pomenko, appeared before Taras, delivering their message.
"We are convinced that you will stand by us," they said, "and only wish to know what time you fix for the revenge."
He had listened quietly, but then made answer with a terrible sternness: "Hearken!" he said, "if you had asked me to help you in attacking the hussars, I would have refused, both for your sakes, since it would harm you in the end, and for the sake of justice itself; for these soldiers have only obeyed those they are bound to obey. I would have reasoned with you, advising you to keep quiet, and if nevertheless you had suffered wrong I would have made those responsible who ordered it. But now you actually ask me to lift the arm of murder against the Whitecoats, who have done you no injury. I have but one answer, therefore--'Get ye gone from the camp of the avenger!' How could I have anything to do with men capable of the thought even of assassination?"
"Taras!" exclaimed Wassilj, staggering as though he had received a blow; but young Hritzko stood rooted to the ground, his eyes wide open with amazement. Taras's men, on the contrary, looked sullenly before them in plain disapproval.
"Yes," continued Taras; "let me repeat it. What you are thinking of is not an act of sacred vengeance, but of revengeful murder. If I were not sure you would never dare an attack without me, God knows I would send word of your intention to the officer on the spot."
"Taras," now cried Hritzko, in his turn. "How is it? Have we not heard your solemn declaration of war against the Emperor, and now you will not rid us of his soldiers, the instruments of tyranny?"
"No," replied Taras, firmly, "I will not, because I am not an assassin, but a champion of justice."
"A champion afraid of shedding blood?" interposed the butcher, scornfully.
"A champion who will not shed innocent blood, unless it be the only way of making justice victorious," returned Taras, solemnly. "If the mandatar were at Zablotow under the protection of these soldiers, and I had a force sufficient to risk an attack, I would do so this very night. For he has sinned against the law of God, and must be brought to judgment; and since Right is the most sacred thing upon earth, it is better to shed blood than let this holy thing be dragged low. But except for such reason, I will never consent to endanger an innocent life, lest the deed rise against me and mine in the day of judgment."
"But, Taras," pleaded Hritzko, "this is all very well as regards ourselves or the soldiers, but what of yourself? Do you think they would have the slightest compunction in slaying you, wherever they find you?"
"We will take care of ourselves," said Taras, quietly.
"I trust you may," rejoined the butcher. "Come, Hritzko, let us be gone."
But the young man went up closer to Taras. "What answer would you have us take back to our people?" said he, clasping Taras's hand. "They are in the worst of moods, bitterly resenting the military interference, but they have full confidence in your coming. All their fury will be turned against you if we tell them how you judge of their purpose. Have you no other message, Taras, which we might take back to them?"
"No," replied the captain, sternly. "Thank you for your good intentions; but I have put off the fear of man, since I serve God. Tell them the plain truth."
This happened about noon on the Tuesday. Towards evening Taras assembled his men, some forty in number by this time, to hold his first council of war, laying before them the two most important points of his latest information. Wassilj Soklewicz had come back with the news of the mandatar's matrimonial intentions, and that he was in the habit of spending his evenings at the Armenian's villa. The Royal Eagle also had returned from Kossowince, reporting that the complaints of that parish against their avaricious and hard-hearted priest were but too well founded; he had suspended all church functions, and was distraining for tithes pitilessly.
"The measure of iniquity, both of the mandatar and of the priest, is full to overflowing," Taras said. "Let us, then, hesitate no longer to do the work, ridding the fair earth of these scoundrels. There is danger in both undertakings, for soldiers are quartered at the manse of Kossowince, and the villa which harbours the mandatar of an evening is near the well-garrisoned district town. But we will rest our courage in the Almighty, and do the deed. To-morrow, Wednesday, afternoon we start, reaching Kossowince by night, to bring the evil-doer there to his doom, and before the midnight of Thursday we must be ready for passing judgment on the mandatar. Will you follow me?"
"Urrahah!" was the wild answer of delight, and as the men gathered round their watch-fires the excitement of action was among them. Nashko only had retired by himself, musing sadly.
"Poor Taras!" he said, sighing. "These fellows understand his meaning no better than any brute cattle could follow a Sunday's sermon. They think him a misguided fool for trusting me, and they resented his refusal to the people of Zulawce. But for his resolve to fall to work he might have found himself obliged to begin his judgments upon his own followers in the first place. Their meanness is forced back now within their own hearts, but it will break out again sooner or later. He will hold his own against the men of the law, but who shall keep his soul undefiled from the breath of these lawless ones?"
With the earliest dawn the men began getting themselves ready for the intended raid, polishing their arms and grooming their horses, whilst Taras held farther counsel with Nashko and the Royal Eagle, giving to each his special orders. The morning passed in high excitement.
But suddenly--the sun was just nearing the zenith--the alarm was given from the direction of the Red Hollow, and all eyes turned thither; the figure of a horseman was seen coming at full speed down the steep declivity. "The fellow is mad," was the general outcry, "he will break his neck in a moment."
Taras also was straining his eyes, and grew white with apprehension, having recognised his young servant, Halko. "There is trouble at home!" he cried, rushing to meet the messenger.
But in spite of the headlong career to which the bold rider forced his helpless steed, he reached the rocky entrance of the valley safely, and then, just at the last reckless plunge, the poor animal rolled over, the young man, in a flying leap, coming to the ground. A cry of horror burst from the expectant band, but the horse only lay gasping; the youth jumping up from his fall like a wild-cat, hastened onward with quickening steps, stopping in front of Taras.
"The chestnut is done for," he panted, "but I have kept my promise, to reach you by noon. This is the mistress's message!" And he reported how the commissioner had threatened Anusia. All the band had assembled round him, listening eagerly. "The cowards!" they cried when he had done, "being afraid of us, they are going to wage war upon women!"
Taras alone seemed calm. "It is well," he said to the youth; "did you not say the commissioner intends to return in the evening? We will have a word with him, then. Julko, I will ask you to bring him hither, not harming him, but blindfolding his eyes.... You, Halko, go back to my wife, and tell her to be of good cheer."
The Royal Eagle forthwith led off his men in the direction of the Pruth, Taras quietly setting himself to inspect the preparations of the others, seeing to the needful ammunition, the necessary rations, and holding everything in readiness for the night's expedition. Watching him thus calmly engaged, one would scarcely have guessed that such a message had just reached him, and that he was expecting a meeting that must stir his troubled heart to its depth. At dusk all was in readiness, the men standing by their horses, listening impatiently for any sign of Julko's return. But the last glimmer of daylight faded, the stars shone forth, and night spread her mantle over the mountains; not a sound yet, save the murmuring whispers in the tall firs and, far off, the hooting of an owl.
"The bird of ill omen!" said the men, with bated breath; "who can tell what may have happened to Julko?"
But Taras heeded them not, lost in thought. The bird's dismal cry had wakened another voice within him; or, rather, it appeared like an echo of his own inner consciousness, which, rising from the depths of his being, quivered through him in awful agony. And then it seemed as though the bird kept crying: "You are about to shed the blood of man--you! you!"
Jemilian went up to him. "They keep us waiting here rather long!" he said anxiously. Taras shivered and stared at him. The man had to repeat his remark.
"Never mind," he now made answer, his voice rising as though to silence that other voice within; and he drew himself up. "Julko may have had to wait before catching him, and the way up the ravine is difficult even in daylight.... But is it that you are afraid of the dark, children that you are! Well, then, light a fire; it will serve at the same time to show off that coward of a commissioner when he does arrive."
The captain's words acted like magic, freeing the souls of these men as from a nightmare; and when, a few minutes later, a great pile of firwood sent up shoots of ruddy flame, spreading light and warmth, their spirits rose mightily. They formed a circle round the welcome fire, and one of their number produced a bagpipe, to the plaintive droning of which they fell to dancing that strangest of reels known throughout the Carpathians, and which, executed by these men and in such circumstances, once more assumed what was, no doubt, its original character--that of a war-dance.
Taras did not interfere, but looked for Nashko, who once more kept aloof with his own saddened thoughts.
"What is the time?" he inquired.
The Jew was the only one of all these men who possessed a watch, and only Taras and Sophron, besides himself, understood the art of telling the hour by such means.
"Eleven. Are you beginning to be anxious?"
"No! What should have happened? But hark! listen!"
"I hear nothing."
"But I do.... Hark!" and Taras turned to the merrymakers with an imperious "Silence!" They stood still like statues, and the bagpipe ceased wailing.
They could all hear it now--a peculiar, whirring sound, not unlike that of an arrow cutting the air. It came from afar, through the stillness of the night. "It is Julko signalling," the men cried, delightedly; and Taras, taking his own whistle, signalled back. A moment's silence, and again the sound reached them--longdrawn, and thrice repeated.
"You understand its meaning," said Taras to his men. "They have missed the track in the dark. Away with you, Stas and Jemilian; take torches and go to meet them, and keep signalling as you go." The two obeyed, while the rest of the men, at his word, took their places by their horses.
But the minutes passed, and nothing was heard save the signalling and counter-signalling in the wood, till at last the sounds seemed blending, and presently the sign was given that the seekers and the sought had met. Ere long their voices could be distinguished, together with the tramping of their steeds.