"Never!" cried Taras, passionately. The aged Huzul nodded. "I knew it," he said. "It would be wronging your inmost nature, and I could scarcely advise you to attempt it. For in that case the devil, not you, would be ruling the band before a month were out. Nothing remains, therefore, but to govern your men in the future as you did in the past. A band will gather round you, but what will be the end? You must be prepared for worse things than these late experiences; you may end any day as I have hinted. Or do you think I am mistaken?"
"No! But there is no other way."
"There is," rejoined the old man; "I have thought it over, and it seems to me the one plan to be adopted. You must not collect another band; at the same time you must carry on your work, which I deem both sacred and necessary. Do it in this way: Encamp with your faithful adherents in our vicinity, and wait and see what complaints reach you here. If any wrong requires you to redress it, I shall order this son of mine and as many of our men as you may ask for, to place themselves at your disposal. From the moment of their going forth with you, and until they return, your word shall be their law, but at other times they shall be free to live within the mountains as they are wont. That will suit all parties: you will not be short of men when you require them for any work that may be before you; the sufferers in the lowlands will not be crying in vain for their avenger, and my own people need not forego the pleasure of having a hand in punishing the Polish nobles, the Whitecoats, and all those that would lord it over us by means of the law, whom they hate cordially. This is what I offer to you: straightforward and honest alliance; will you accept it?"
"I am grateful to you," said Taras, "but it concerns a matter far dearer to me than life. I pray you, therefore, let me consider it, and hear my answer to-morrow."
Taras gathered his friends about him, and informed them of the proposal. Opinions differed.
"This will be no lasting alliance, dear master," said Jemilian, anxiously. "We know the Huzuls! We grant that they are honest and brave, and if for the rest of it they are dissolute rascals, that is no business of ours; but we also know that they have a devilish temper of their own, and are ready to pick quarrels out of nothing."
"Well, if we know that, they cannot take us unawares," suggested Nashko. "We shall have to treat them accordingly, and if the alliance does come to grief sooner or later, we shall be no worse off than we are now. It seems to me there is no reason why we should not accept the offer as matters now stand."
Taras himself inclined to this opinion, and the result was that on the following day the alliance between him and Hilarion was solemnly ratified in accordance with the ancient usage of the tribe, a usage found to this day among Mongolian races. They filled two goblets with mare's milk, and each of the two about to pledge his friendship mixed a drop of his blood with the cup he was holding; thereupon they exchanged the vessels, and turning their faces sunward, they rested their left hands upon their heads, while drinking each of the other's life blood.
About a week passed quietly. Taras repeatedly went to commune with Hilarion, and the old man in his turn visited him in his little camp in the Dembronia Forest. But their people had no intercourse with each other. No news arrived from the lowlands, and no prayer for redress. The peasants believed the band to have dispersed, and the avenger to be either dead or somehow silenced.
But there was a poor mother far away in a village of the Bukowina who refused to believe that the man was dead, or no longer to be found, of whom alone she could hope that he would be the saviour of her unhappy child. Her neighbours laughed at her for setting out to seek him in the mountains; but she went and found him after a five days' anxious search. And the story she had to tell was so heartrending, that both Taras and Hilarion decided on the spot that her prayer must be granted, although the undertaking was fraught with more than usual danger, and even the bravest of the brave might well shrink back.
The victim in this case was a Ruthen maiden of rarest beauty, Tatiana Bodenko by name, who, in the district gaol of Czernowitz, was awaiting the Emperor's decision concerning the sentence of death which had been passed on her, following upon the verdict found by the local jury in fulfilment of their duty. That fair-haired, gentle creature, with the eyes of a fawn, had indeed committed murder; but it was one of those pitiful cases which the law must condemn, while the heart's sympathy will plead for the culprit.
Tatiana, who had only just reached her eighteenth year, was the eldest daughter of a poor gamekeeper, and had grown up amid all the hardships of poverty. The mother often was ailing, and the father absent on duty, so that at an early age the responsibility of rearing the younger children upon the humblest of means devolved on her. It was indeed a wonder that the flower of her beauty unfolded in spite of such nipping cares; but she fought hunger bravely and kept out the cold. There is a saying among her people that if God sees reason to punish a mother He gives beauty to the daughter, and that lightning loves to descend on the tallest trees. Poor Tatiana also had to learn that a girl's beauty may be her ruin. She was modest and sweet as a violet, but she could not help being seen; and all eyes that beheld her seemed spell-bound. But silent worship not being a virtue much known in those parts, she had much ado in keeping at a distance her rude admirers, and would often sigh at the thought that, with all her other burdens, she should have the special trouble of such beauty as well. But the day also was given her when she found that it was not altogether amiss to be lovely; she had made the acquaintance of a young peasant at a neighbouring village, and came to be grateful for her sweet face, since thereby she had gained his love. The young man was honest and fairly well off, her parents gave their blessing gladly, and that saying need never have come true as far as Tatiana was concerned had not an evil hour brought Mr. Eugene de Kotinski, the owner of the forest, to her father's cottage.
He was not a fast man of the worst type, and his morals hitherto had escaped the world's censure, but no sooner had he seen the girl than he was seized with a frenzied passion for her. Day after day he returned, like a moth to the candle, trying to win her with the most dazzling promises, and these failing, with cruel threats. Her prayers and tears availed not, and she withdrew into the silence of contempt. Suddenly his visits ceased; he had left the neighbourhood, hoping to master his folly. But the promptings of his nature, perhaps of his heart even, were too strong for such honest intentions; he returned to ask the keeper for the hand of his daughter. It was an unheard-of resolve for a man of his standing, making the gossips gape with wonder for miles around; but still more startling was the further news that Tatiana had rejected her noble suitor. She did not care to be his wife, and neither her mother's entreaty nor her father's abuse could move her; she remained true to her humble lover. But passion fed on rebuff, and the maddened nobleman now sought to gain his end by a baseness which many another of his kind, no doubt, would have had recourse to much sooner. He exerted his influence, and the young peasant was levied as a recruit and carried off into a distant province. But this villainous trick brought him not a step further, the girl repulsing him more firmly still, whereupon he played his last card, discharging the keeper and evicting him and his family from their humble cottage, though it was in the depth of winter and the poor wife sick and suffering.
But if Tatiana was the cause of all this trouble, she also was the unconscious means of help. A forest ranger in the neighbourhood, pitying the poor girl, took her father into his service, appointing him even to a better post than the one he had quitted. This man was a German of the name of Huber, of known respectability, and a widower beyond the heyday of life. But he succumbed nevertheless, offering the girl his honest love, and was more fortunate than the nobleman had been. Tatiana agreed to wean her heart from the young peasant, separated from her by cruel interference, and to secure a home and bread for her family by marrying the kind-hearted ranger. Her father's sudden illness only strengthened her resolve; he could die in peace, for the widow and orphans would thus be cared for. The wedding was postponed for the usual time of mourning, and this delay left room for evil slander. The ranger was informed that his wife that was to be had allowed herself to be visited secretly by Kotinski's valet. Of such baseness had that man's revenge been capable! And he must have paid his servant handsomely, for the wretch added oath upon oath when Huber interrogated him concerning the truth of the report. Calumny carried the day. He broke with the girl, and once more Tatiana, with her mother and the little ones, were homeless. Again pity held out a helping hand, a well-to-do widow in their own village receiving them into her house. But even here they were not safe from Kotinski's low-minded vengeance. That charitable widow was fined for giving shelter to a girl of bad character. When Tatiana heard this she took hold of the one possession they had left, her father's musket, and waylaying Kotinski as he rode about his property, she killed him by a shot through the heart; and going to the nearest magistrate she gave herself up on the spot.
The case against her was so plain that sentence could be passed almost immediately; according to the law, she had forfeited her young life and must atone for her deed on the gallows. When asked whether she had anything to say for herself, she made answer quietly: "You will not deny, sirs, that he deserved to die; and since my father is dead, and my eldest brother but nine years old, I had to do it myself." But in spite of this open confession, the jury unanimously agreed that the verdict should be accompanied by a strong recommendation to mercy. She was told of it, but all she said was: "Mere life is nothing to me. I suppose the Emperor would not let me go back to work for my mother and the children; so I do not care whether I die now, or some years hence in prison." And her whole bearing showed that she spoke as she felt. She returned to her cell, awaiting the imperial decision without a shade of disquietude. She considered she had done her duty--an evil duty, to be sure--and must take the consequences. Her fortitude was not the outcome of heroism, but simply that submissive yielding to the inevitable which is so strong a characteristic of Slavonic races; but in a case like this, and surrounded with the halo of so tragic a fate, it reflects the lustre of the higher virtue.
But while the girl thus awaited her fate calmly, Taras was coming to avert it. The hill country between the rivers Czeremosz, Pruth, and Sereth was almost bare of troops, and he knew the neighbourhood sufficiently; nevertheless this enterprise was the most daring of his ventures. There was the General with his concentrated forces not far to the left of him, and he was moving towards a city of some ten thousand inhabitants--not to mention its garrison, the strength of which he had not been able to learn. True, he had sent on Nashko and the Royal Eagle to procure information and to reconnoitre the situation of the prison; but these spies of his could scarcely rejoin him before he, at the head of his band, would have arrived in the vicinity of the town; and the least suspicion of their approach would bring almost certain failure, for the General could effectively cut off their retreat. No precaution, therefore, was omitted to avert discovery. They carried food for themselves and provender for their horses, in order to obviate intercourse with the peasantry. They rode by night only, and in small detachments, taking their rest and hiding in lonely places from the early dawn till late in the evening. They avoided villages--and solitary homesteads even--choosing the rocky woodland paths as much as possible, where the horses' hoofs left no traces behind them. Still, a hundred horsemen could not traverse the country as quietly as mice; and, apart from all this, everything depended on whether the attack could be carried out successfully within the space of an hour: if there were anything like a fight, the band was lost. Most of Taras's feats hitherto had been ventures for life or death; but the chances of utter failure never seemed more certain than this time. The Huzuls hardly realised it, or if they did, their great temerity despised the danger; but all the deeper was Taras's sense of responsibility.
With the first streak of dawn on the fourth day they reached that uninhabited forest region, rent with numberless ravines, between the village of Dracinetz and the Swabian settlement of Rosch, which forms the western suburb of Czernowitz. In the midst of this wild waste rises broadly and grandly the Cecina mountain, the brow of which, in times gone by, bore the ramparts and bastions of a considerable stronghold. In one of the hollows on the western slope, between rocks and brushwood, the band was halting; to this spot the spies had been ordered to return. They arrived in the course of the day, but their news was even less hopeful than Taras had anticipated. The prison itself was favourably situated in the outskirts of the city, but within a stone's throw of barracks containing some five hundred soldiers.
But Taras nevertheless resolved to venture, and the attack was not only successful, but was achieved without the loss even of a single life. The enterprise, which bordered on the impossible, was carried victoriously through by a series of happy chances.
A storm had broken at sunset, the rain descending in torrents for hours through the night. Under cover of this tempest the band succeeded in gaining the level between the gaol and the Catholic cemetery, without letting the sentry in the barracks close by, or any one else, become aware of their arrival. Taras dismounted with about half his men, cautiously advancing to the entrance of the prison. The sentinel, most fortunately, had retired from the pelting rain, and was comfortably asleep, well wrapped up in his overcoat. He was gagged and pinioned before he had half opened his drowsy eyes.
And now Taras rang the bell, but there was no sound in response--the wind only howled and the rain splashed wildly. After the bell had been rung a second time, approaching footsteps were heard and keys rattled, a sleepy voice growling, "What is it at this time of night?" "Government inspection!" returned Taras, peremptorily. At which the gates flew open, revealing an old turnkey with a lantern in his hand. He staggered back horrified.
"Lead the way to Tatiana Bodenko," said Taras, lifting his pistol. "You are a dead man if you raise the alarm; but you have nothing to fear if you show me to her cell. I am the avenger, and you may trust my word."
The man grew livid, but did as he was told, tremblingly unlocking the cell of the condemned maiden. Taras took hold of the lantern and entered, leaving the warder to his men. Tatiana was fast asleep, her rest being as peaceful as though she had sought it in her father's cottage, the sweet earnings of toil. A gleam of light fell on her face, and a tall man, grey-haired and wan, was bending over her. She woke with a start, and gave a little scream, but he laid his hand on her mouth, saying, "Rise; I am the avenger. I have come to take you back to your mother; it is she who has sent me. Be quick!"
He turned away, and she rose as in a dream; but her limbs shook and she was scarcely able to put on her clothes. Taras knew that not a moment was to be lost; divesting himself of his "bunda," he wrapped it about her and lifting the quivering figure in his strong arms, he carried her away through the night and the rain, followed by his men, to where the others were waiting. He placed her upon a horse, tying her fast in the saddle and joining the bridle to that of his own steed. And the band dashed away quick as lightning through the storm-tossed night.
But success was scarcely yet complete. Unless the authorities at Czernowitz had utterly lost their heads they would send a courier to inform the General of what had happened; and if the latter moved forward to the banks of the Czeremosz, quite at his leisure, he could cut off the band's retreat to the mountains. Taras was fully aware of this and resolved to make a dash for it straight across country, taxing his men and horses to their utmost. And it was well he did so, for on the evening of the second day he fell in with the vanguard of the approaching troops, a handful of hussars. But these, not strong enough to venture upon an attack, turned tail after having exchanged some shots with the bandits. Only one of their bullets hit, wounding one of Taras's truest helpers, and his own inmost heart as well; his oldest, most faithful companion, Jemilian, fell bleeding by his side. They lifted him up, taking him away with them back to the mountains. The old man's iron nature fought for life, but Taras knew that the sore parting was at hand....
Words utterly fail to describe the excitement which filled the land when that night's exploit became known. The consternation was all the greater because men had clung to the belief that Taras's day was over and no further attack need be feared. It had been asserted he had laid hands on himself in despair; others declaring his band had mutinied and that he had fled for his life to Hungary. But here he was, bold as ever, daring unheard-of things, and heading a swarm of outlaws which the terrified hussars who had fallen in with them estimated at five hundred at least.
Helplessly the authorities met at the Board, couriers flying from Czernowitz to Colomea, and thence to Lemberg, and away to Vienna. The poor district governor, who had begun to breathe more freely, hung his head again in utter dismay. "Would to God," he cried bitterly, "our superiors at Lemberg had turned their venom against this Taras, instead of spluttering it over us. But as for those at Vienna----" he heaved a sigh and sat mute. The poor old man was so deeply troubled that even his favourite resort of growling began to fail him.
But "those at Vienna," meanwhile, did not quite deserve his disgust. Before a week was over he could once more call the Board to inform them that a special writ had arrived from the Provincial Governor, and his eyes shone with a curious moisture. "Gentlemen," he said, "after all it was not in vain that we stood up for what is fair and right. Our superiors at Lemberg have just informed me that by express orders from Vienna Anusia Barabola and her children are to be set at liberty at once, and that, considering the very special circumstances of the case, she is to be indemnified for any loss she may have suffered through having been detained here. This is fine, I say! But, on the other hand," he added, with a queer smile, "we seem to be told that, in part at least, our views are open to amendment. Listen to this," and he read as follows:--"'It appears to be thought highly desirable at Vienna that an effort should be made to bring Taras to his senses by personal remonstrance, it being left to the district authorities to name fit persons for this office. These, in company with the outlaw's wife if possible, are to repair to Taras's camp, and to inform him that the Imperial Government, having learned that he, formerly a well-behaved and even exemplary subject, had been driven to his desperate crimes by an alleged wrong done to his parish in the matter of a law-suit against the lord of the manor concerning a field of theirs--that Government, as in duty bound to rectify any miscarriage of justice, had ordered a careful revision of the judicial records referring to that suit; and although there seemed nothing irregular in the judgment of the local court, yet nevertheless it appeared that certain pleas might be urged in Taras's favour, for which reason it was deemed well to annul that judgment by an act of imperial prerogative, and to order the case to be tried over again; that the district governor was instructed to repeat the process of collecting evidence, and especially to inquire into the possibility of perjury in the former trial--these matters to be taken in hand with all possible speed; and Taras to be given to understand that the case was to be re-tried for the sake of justice itself, and not with the mere idea of pacifying him. At the same time he shall be informed of this decision, in the hope that it may enable him to see his way all the more plainly to turn from his present evil life, and by an unconditional surrender to make amends to the law he has so grievously wronged. And though it would not be just to hold out positive impunity to him and his accomplices, he is to be assured that his and their lives shall in that case be spared. The district governor is herewith requested to take note of these instructions, and to act accordingly.'"
Herr von Bauer looked up from his paper, and, allowing the excitement of the Board to subside, he added presently, "And now, gentlemen, who is to be sent--to Taras, I mean; for I shall myself repair to Zulawce to re-examine the witnesses."
"If I might be allowed to suggest," said Wroblewski, the secretary, looking wicked, "surely we could find no better delegates than our friend Kapronski, who sooner or later will have to show his face here, and the amiable hero of all this business himself, Mr. Wenceslas Hajek, who, I am told, intends this very week to enter the blessed estate of matrimony."
"None of your chaff," broke in the governor, "we are not gathered here for joking; moreover, I want to be off to inform the poor woman of her liberty. I'll see her myself! So, to come to business, suppose we appoint Dr. Starkowski, who not only knows Taras, but always had a good word for him. And I should say he could not have a better companion than the parish-priest of Zulawce, Father Leo Woronczuk. Let these two go and come to an understanding with Taras."
The Board unanimously agreed to this proposal, and the governor was soon free to repair to the city gaol, his heart brimming with the good news for Anusia.
It was a lovely morning, fair and still, with the glow of autumn upon the mountains. More golden seemed the light and bluer the heavens than summer had known them. Though but early as yet in September, the high peaks of the Czernahora were white with the first sparkling snow; but the air was mellow in the valley, and there being no foliage which by its turning colour might have told of the waning year, but only firs and pines of sombre green, there was nothing to remind one of nature's gentle decay, save the peculiar clearness of the atmosphere, and at times a whirring sound high overhead--the first flights of birds going South. A deep silence lay brooding over the wild splendour of the valley; not a sign of life anywhere. The Czeremosz even, ever restless and rushing as described in song, had grown calm with the hot days of summer, and was flowing quite steadily along.
A strange shrill call suddenly rent the air. Any one who had never heard it would naturally have looked up to see whether a hawk or falcon might be discerned in the shining blue; but the sound was followed by others, falling on the ear more gently, now at intervals, now in succession, a monotonous mournful melody, rising and sinking, and ebbing away through the stilly landscape. And even the unaccustomed listener would have found out by this time that it was some shepherd's pipe sending its voice through the valley. But ere long, the sorrowful strain was broken into by that same shrill call, only it now came from a different direction, another pipe silencing the first one, as it were, and carrying on its dolorous song; which again in its turn was taken up by another, more distant, starting with that peculiar note, and continuing the strain. Thus the plaintive melody went sobbing along from pasture to pasture, and those that heard it crossed themselves, murmuring a prayer, and then hastened to their homestead to put on suitable attire, that they might assist in burying the dead. For such is the way within the mountains: if a man dies in any of the valleys the event is made known by a blast of the horn--the death-horn they call it--and its voice is hollow and dismal, as befits the first outburst of mourning; and later on the subdued dirge of the shepherd's pipe invites the neighbours to render the last kindly tribute to him who is gone.
It was from the largest settlement that the call had come, and the far-off listeners had been seized with apprehension, lest the death-horn should announce the passing away of the patriarch of the valley, Hilarion the Just; but by the time the pipes were heard it was known that it was for the burial of a stranger only, who in a sheltering homestead of Clan Rosenko had breathed his last. Old Jemilian was gone.
For more than a week he had lain wrestling with death, fighting his last battle bravely, with manly courage and resignation. Hilarion, not merely the ruler and guide of his people, but their adviser in sickness as well, had vainly endeavoured to succour the sinking life with healing herbs, and to tend the wound with practised skill. In vain, too, had been the almost passionate care of the maiden Tatiana, who watched by the sick man day and night. The poor girl, feeling shy at first, and disconsolate among strangers, had been glad of the opportunity of showing her gratitude to the hetman by soothing the sick-bed of his servant and friend.
Jemilian himself was almost impatient of so much solicitude. "I know that I am going to die," he kept repeating; "and it is well. One duty only I have yet to perform, and the good God will give me the needful strength before I go."
What this one thing might be which yet bound him to life he was in no hurry to disclose, not even to Taras, whose devotion and loving care for the wounded man were only equalled by Tatiana's. Once only, when the hetman had to leave him for a couple of days at the call of duty, the well-kept secret seemed about to be told. For Taras had learned that Green Giorgi, reinforced by several of his own late followers, had dared to resume his predatory life, and he at once resolved to bring those scoundrels to justice, Jemilian himself urging him not to delay. And when the fearless band was mounted, and Taras once more returned to the sick-bed to take leave of his friend, the wounded man suddenly grew restless, looking doubtfully at the girl. Tatiana understood, and left the two by themselves. "Dear master," said Jemilian; "you may be absent for several days, and I may be gone when you return; yet I must not die without telling you one thing!"
"I shall find you alive, and, please God, getting better," said Taras, cheeringly. "But if it is any comfort to you----"
The old man shook his head. "No," he said, falteringly; "I think I will wait till death tightens its hold; for if, after all, I should recover by some miracle it were terrible ... terrible ... to have told you! No! go your way, dear master, and God bless you.... I will wait!"
And as Taras rode along at the head of his followers he kept thinking of these strange words; but explanation there seemed none, and his attention presently was otherwise engaged. The enterprise was successful as usual, if not fully, for Green Giorgi himself was not among the hajdamaks he waylaid and caught, and Taras had to be satisfied with punishing his accomplices. The two most guilty he ordered to be shot, while the rest were disarmed and shorn of their hair.
Returning to the settlement, he found his faithful old servant alive still, but his last hour evidently at hand. But not yet did he refer to his secret, and Taras cared not to inquire. Not till the last sands were running through did the old man open his lips. It was near midnight; he had been lying still with closed lids, but, suddenly endeavouring to raise himself, he gazed anxiously at the pale, beautiful girl who sat by his side. "Tatiana," he whispered; "for God's sake, where is my master? Call him--I am going!"
She hastened away, and in another minute Taras was by the side of the dying man, taking hold of his hand tenderly. And Jemilian having satisfied himself that they were alone, began with laboured breath:--
"I have to make a confession to you, and to ask a promise. Hear me--a dying man cannot use many words. Do you know what, after all, will be your end?"
Taras kept silence, a stony look stealing over his face.
"The gallows!" whispered the old man, and shuddered. "It is an evil death, Taras--a horror to yourself and a lasting disgrace for your children! And therefore I have been resolved fully and firmly to save you from such a death, my poor, dear, dear master! I have sworn to myself, if ever we should fall into their hands, and there were no hope of escape, to shoot you myself with these hands of mine."
"Jemilian!"
"Do not hate me; for never man loved you more truly than I did when binding myself with that oath. You know what it would have cost me to do the deed! But you are the noblest soul, the best and most lovable man that ever lived, and such a one shall not be tortured to death on the gallows...."
Taras, quite unable to speak, had fallen on his knees by the side of the bed, and was hiding his face in the rough bearskin which covered the limbs of the dying man.
Jemilian continued: "The Almighty is calling me hence, and I am not able to show you that love! But I cannot die in peace without endeavouring to save you from so horrible a death, for your own sake and for the sake of your little ones whom I have helped you to rear. Promise me, therefore, Taras--I entreat you promise me--that you will do yourself what I had intended."
"I cannot," groaned the unhappy man.
"Why not? Poor, dear master! Ah! I know how you dread the gallows!--not the dying, but the rope! The mere thought of it fills you with horror and loathing unspeakable. I know it, for who knows you better than I do? For this and no other reason you have granted the bullet to even the blackest rascal we ever brought to his doom. And to yourself you refuse it--why should you?"
"Because it were cowardly and a sin against God!"
"Nay, surely the Almighty will judge your soul with the same justice and mercy whether you appear before His judgment-seat a month sooner or later. I cannot doubt that!... And cowardly? I do not understand you...."
"Yes, cowardly!" cried Taras, passionately, and rising to his feet. "It is my appointed lot to be a guardian of the Right, and to strive to carry out the will of God concerning it, as far as may be possible to mortal man. I must not, I dare not renounce that sacred duty. If ever I fall into their hands I shall hope and endeavour to make good my escape, and continue fulfilling the duty which is laid upon me. Yes! in the very sight of the gallows I shall cling to the hope that the Judge above will set me free, though it be by a miracle, to carry on His work."
The dying man was silent; he fell back on his bed and closed his eyes. Taras bent over him. And once again those faithful eyes opened on him fully, and the old servant whispered, scarcely audibly: "Farewell, dear master, and may God in His mercy be with you in death." A deep breath, and Jemilian was gone.
They laid him out in the morning after their way in the mountains, with a crucifix at his head, but with a jug of water at his right hand, bread and salt at his left, and the skin of a newly-killed kid at his feet, "for the other gods." And after that they buried him beneath a mighty fir-tree in the Dembronia Forest. No priest prayed over the dead, the aged Hilarion only whispered his ancient spells handed down from generation to generation, believed in by all, and understood by none. They filled up the grave, discharging their muskets over it, and finally cut a cross into the bark of the tree, not forgetting some mysterious signs by the side of it "for the other gods."
Then they returned to the settlement to partake of the funeral meal. But as they entered the enclosure Taras perceived a youth standing by the hedge, at the sight of whom he gave a stifled cry.
It was young Halko, the farm-servant, who, with glistening eyes, now burst upon his master and kissed his hand. "Thanks be to God," he cried, struggling with tears, "we shall all be happy again! The mistress and the children have been set free! They are waiting to see you at the hamlet of Magura, at the lower end of the valley."
"My horse!" cried Taras, turning to his men. "And why have they not come all the way?"
"Because of the two gentlemen. It was they who refused to come further, lest you might think they wished to discover your encampment--our little Father Leo, I mean, and that old lawyer of Colomea who was your counsel in the suit."
"And what have they come for?"
"To bring you good news, master--really. The men of Zulawce are to have their field back, and the wrong is to be righted."
Taras grew white and then crimson, and again the glow yielded to a deadly pallor. But he asked no farther question, and, mounting his horse, he raced down the valley at a pace which left Halko fax behind him.
The meeting between husband and wife was deeply affecting. Taras flew towards her without giving a glance at the men, and Anusia, with a wild cry, buried her face on his shoulder. And they stood clasping each other speechless, only their tears kept flowing. At length Taras freed himself from her arms, and turned to his children, little Tereska beginning to cry with fear when that strange-looking grey-haired man caught her up, kissing her wildly; the little girl did not recognise her father, nor did the younger boy. Wassilj only clung to him sobbing, "Oh, father dear, you look so ill--so ill!"
Taras made no answer, he took the boy on his knee, fondling him and closing his month with kisses when he would have spoken. It was as though he feared human words might destroy the blessedness of this meeting. And almost anxiously he avoided the eye of either the pope or the lawyer; still less could he have offered them greeting. He kept lifting, now this child to his knee, now that, pressing them to his heart closely; and drawing his wife down beside him, he passed his hand tenderly over her grief-worn face. "Do not speak," he whispered, and she nodded, hiding her head in his bosom, to weep her sorrows away.
Father Leo and Dr. Starkowski had withdrawn modestly, watching that most touching scene from a distance only. "There is every hope of his yielding," whispered the lawyer. "God grant that it be so," returned the priest, less confident, evidently.
Half-an-hour might have passed, when Taras roused himself, once more clasping his wife and kissing the children with a passionate fervour, as though separation once more were at hand. And now he went up to the men, expressing his pleasure at seeing them, but his voice trembled as with apprehension, "What is it you have to tell me?" he inquired.
"We are sent hither by order of the Government," said Starkowski, producing a written document and explaining its contents. It was a paper drawn up by the district governor, instructing the present bearers, and containing, in full, the resolutions come to in Vienna. "To-morrow," concluded the lawyer, "the governor himself will repair to Zulawce to re-examine the witnesses in person. And, since he is fully determined to get at the bottom of the matter, there is no doubt but that the contested field will be adjudged to the parish, and that the perjured witnesses, together with the scoundrel who led them on, will meet with their fullest deserts. And this is resolved upon, as you understand from this communication, for the sake of justice itself, and quite irrespective of what decision you may arrive at concerning yourself. But we ask you, whether there be any just reason left why you should refuse submission to the Emperor, the guardian of justice in this realm."
Taras drew one deep breath after another, but answer there was none.
"Husband!" cried Anusia, wildly, "tell them you are satisfied."
"Do not press him," interposed Father Leo. "Let us consider the matter calmly.... Taras," he continued, "I do not want to urge upon you the claims of ordinary wisdom, which might well prevail with you, in order to preserve your life, not only from ignominious death, but for your children's sake and their future welfare; for I know that no such consideration has influenced your actions hitherto and that you follow the voice of your conscience only; but this I will ask of you--does your conscience permit you to continue striving in your own might, and with fearful means, to bring about a result which will be attained peaceably by the faithful endeavour of those who are called to this duty?"
"This is the very point," said Taras, slowly. "I do not know that these endeavours are faithful! Look back on all this sad experience. Grievous crimes have been perpetrated at Zolawce--robbery and perjury. I appealed to the law, considering no personal sacrifice too great to obtain relief; but every effort proved vain. The robber was left to enjoy the benefit of his deed, and the perjurers could mock honest men! Three years nearly have passed since this happened, and the matter was not likely ever to be taken up again. Now you tell me that the men of the law nave suddenly remembered their duty. Why so? What is the reason that, all of a sudden, they feel called upon to try the case over again?--why are they willing to do so? Because these months past they have stood in terror of me, and I have left them no peace!... I ask you, doctor, as an honest man--would the case ever have come to be tried over again if I had followed your advice, and lived down my disappointment as a peaceable subject on my farm?"
"Yes, possibly," returned the lawyer. "I mean it is just as likely that some other chance had made it advisable----"
"That will do!" interrupted Taras. "By your own showing, then, it was a mere matter of chance, and you were brought to seek for the right in the present instance only because of my forcing you on to it through dire warfare. But for this, I repeat, you would not have lifted a finger to right the wrong! This is an evil state of things, and must not continue, for it opposes the beautiful will of God. The case does but lend force, then, to my belief that a judge and avenger is grievously needed in this country. This, however, is not the only, not even the chief, thing I must strive to rectify. I found greater wrongs left unpunished elsewhere; and, knowing that the men of Zulawce would not miss their opportunity of getting back their field for themselves, there was no need for me to see to it. I soon perceived there were other evil-doers in the land, not greater scoundrels, perhaps, than Hajek, but with greater scope for wrong; and therefore I judged well to punish and remove them first, and to bring him to his doom when I can do so without too great an effort or loss of life. But to come to those other cases, or to take one only as an example--who, I ask you, would ever have thought of ridding the people of Kossowince from that vilest of oppressors if I had not done it? And how, then, can I be sure that such things shall not happen again--not once, but in scores of cases? Can you pledge yourselves that such wrongs shall never again be possible? Will you yourselves be the surety that in future no man shall be oppressed in this country, or his cry for redress die away unheard?"
"This is more than we can promise," said the lawyer; "but----"
"It needs no further word! I maintain that a judge and avenger was required in this country, and will still be required; and therefore----"
"Taras!" cried Anusia, with a shriek of despair, and clutching his arm, "forbear! Speak not lightly; it concerns our deepest welfare--it is a question of life or death!"
Once more the pope interfered. "Hear me, Taras," he said, speaking with a forced calm; "I do not condemn your answer so far, for it is no more than must be expected from your nature and your way of thinking, such as I have known them these years. And as a tree could not change the colour of its leaves at any man's bidding, you also could not have spoken differently, for your words are the outcome of your very being. But I should have to condemn you if you were to disregard that which I will point out to you now, and which no doubt has escaped you hitherto. Listen to me! You are grievously mistaken if you imagine that the law in itself is to blame, or that the Emperor wishes his judges to close an eye when poor peasants are ill-used by rich and powerful oppressors. The law is all right, and those that are appointed to dispense it are required to take a solemn oath that in all cases they will be just and impartial. And again, you are mistaken if you think that our magistrates sometimes pass an unjust verdict wilfully." Taras broke in with a passionate exclamation, but the pope stopped him. "I know what you are going to say," he cried; "you want to remind me that your wife and your children were arrested. I shall come to that presently. Let me urge upon you that, taking all in all, the intentions of the magistrates are good, and the laws are good. Just call to mind your experience as a whole, and tell me, speaking honestly, as before the face of Almighty God, Is it the just or the unjust verdicts which are the exception?"
"I have considered this point often," said Taras, quietly; "it is true that I have heard of far more just than unjust sentences. But what of it, whatcanit prove?"
"Just this," rejoined Father Leo, warmly, "that an occasional miscarriage of justice is not to be explained by imputing it to the ill-will of magistrates. What else, then, is to blame? you inquire. I remind you that for one thing there is that unfortunate survival of feudal times, whereby the lord of the manor is vested with judicial authority over the peasantry on his lands; this is fully acknowledged to be an evil, not only by you and me, but by Government as well. But it cannot be done away with all of a sudden, nor by violent means, for the landlords exercise their jurisdiction in virtue of Imperial grants acquired by purchase in times long gone by. It is this deplorable state of things which is to blame chiefly, if oppression and injustice go more easily unpunished in this country than elsewhere. But do not imagine, Taras, that we are the only people who ever suffer wrong; nay, that beautiful ladder which has appeared to you in happy vision is not anywhere on earth so firmly planted, so utterly to be relied on, as you dreamed. For the guardianship of Justice in this world is not given to God's angels, but to poor sinful men like you and me. God alone is all-knowing, all-wise, and all-just, and it is man's inheritance to judge of things not as they are, but rather as they appear. I do not deny that there may be unjust judges here and there; yet it is not this fact which is to blame for the continuance of wrong upon earth, but the imperfection of human nature. For everything human falls short of its highest aim, and perfect justice is with God alone; if, therefore, you are bent on continuing your warfare, it will not be against the Emperor and his magistrates, nor against the wrong upon earth, but against human nature and human failings."
Taras had bent his eyes on the ground thoughtfully; but after a pause of silence he shook his head. "I have followed you," he said, "and I grant the truth of your points. But of one thing, the most important of all, you cannot convince me. I will never believe that a man endowed with good sense, provided he is honest, could pass an unjust sentence as it were against himself. And therefore I must continue in my sacred undertaking, for it is nothing to the pointwhyany wrong goes unpunished--whether the human weakness, or stupidity, or the ill-will of the magistrates be at fault. It is enough for me that the wrong is there and requires to be rooted out."
"This is sheer infatuation!" cried Father Leo. "And have you ever considered which is the greater wrong, either as regards your fellows or the will of God--whether some peasant is taxed with more labour than he owes, or whether you fill all the land with horror and bloodshed? Nay, has not a harvest of wrong sprung from your very work? Have we not heard of villages rising against their lords, refusing their just claims, and threatening their lives? Have you forgotten what happened at Hankowce? and what at Zulawce? Does not the blood of many a soldier--nay, of your own men--cry for vengeance unto God?"
"I am not afraid to be answerable for this," responded Taras, "for the Right is more to be valued than any man's life. Both my conscience and my reason tell me that, for the world itself is founded on justice."
"The world founded on justice!" reiterated the pope, hotly. "And how do you know, then, that your judgment is always just? Are not you a man like others, and liable to err?"
"I follow conscience, and rely on the grace of God, which will be with him who seeks what is right. You know my deeds; do you accuse me of any injustice?"
"What of that poor man Hohenau!"
"He was one of those magistrates who used the power entrusted to them for a deed of violence, for fear of earthly punishment."
"Taras," cried the pope, with a vain attempt to speak calmly, "there is no excuse for you, or rather your only excuse is this, that you did not know the true state of things----"
"I knew all about it," rejoined Taras. "I was aware that the Board of Colomea had prayed to be dismissed the service rather than be obliged to do this deed. But what of it? You will tell me that their request was refused by their superiors, and that their oath required them to stay at their post and obey the higher authority. But I tell you no oath binds a man to iniquity--and therefore the judgment I carried out was a just one!"
Starkowski interposed: "It is quite useless to reason with you on these points, or to expect you to retract anything of the past. But tell me, what of the future? Do you really consider yourself infallible? Do you imagine that you alone will never be in danger of passing sentence unjustly? This is awful presumption!"
"No," said Taras, solemnly; "it is an assurance resting on the grace of God. He sees and probes my heart. He knows that I have undertaken this warfare for His sake alone, and He will not let me fall so grievously. But even apart from this, I do think that an honest, right-minded, and judicious man will always be able to distinguish right from wrong."
"Then you really believe that an unjust sentence on your part is utterly impossible? Well, let this pass; but supposing the hour ever came that would convince you that you also, in striving after justice, had done wrong--what then?"
"It were the most fearful hour of my life," said Taras, hoarsely; "and I do not speak lightly!... I have never considered what in that case I should have to do, but it is quite plain. If God ever suffers me to commit the wrong, then I shall acknowledge that He never was with me, that the blessed ladder joining earth to heaven is a dream, and I shall no longer call myself an avenger, but an evildoer who has deserved every punishment he has ever inflicted on others. If ever such terrible conviction does come to me, be very sure I shall give myself up to you on the spot. Till then, I have nothing to do with you. Take back this message to those that sent you."
Deep silence followed.
"Is this your final decision?" These words fell on the stillness with stifled sobs. It was Anusia--white as death, bending forward, hollow-eyed and shaking in every limb--who now faced her husband.
The two men were dismayed, and even Taras staggered. "Anusia," he began, "you know----"
"Nothing else; just this one answer!" She looked straight into his eyes, and continued with that same ghastly voice: "But let me tell you first what is at stake.... Hitherto I have clung to this one conviction, that all your deeds were done in obedience to the dictates of your conscience; and because I have known you as a man more noble and more just than your neighbours, I would not permit myself to doubt for one moment that you continued noble and acted justly even where I could not see it. I took it upon myself to be both father and mother to our children, to rule the farm in your absence--the loss to my heart I could not make good. But in my sorest hours I strove to encourage myself. 'Hold up thy head proudly,' a voice within me kept crying, 'for thou art wife to one who is not like common men! Thou hast loved him for it, and prided thyself on it, bear thou the deep sorrow which comes because of it. He never was like other men; he cannot be now. He has set his great heart on winning back that field for his people, for it is theirs by right, and since he was foiled when he sought to gain his end by lawful means he is now trying what force will do. Since justice is on his side, he will succeed in the end, and will come back to you, and happiness once more will return.' This was my one hope through it all, and I believed in its fulfilment and fed upon the longed-for blessing. When the governor came to tell me what message had been received from Vienna, ah! then indeed, my heart beat with the rapture of its gratitude! I learned at the same time, however, that they could not let you go unpunished, and that you might very likely have to atone for your deeds with a long imprisonment; but even this my love and pride were ready to bear. 'He will not be a whit less great and noble,' I said to myself, 'and prison cannot degrade him! And far better to know him in prison, and making up for these months, than to think of him continuing this fearful life.' For, Taras, no human tongue can tell what it means to be the avenger's wife! God knows, and I do!... And will you now crown it all--will you heap up a burden of grief and shame beneath which I and the children must break down entirely?"
"Anusia!"
"Be silent, and listen! I have borne the utmost; now let me speak. I say this, that unless you return, now that the wrong is about to be made good, and the field given back to its rightful owners, you will cease to be believed in as noble and good, not only by me, but by all upright and sensible men; you will no longer be a champion of the oppressed and an avenger for conscience' sake, but a mere common assassin, a bloodthirsty----"
"Anusia, wife, for God's sake----"
"Do not call me wife! I will not acknowledge an assassin as my husband, nor let the children call him father. Now tell me--are you willing to follow these gentlemen or not?"
"I cannot!"
"Then go your ways ... but in your dying hour you shall call me in vain ... I will not----"
She could not finish the terrible sentence, breaking down, not in unconsciousness, but overpowered with the boundless passion of her resentment....
The unhappy man hid his face in his hands, and then slowly, with a faltering step, but not again lifting his eye to her he was leaving, he returned to his horse, and, mounting it with evident effort, he rode swiftly away towards the Black Water, nor once looked behind him.