First of all the Royal Eagle burst upon the waiting band. "We were sadly detained," he reported to the captain; "two full hours we had to lie in ambush by the Pruth, and when the night overtook us we missed our way. But we have caught him all right."
"Not injuring him, I hope!"
"No--that is to say, he suffered no harm at our hands, but fear may have killed him, for all I know."
And, indeed, there was no saying whether it was a living man or a dead body that was being brought before the captain. Julko, not satisfied with lashing the commissioner to the saddle, had ordered a man to mount behind him that he might be supported and saved from striking his head against the low-hanging branches, blindfolded as he was. A cloak also had been thrown round his shivering shoulders. Thus the poor wretch clung helplessly to the neck of the horse that carried him, the men shouting with laughter on beholding his abject figure; but a look of Taras's silenced them.
"Has he fainted?" inquired he of the man whose brawny arm enfolded the commissioner.
"No, captain," was the answer, "it is just his pretence; only a few minutes ago he implored me to let him make his escape, promising me a hundred florins if he got away safely. I felt sorely tempted to pitch into him, but I remembered your injunctions." And the man looked so disappointed, that even Taras could not but smile. "Untie him," he said.
It was done. When the bandage was taken from his eyes Kapronski staggered and fell, his head striking the ground. That was no play-acting, for the scene thus suddenly presented to his vision might well have confounded a more courageous and less guilty man: first and foremost the towering figure of Taras, and behind him the band of outlaws armed to the teeth and leaning against their horses, all of them lit up by the lurid glare of their watchfire.
"Put him on his feet," exclaimed the captain, impatiently, two men endeavouring to do so, but they only got him to his knees. "For pity's sake," he whimpered, lifting his folded hands to Taras.
The latter came a step nearer. "Ah!" he cried scornfully, "is it you, friend Ladislas Kapronski? Get up, man; you need not shake like that."
The commissioner now managed to stand on his legs, but his head hung on his bosom, and his clasped hands continued in entreaty.
"I am not going to say a word concerning the matter at issue," began Taras, "you men of the law will just go on murdering justice--well, continue in your ways, but...."
At the mention of justice, Kapronski gasped, apparently recovering himself. "Yes," he said, with an obsequious bow, "I always told them at the Board it was no use arraigningyou, who are as daring as you are just; and you have got the people to back you, honoured--much honoured, Mr. Taras."
"Be silent," cried the latter, "I am ashamed of you, for after all you are a man!... It is not on account of these matters, or concerning myself, that I wanted to see you, but because of your having threatened my wife."
"For pity's sake! I did but as I was told!"
"Indeed," said Taras, with so searching a look that the commissioner, unable to meet it, shook afresh. "Indeed! Then why are you trembling like that? Was it not rather an invention of your own cowardly brain?"
"No!" exclaimed Kapronski, "I swear by all the saints----"
"I will take your word for what it may be worth. I might well doubt you; you are fully capable of a lie--but the thing in itself is preposterous. That you, who call yourselves guardians of the law, should think even of such a glaring wrong! And how cowardly--how cowardly it is! You, with all the military at your command, are you not able to protect yourselves against me save by attacking my wife and children?"
"Oh, indeed," pleaded Kapronski, "did I not do my best to warn them? But my advice was not taken. I assure you----"
"No need of farther words; but listen to what I have to say, and take back my message to the Board.... No amount of threatening will prevent my carrying out the sacred duty I have undertaken. And if my wife and my poor children were indeed at your mercy, and I knew they would meet death at your hands for any act of mine, laid upon me by that duty, I would carry out such act unflinchingly. Do you take that in?"
"Ah!--yes--oh!"
"Well, then, listen again. I cannot hinder you from taking my wife and my children to prison, or even from taking their lives. But I tell you this: on the day you make good those threats, it will become my first and highest and most sacred duty to rid the land of the worst of evil-doers--of you, the so-called guardians of the law. Woe to any of you, then, who may fall into my hands! I shall have you hanged, every one, on these trees of ours...."
"Oh, no, not me--for pity's sake! I was always trying----"
"Well, hanging might be too good for you," said Taras, sternly. "I knew you were an abject coward, but this is worse even than the name you bear.... I regret to send you with an honest man's message. For there is yet another matter to speak about--and you shall tell them I have sworn to you a sacred oath that there is no deceit nor cunning in my request, but pity for the people alone. I earnestly pray the authorities to withdraw the soldiers from Zulawce. The hussars have done mischief enough already, and the infantry may do worse if they stay. There is no need of military occupation, for I give you my word that I shall not enter the village, not even if I knew the mandatar to be at the manor. I should bide my time to get hold of him elsewhere. Let me repeat it. I shall never set foot within the parish of Zulawce if my request be granted; and since the man lives not who could say that Taras ever broke his word, perhaps even you will believe me."
"Oh!--certainly--yes. I myself----"
"Stop your talking! This, then, is the message you shall bear; but I have a word for yourself also. See that you keep from lying in delivering my message, for the truth sooner or later will come to be known; and if ever I find that you altered one single word of what I have told you, I shall----"
"For pity's sake! I'll never alter a single letter!"
"Well, we shall see. I said I would not harm you in limb or life; but since you have shown yourself such a mean, craven coward, it is meet you should suffer punishment--that punishment which within these mountains is reserved for such meanness;" and, turning to his men, "Cut off his hair!" he said.
"Ah--pity!" groaned Kapronski, but it availed him not. He found himself held fast with a merciless grip, while Sophron made short work of the commissioner's well-oiled locks, leaving his head like a field of stubble in the dreary autumn.
"Now tie him to his horse again," said Taras, "blindfolding him as before."
It was done.
"Light the torches! Mount, and let us be off! By the Pruth we will leave him to his own devices."
The signals sounded, the procession formed, vanishing in the deeper shadows of the cleft which leads to the river in the direction of Kossowince....
Starting from the little wooden bridge which spans the Pruth near Zulawce, and following the river, about an hour's ride will bring you to the village of Kossowince. It is a well-favoured spot, the fertile wheat-fields of the plain spreading round about; yet the village is near enough to the rich green slopes of the rising uplands to obtain considerable returns from cattle-rearing as well. This flourishing place in our own days is known again as the "rich village," its much-envied inhabitants going by the name of the "wheat lords," but there have been times when the poorest cottager of the heath-country would not have exchanged his miserable cabin for the finest homestead at Kossowince. For rivers of tears and streams of blood have flowed here for religion's sake. In the days when Poland held sway, nearly all the inhabitants of the district had forsaken the Byzantine orthodox creed, turning Catholics, if not of their own free will, yet under the combined influence of Romish Jesuits and tyrannical waywodes; very few of the peasantry had courage enough to withstand such persuasion, but of these few were the people of Kossowince. Trusting in their numbers and wealth, the "wheat lords" clung to their ancient faith, although every decade brought them a bitter experience of persecution. The Austrian supremacy eventually put an end to these troubles, and in the days of the good Emperor Joseph the people of Kossowince might cross themselves from the right to the left, or from the left to the right, as they pleased. But when that monarch had been gathered to his fathers, this important difference once more appeared to trouble the ruling powers, most of all his Grace of Lemberg, and the villagers soon had proof that their heresy was being dealt with. Doubtfully they looked into the threatening future, and their horizon grew darker still when they learned that all of a sudden they had fallen under spiritual sway. The lady of the manor, a widowed countess, had seen fit to bequeath the "rich village" for purposes of Romish endowment, and their new mandatar proved to be a secular priest, a certain Victor von Sanecki, sent thither to collect the revenues. He was received with unbounded hatred; yet within the space of a few months he had known how to gain the confidence, even the goodwill, of the people. For this ghostly steward was thoroughly conversant with agriculture; he proved a good counsellor, and appeared not to take the slightest notice of the heretical tendency of the village. So tolerant was he, that when the elders one day uttered complaints against their pope, Miron Aganowicz, describing him as a worse drunkard than need be, he did his best to find excuses for his reverend brother, the result, of course, being that Miron, who so far had stood in some awe of spiritual censure, drank worse than ever, providing the means by various methods of extortion. But the parish was possessed of some spirit, and the sheep turned against the shepherd; whereupon the pope complained to the civil authorities and was victorious in the contest. The aggrieved peasantry carried their trouble to the ghostly mandatar, but he pointed out to them that the courtesy of his sacred calling did not permit him to interfere, making a similar statement to his brother Miron, who, on the strength of it, oppressed the people more than ever. Matters grew to such a pass that the parish petitioned for another pope, and, being refused, declared themselves willing to be rid of Miron at any price, assuring the authorities that they had come to see how foolishly prejudiced they had been in opposing the ruling faith, and that they were quite ready now to profess themselves Roman Catholics, provided that the reverend Sanecki, that excellent man, might be their priest and mandatar in one. This offer was accepted speedily, and on Easter Sunday, in the year of grace 1837, the Greek church of Kosso wince was solemnly dedicated to the Romish rite, Sanecki entering on his functions as the pastor of this converted people.
The event made a stir far and wide; it was evident that the benign wisdom of an amiable priest, within the space of two short years, had succeeded in overcoming the stubborn resistance which had braved the tyranny of centuries. Not many had the clear-headed judgment, or, indeed, sufficient acquaintance with Sanecki himself, to temper their surprise, seeing he was as unprincipled as he was clever. Victor von Sanecki was the scion of a decayed family of rank, a native of Posen. As a mere youth, iron-willed and indefatigable, sharp-witted and full of ambition, he had striven hard to reclaim his hopelessly mortgaged inheritance. But no saving and no diligence of his could make up for the failings of his spendthrift ancestry. He gave it up, and, entering the Prussian civil service, turned Protestant for the sake of advancement; nor was he without prospect of gaining his end, and he might have risen to power had not his over-zealous chase after prosperity overstepped the lines of rectitude marked out in that country for a servant of the State. He was dismissed; upon which, repairing to Cracow, he resolved to read for holy orders. He was barely thirty when he thus entered the Church, and upon his consecration was appointed to the somewhat anomalous charge at Kossowince. His wondrous success there failed not to strike the Archbishop, who meditated work for him at Lemberg itself, but Sanecki submitted his earnest request "that he might be left to lead the converted flock in the way they should go"; for he believed that he could gather wealth while so engaged. His ambition sated, he was anxious now to satisfy that other craving of his debased soul, the love of riches.
And success appeared to attend his efforts; but the means he had recourse to were appalling. Not many weeks passed before the people of Kossowince discovered that the shepherd they had chosen was not nearly so gentle as they supposed, and before the year was out they had come to the conviction that a very fiend was addressing them from the pulpit and lording it over them at the manor. For it is a fact that the fate of every Galician village in those days was in the hands of two men--viz.: the mandatar and the parish priest. And here this power was vested in one and the same--Victor von Sanecki literally could do what he pleased. If a peasant refused an unjust tithe he as mandatar could send to prison; if he refused an oppressive tribute to the mandatar it was the priest that could inflict the lash of ecclesiastical punishment. The people naturally struggled hard against the injustice, appealing to the law; but it was no less in the nature of things that they found no redress, since before the civil authorities Sanecki claimed the privileges of the clergy, while to his spiritual superiors he pleaded his position as mandatar and steward of the revenues. Moreover, the stubborn character borne previously by the converted parish was remembered, and Sanecki was not slow to point out that having adopted the Catholic faith for outward reasons merely, they naturally were unwilling to meet the demands of the Church. So everything went against them, for the Romish creed was in the ascendant, and fines were imposed to teach them submission. A military detachment was quartered upon the refractory parish to enforce payment, and when the uttermost farthing had been wrested from them their goods were seized; not till a man had been brought to hopeless penury was he left alone by the priest. It seemed as though Sanecki could commit the vilest wrongs with impunity; but he cared to inflict punishment on those only who could offer money or money's worth to evade it, and his direst means of extortion, the refusal of Church burial, always fell on the wealthy.
Such was the man against whom Taras in the first instance lifted the avenger's arm. As it was close upon midnight when he with his followers started from the Crystal Springs, the Pruth was not reached till after two o'clock. And when the river had been forded, and the shivering Kapronski left to himself, the band in headlong gallop dashed onward through the plain. Kossowince was reached, and in spite of the surrounding darkness Taras perceived a horseman stationed at the entrance. He was appointed by the villagers to act as the avenger's guide.
Taras and his men drew up. "How many soldiers are there in the place?" he inquired; "and how are they quartered?"
"There is an officer with fifty men," reported the peasant; "Whitecoats from Lombardy with green facings. Thirty of them are at the parsonage, for the fiend himself lives at the manor, allowing the manse to be used as a barracks, for which we must pay him a rental of five hundred florins....."
"And where are the others?"
"Here and there about the cottages, one or two in each, all over the village. The officer and his man only are lodged at the manor. There are five or six retainers there besides, that is all. But have a care; the parsonage is not a hundred yards distant."
"Any sentries?"
"Yes, one--outside the manse. But these fellows feel the cold here; they are generally found cuddled up in their cloaks."
"And the villagers understand that they keep quiet?"
"Yes, much as they long to take part. But they see it is best so. It is different with me, who have nothing to lose. I am Jacek Borodenko, and the fiend has beggared me and mine entirely. What better can I do but join you for good?"
"We shall see," said Taras, and turned to his men. "The soldiery about the village need not troublous; it is the parsonage and the manse that require our attention. We will divide our force I shall want the Royal Eagle, Jemilian and Sefko, Wassilj and Sophron, Stas Barilko and Karol Wygoda, to come with me; we shall carry out the avenger's part at the manor. You others, all of you, shall follow Nashko. And to you," he added, turning to the Jew, "I leave it to deal with the sentry and make sure that no Whitecoat shall leave the manse. I rely on it that I shall not be hindered in my business while there is breath left in any of you!... But let every man here remember my injunction: he that shads blood for the mere thirst of it shall meet with his deserts in due time; but if any of you lay his hand on any property whatsoever, I shall shoot him on the spot.... Now let us be gone, keeping silence."
And cautiously they moved toward the scene of their ghastly labour. The night yet curtained the plain, but on the eastern horizon a faint streak betokened the approach of day.
By the church they separated. Taras and his seven men, led by Jacek, proceeded towards the manor, the others halting by the church, while some of their number slid from their horses and moved away stealthily to seize the sentry.
"Do you know the ins and outs of the house?" Taras inquired of the guide.
"Yes; as well as of my own pocket," replied the man. "I was in service there in the days of the late countess."
"Then I daresay you can show us some back door that will yield readily."
"Hardly," said the guide, "for the fiend is on his guard; he has iron-barred every door of the place. But Michalko, the groom, has a sweetheart in the village, and if we are lucky we may find the postern ajar."
Their very horses trod with noiseless footfall, carrying them to their destination unobserved. Jacek tried the latch, the door moved on its hinges, and the little band dismounted. Wassilj was left to guard the entrance, while the rest of the men followed their stern captain through a vaulted passage into the building. It was their first aim to make sure of the half-dozen retainers who slept in a large room in the basement. Jacek approached on tiptoe. "The key is in the lock," he whispered, and turned it forthwith. Nothing was heard from within but the snoring of the occupants.
"It is as well to be prudent," said Taras; "they are sure to wake up with the commotion, and, forcing the door, might give us trouble. This is your place, then, Sophron and Karol," and the two men took their position accordingly. "Now for the officer. Where shall we find him?"
"On the first floor," reported the guide; "not far from the fiend's lair." The man, in common with all the villagers, thus habitually designated their shepherd, as though Victor von Sanecki had never been known by any other name. They ascended the stairs. On reaching the landing the report of a firelock was heard, a second, and a third in quick succession; a din of voices rose in the distance; the garrison at the manse evidently was showing fight.
At this moment a door opened, the officer bursting upon the scene, his pistol in one hand and his sword in the other. But quick as lightning Taras had closed with him, disarming him, and with powerful grasp holding him helpless on the ground, his servant and a lackey or two speedily sharing the same fate at the hands of the others.
"There is no time to be lost," said Taras. One of the bedrooms was standing open, its window was iron-barred, and there was no other outlet. "Push them in!" The door was locked upon the overpowered men, Sefko being ordered to guard it while the others now made for the priest's chamber.
They found it secured, but Taras, with the weight of his gigantic frame, had no trouble in making the door yield, his men, with the butt-ends of their muskets finishing the operation. They entered a spacious apartment, modestly furnished; a lamp expired, not at the breath of any man, but in consequence of a sharp draught from an open window, as the invaders perceived by the light of their torches. The room was empty, the bed to all appearance recently forsaken, and the casement wide open.
Julko rushed to the window. "Look here!" he cried, pulling up a sheet that was tied to the sash; "the wretch has escaped us!"
"Impossible!" exclaimed Jacek; "the moat is at its deepest below; he would have broken every limb in the attempt."
"But the room has no other exit."
"It has, though! I know there is a secret closet joined to this room by an invisible door. In the countess's time it used to be connected with the back-stairs as well; but the fiend, thinking it a good hiding-place for his ill-gotten gains, had that communication walled up. I have not a doubt but that he is within, caught in his own trap and no escaping."
"Then have you an idea where to look for the invisible door?"
"Yes, in this wall," he pointed to the side where the bed stood. The broad surface was covered with an antique hanging which, quaintly enough, appeared fastened to the wall at regular intervals with large metal buttons, forming a kind of pattern. "It is one of these buttons that opens the door," said Jacek, "if you press down the right one. I have seen it done once; but there are many, and I cannot tell which it is."
"That is a pity," said Taras. He stood listening to the confused voices of the fighting without. "Well, if it is the only way, we must just find the button. Are you sure the other outlet is walled up?"
"Quite certain."
"Then let us try."
Several minutes passed while the men were thus endeavouring to discover the secret spring by which to move the hidden door, the din outside continuing unabated. Julko gave an exultant cry. He was kneeling on the bed, passing his fingers over the buttons in the centre when one of them yielding discovered a narrow chink in the wall. The door as yet did not open, but its outline was plainly marked; it was evidently made fast from within.
Taras snatched at Jemilian's axe, and, pushing aside the bed, he belaboured the wall with all his might. The door had begun to split, when a bolt was withdrawn inside, and before them stood the man they were seeking.
So sudden was his appearance that those without fell back a step. The "fiend" in person seemed utterly different from the name he bore--a well-grown, still youthful man, in the black robe of a priest, with a face both grave and handsome, and singularly dignified. The pallor of his countenance only showed his inward disturbance, his features wearing an expression of proudest self-confidence, and his eyes flashed imperiously.
"What is this?" he demanded. "Who are you?"
"I am Taras, the avenger," replied the latter, facing him. "Your time of reckoning has come! Your stronghold could not protect you; and neither the bold front of courage nor any cowardly whimpering will avail you now."
"Do I look like one given to whimpering?" said Sanecki, drawing himself up. "I am not a coward, though I endeavoured to hide from you. What else is there left for a peaceful priest when a horde of murderers enter his dwelling at night and he hears the tumult of bloodshed without? ... Your name and your purpose, Taras, are known to me, but I should scarcely have thought that you could think it needful to visit me. My conscience accuses me of nothing."
"Hold your lying tongue, you blackest of fiends," cried Jacek, beside himself, and he would have fallen upon the priest had not Taras held him back, continuing calmly: "Then you absolutely deny the charge of having committed the most inhuman wrongs against the villagers, robbing them of their property, and of the peace of their souls as well?"
"It is they who speak falsely in accusing me. I have taken from them what belongs to the Church and to me by right--not a whit beyond. In my case, Taras, you cannot be an avenger, but only a murderer, if your conscience will let you. But I think better of you, and I demand that you shall confront me with my accusers, with respectable, trustworthy men, not with a good-for-nothing like this Jacek, and I shall know how to answer them."
There appeared to be a lull in the fighting without--the firing had ceased, and the general tumult was hushed. But within the manor at that moment bloodshed was imminent. Jacek, quite unable to master his fury, had snatched a pistol from his belt, and was pointing it at the priest.
"Stop, Jacek," commanded Taras, wresting the weapon from him. "And you, priest, utter no slander!... Say on Jacek in what has this man offended against you and yours. Say it with the fewest words, and speak the truth."
The peasant strove to conquer his feelings. "My father," he began, speaking with difficulty, "was obliged last year to remain on the upland pasture late into the spring. It was an unavoidable necessity, for the live stock was all we possessed. When he returned, this fiend of a man fined him a hundred florins, because he had been absent from confession and from the sacrament at Easter. It was our ruin, and brought us to beggary."
A voice was heard through the open window. "Hetman! hetman!" was the cry.
Taras stepped to the casement.
"It is I, Milko, the hunter. The Jew sends you word that we have done our part. The Whitecoats have laid down their arms."
An exultant cry broke from the men, but Sanecki grew ashy. However, he recovered himself quickly. "It is a lie," he cried, reverting to the charge against him, "a false accusation. I call the Almighty to witness who is my only refuge in this hour of need, unless you deal righteous judgment!"
Again Jacek was making a plunge at him, and once more Taras interfered. "I am ready to prove to you that I judge righteously," he said. "So far everything is against you save your own statement; the character you bear, the complaints which have reached me, and this man's solemn oath are your accusers. But you shall not be judged without being fully convicted. You shall choose for yourself two inhabitants of this village to speak for you."
Sanecki considered a moment. "Well, then," he said, "let it be Hawrilo Bumbak and Iwon Serecki."
"Captain," broke in Jacek, "do not be outwitted by this scoundrel. He has named these men because they live at the furthest end of the parish. He hopes to gain time."
"Never mind, we are in no such hurry. You also shall name two men to be called as witnesses against him."
"Let it be those whom you know already," decided Jacek, without a moment's hesitation. "Harassim, the judge, and Stephen, one of the elders, since they carried our complaints to you."
"Very well," said Taras. "These four witnesses shall be called. Follow him, Julko, Stas, and Jemilian; mount your horses below, and get some of Nashko's men, if possible, in case of any hindrance from the soldiers about the village; I want those four witnesses with the least delay."
"And will you stay here by yourself?" inquired the Royal Eagle, doubtfully.
"Yes; he shall not escape me." And drawing his pistol he took his position in front of the priest.
The men went on their errand.
"Now listen," said Taras, when left alone with the culprit. "The slightest movement on your part, and I shall lodge this bullet in your brain. For the rest you may spend the time as you please. It might be as well to say your prayers, since I may not be able to allow you much time presently. I have little hope that you will see the rising sun yonder in his full-day glory."
Sanecki gazed in the direction pointed at with unsteady eyes. The window opened upon the vast plain, a ridge of cloud in the far east burning with a crimson glow. But somehow he appeared to draw strength from the sight, the growing light kindling his courage. "It is well I should offer up prayer," he said; "less for myself than for you, who are in danger of dipping your hands into innocent blood."
Taras made no answer, continuing motionless with uplifted pistol. The priest folded his hands, saying prayers with a loud voice. For the space of about ten minutes they were thus left alone, after which Stas returned with Stephen, the elder, and almost immediately after Jemilian with Harassim, the judge.
"Take your oath that you will speak the truth," said Taras; and the aged witnesses lifted their right hands, swearing.
"Speak, judge; what is your accusation against this man?"
"I went to him at All Saints'," said the old man, trembling with the memory of it, "to arrange with him for the rendering of the tithes we owe him. He demanded more than his due, I refused and left him; no unbecoming word had been spoken. But that same evening I was taken up by his orders and cast into a miserable dungeon, where I spent a week in complete darkness, and all the food he allowed me was mouldy bread and rank water. My sons implored him to release me, but he said in his capacity as mandatar he must punish me because I had offended the priest. For a fine of two hundred florins, however, he would release me. Now considering my age--I am more than seventy--and because I should have perished in the damp prison, they raised the money; he took it, charging me an extra twenty florins, to refund his expenses of keeping me for a week."
"And you, Stephen?"
"My wife lay dying at the Epiphany," said the elder. "I called upon the priest to prepare her for the great change, by administering the blessed sacrament. He refused until I should have atoned for a grave offence with the payment of a hundred florins. I could not find the sum, and my poor wife had to die unaneled, and was buried like a dog outside the churchyard ... my poor wife!" sobbed the old man, hiding his face in his bands, "my good, pious wife!"
"What was the offence he charged you with?"
"I had crossed myself inadvertently after the old style, and he happened to see it."
The hetman flushed purple with indignation. "Is this the truth, old man?"
"The truth indeed, the Almighty is my witness."
"Have you anything to say for yourself?" he now inquired of the priest.
"Only this, that they speak falsely," returned Sanecki, with choking voice.
"Falsely!" cried Stephen, horrified. "Man, think of the Judge above!"
"Yes," said Taras quietly, "it were well he did so. However, let us hear his own witnesses."
There was a pause of silence in the chamber, the twilight of which was slowly but steadily yielding to the ruddy glow from the east, a broad stream of light flowing in through the window when Julko and Jacek returned with the other two witnesses, whom the priest had called for himself.
The men in question entered diffidently--they had not been told why they were wanted--looking aghast on learning that the priest had seen fit to appeal to them. "To us," they cried, "what could we say in his favour?"
Taras put them on their oath. "Now," he said, "what have you to affirm concerning this man?"
They were silent for a moment, but then Iwon burst out with--"Just this, that heisa fiend!"
"Yes, a very fiend," reiterated Hawrilo.
"Have you anything to say for yourself?" Taras once more inquired of Sanecki.
"No, nothing," he made answer calmly. The self-command of this man was astounding. His face was corpse-like, but his lips, even at this extremity, had a smile, though it was an appalling, a ghastly smile. "I have miscalculated my chances," he said, half to himself--"miscalculated, it is a pity!"
Taras now addressed the men present. "It is my opinion that this man has forfeited his life. Is there any here to say I am wrong?"
Not a sound in the chamber--Death seemed counting the grains. But in the fair world without the beauty of morning had conquered the shadows, the larks meeting the sun with a jubilant song.
There was a clock in the room, the hands pointing to six minutes before five. "These minutes I will give you," said Taras, addressing the doomed priest, "that you may recommend your sinful soul to its Maker."
Even now the man quaked not, standing proud and erect. "Miscalculated!" he repeated. With a quick movement his hand dived into his ample garment, and withdrawing it as quickly, he carried a phial to his lips. The men caught his arm, but it was too late, they were in time only to support the dead man's frame.
"What a pity," cried Jacek; "I would have given anything to see him swing."
"For shame!" returned Taras, sternly. "He was an evil-doer, but he had the courage of a man! Lay him on his bed!... He has at least shown us that a man can die, if need be."
There was a solemn pause, after which he addressed the judge. "One thing yet before our work is complete. The village has suffered at the hands of this man. You shall take what money there is found here, to be divided justly among the people.... Stas and Jemilian, search the place."
"May we not offer you a part for yourself?" returned the judge; "it were but right and fair."
"No," said Taras, curtly.
"But you will let us give some of it to your men?"
"No, they are no paid assassins, but serving justice."
"But you must live!"
"I have enough for the present to provide for our needs, and when my own means fail, others, no doubt, will be forthcoming."
Stas and Jemilian at this moment returned from the adjoining apartment. "This appears to be money," said the former, placing a cash box upon the table.
"Force the lid," said Taras to the judge, "I would rather not touch it."
But the old man could not succeed with his trembling fingers, until Jacek came to his assistance. The box burst open with a jerk, revealing, however, only a moderate bundle of banknotes, beneath which lay a number of securities of considerable value. "The notes only are of use to us," said the judge, counting them. "Not much over a thousand florins," he stated presently; "the loss we have suffered is about twenty-fold."
Old Jemilian was standing aside, pale and trembling, and trying to come to a conclusion. Now he stepped up to his master, saying, with faltering voice, "I hoped to tell you some other time, but I see now you must know at once. There was more where we found the casket--a purse, I saw it plainly, which Stas put into his own pocket."
Taras grew deadly white, staggering as though he had received a blow. "Is--is it--true?" he said, stammering with the shock of it.
But Stas fell to the ground at his feet. "Forgive it--this once," he faltered. "The money tempted me. Ah, mercy!"
Taras passed his hand across his brow. "Where is the purse?" he said, hollow-voiced.
The man, still kneeling, produced it.
"Take it, judge ... count it."
"Seventeen florins," reported the old man.
"Well, put it with the rest." He spoke hoarsely, a fearful agitation convulsing his frame. "Stas," he said, presently, with the same choking voice, "I grieve for you with all my heart. You have known much trouble, it is hard to see you end so ignominiously. But I cannot save you--say your prayers, Stas!"
"Ah, mercy!" groaned the unhappy man, the others joining: "Yes, hetman, forgive him this once!"
"I cannot--dare not," said Taras, breathing hard and wiping the dews from his forehead. "I would--ah, how gladly would I forgive him!--but this sacred cause!... Say your prayers, man."
"Mercy!" moaned Stas once more, and fell in a swoon. Taras stepped back, and, pointing his pistol, lodged a bullet in the motionless head. The man was dead on the spot. A cry of horror went round the room, and silence settled, the larks outside continuing their song of praise.
"He was unable to commend his soul to God, let us do so for him," said Taras, with the same husky voice. He crossed himself, and with quivering lips spoke a prayer for the dead, the others repeating it after him, awe-struck.
"Let us be gone now!"
They left the chamber of death, calling together their men, and mounted their horses. But the captain's face continued white and fearfully rigid.
"How shall we thank you!" said the judge.
"Not at all," returned Taras, sternly. "For if I had done it for your own sakes merely, I could but turn the pistol against myself now!" He spurred his horse, making for the manse, where Nashko and his men stood ready to mount.
"Three of us have fallen," reported the Jew, "and we killed fourteen of the soldiers. I used every precaution, but----"
"Have we any wounded?" interrupted the captain.
"No--that is, one man is slightly hurt; but able to mount horse."
"Let us start, then; the people here will see to our dead."
And away they went in a sharp gallop in the direction of Colomea. They followed the high-road at first, but, turning off at right angles, presently plunged into the pathless heath which they traversed at a furious pace, reaching the village Nazurna just as the thin-voiced church bell was tinkling out the hour of noon.
It is but a poor place, amid all the characteristics of heath-country; there are a few farms at great distances one from another, and not greatly thriving, for the soil is unproductive, forming part of the sterile table-land between the valleys of the Pruth and the Czerniawa. A couple of miles beyond the village there is a large moor called the Wallachian Bog, where, according to tradition, in the frontier wars between Poland and Roumania a regiment on the march was sucked down and suffocated in broad daylight. And nothing is more likely, for it is treacherous ground indeed, and even the experienced eye is at a loss to distinguish where the firm land ceases and marshy soil begins, since not only the latter, but the safe earth as well, is covered with sedge grass and willows far and wide. The waters nowhere rise to the surface, and tall trees growing on little islets complete the deception; a larger island covered with beech wood forms the centre of the moor, and is to be reached only by a narrow strip of solid soil which connects it with the firmer land.
Thither Taras led his band; he was acquainted with the bog and the island, with its overgrown and all but secret entrance, from the days when he had been in service at Hankowce, not far distant. It was an admirable place for his purpose, and not the most experienced military engineer could easily have secured a better position for a troop of horsemen in constant danger of being attacked by numerically superior forces, and in need of a safe resting-place to which they might retire after their raids, than this spot formed, not by the art of man, but by a freak of nature. The extreme loneliness of the neighbourhood lessened every chance of discovery; while even a body of men under hot pursuit could vanish thither as though disappearing by magic, and the narrow entrance at the worst could be held against almost any odds. It was natural then that the "avenger" should have taken his men to this place of refuge on many an occasion, so that to this day it goes by the popular name of "Taras's Retreat."
Cautiously, and not without trouble could the men in the first instance take the horses across the shrub-grown neck of land to the island, where they might rest and take food after that grim night and the hard ride since. Yet sleep came to very few of them, an unusual agitation counteracting even the inviting shade of the kindly beeches. A strange humour, something between the madness of utter recklessness and the dejection of inward disapproval, filled the minds of some. For there were those among them that had never shed blood, nor stood in danger of death themselves, and who seemed to understand all at once that the outlaw's business was desperate work; they grew thoughtful and somewhat penitent, endeavouring to conquer these sensations by breaking into noisy song, or by assuring each other that no doubt the coming night would be "jollier" still. But others, whose past experience had fortified them against the proceedings at Kossowince, felt regretful on a different score. It had not surprised them that Taras should have forbidden plunder under pain of death, for that was the way of every new hetman forming a band of hajdamaks; but that he should go to the length of refusing an offering of gratitude for service rendered, and that he should have found it necessary to shoot that poor devil of a Stas for the sake of a handful of florins, was beyond their comprehension. And thus they came to inquire what bound them to this man, who by sheer strength of will had forced them to acknowledge a wretched Jew as one fit to lead them; whose foolish notions had offended the people of Zulawce, and who actually appeared to expect his followers to risk their lives for his ideas, and for no earthly gain beyond the barest daily bread. But the power which Taras exercised even over these low natures was such that they hardly dared breathe these thoughts to themselves, far less to each other. They lay, gloomy and silent, in the tall sedge-grass, till one of them, suddenly jumping up, started a request for Karol Wygoda's bagpipe, at the squeaks and screams of which their darker thoughts receded. One apprehension, however, that might or might not yield to their merriment, was common to all--the near prospect of death. The band which had started so full of spirits from the Crystal Springs had already lost every tenth man of its numbers, and if the attack of a mere ill-defended country place required such sacrifice, what might not be the result of the coming night, when they would enter the well-garrisoned district town? It was for this reason that more than one among them, now joining madly in the dance, would turn aside suddenly with a strange tremor, to conquer which they would halloo the more wildly on resuming the measured pace.
Taras alone appeared unmoved. With the greatest composure he made his arrangements for the night, his bearing and his voice showing as little of emotion as if he had stood in his own farmyard giving orders for the cutting of the wheat. It quite distressed Nashko, for he felt certain that the carnage of the past night had left a fearful burden on the heart of his friend. He was anxious to lessen it, and when Taras beckoned to him to receive his instructions he did his utmost to show that neither the orders given nor their execution could be blamed for the sad results.
"Seventeen lives," he said, regretfully; "it is terrible, indeed! But I think I may say I did my very best to carry out your desire that bloodshed if possible should be avoided. It was the watchfulness of the sentry that frustrated our intention; the man gave the alarm at once, rousing the others, and since I could not leave them time to arm themselves fully, I was obliged to dash into action within the manse itself, in order to overpower them before they had a chance of benefiting by their numbers and superior equipment. It was the close encounter in rooms and passages--in all but darkness, moreover--which resulted in so many slain. There were no wounded, simply because in this desperate fray neither they nor we could have offered or accepted quarter. It was only when the torches were lit--and you may be sure this was done as quickly as possible--only when the soldiers could see that further resistance was madness, the sparing of life became possible; and you may believe me that from that moment not a single life----"
"All right," interrupted Taras, preparing to move away.
The Jew looked at him bewildered. "You are impatient of listening!" he said. "I thought your heart was breaking because of----"
"All right," repeated Taras, quietly. "You have done your duty. And for the rest--what does it matter? Ten lives more or less--what can it matter, since things are what they are?"
But the smile playing about his lips alarmed Nashko even more than the calm he understood not. "Taras," he cried, "this is not your own true feeling!"
"Do you think so?" returned the hetman coldly, the same terrible smile distorting the solemn and yet gentle beauty of his face. "I am not so sure."
He turned away abruptly to appoint the order of sentries until nightfall; when all was settled he expressed his desire to be left undisturbed. "I am going to have a few hours' sleep now," he said, and retiring to the other side of the island, he threw himself into the waving grass, where he lay motionless.
A good many eyes followed him enviously. "Humph!" said one of the men, "one would think he is as little used to butchering as ourselves, and he has set this business going, with his own hand even killing a man who could not defend himself; yet look at him, sleeping like an innocent babe, while conscience with us is a wakeful trouble!"
Only Nashko and old Jemilian knew how it was ...
Not till towards eight o'clock, when night was falling, did Taras once more mingle with his men. The command was given, and cautiously as before the horses were led through the tangled growth of the slip of land. On reaching the other side the procession formed. Their way would shortly bring them into more densely-peopled districts, and there was every likelihood that the news from Kossowince by this time had reached the district town, so that caution was doubly needful. Taras divided his men into three separate troops, himself heading the vanguard; to the Royal Eagle he entrusted the leadership of the second and strongest division, while Nashko should bring up the rear. They were to keep within earshot of each other. The signal was given, and the vanguard set off at a quick trot, followed in due order by Julko and the Jew.
They rode on well through the dark and silent night, due west at first over the desolate heath, till they reached the track between Nazurna and Kornicz, which they took. The heavens were veiled with low-hanging clouds; the air was heavy and sultry; the darkness appeared to grow deeper, and the path at length could hardly be distinguished. Taras kept whistling distrustfully at short intervals; the counter-signals from the two other leaders at first were given in return almost immediately and in due order, but one of the whistlers behind appeared to fall back, and presently his signal showed him in a wrong direction altogether.
Much as delay was undesirable, Taras had to stop, and even to turn back. He soon came upon the main body, but not without trouble could the straying rear guard be brought up. Nashko had missed the path on the heath, following a northerly track, and when the captain's signals sounded more and more faintly, he believed the divisions in front to have quickened their pace, and ordered his men to spur on their horses, thus, of course, falling away all the further.
Upon this Taras resolved to keep his forces together, as the least dangerous plan in the circumstances. Recovering their direction, they passed several homesteads, and presently heard the roaring of the Wilchowec, which carries the waters of the Dobrowa Forest in a succession of cataracts to the Pruth. There a new mishap awaited them. They had missed the only bridge spanning the turbulent stream, and were at a loss to decide whether they ought to seek it above or below them.
"Let some of us ride up the river and some down, and those that find the bridge can signal for the others," proposed Julko.
"No," said Taras, "that were losing time. The Wilchowec must be fordable somewhere. I saw a light burning in the cottage we just passed. I will go for a guide."
And, followed by two or three of his men, he galloped back and halted in front of a lighted window. In a low-ceiled room a peasant was seen sitting beside his wife, showing her delightedly a handful of silver coin. It was an elderly man, white-haired, and with a rubicund countenance. "Hail, old fellow!" cried Taras, tapping at the window.
The peasant started, extinguishing the torchlight inside the room, while the woman screamed, and then all was still.
"There is no cause for alarm!" cried Taras, "we beg a kindness of you, that is all."
"What, so late at night," said the peasant within. "Have the goodness to let us sleep in peace."
"You have not been asleep yet," Taras called back, growing impatient. "You were counting your earnings. There is no fear of our robbing you; indeed, I will add to your gains if you show us the place where the river can be forded."
"Why should you want to ford it, when there is a bridge not more than a mile distant, down stream? You cannot miss it, since the hussars there are keeping a good watch fire."
"The hussars!" cried Taras, startled.
"Yes, the hussars," repeated the peasant. "You don't seem to like it. And I must say it would not be advisable for highwaymen to try to cross the bridge to-night."
"Listen," said Taras, who had recovered himself. "I am not a highwayman, and I take you to be an honest peasant. So I will ask you to guide us. I want you--I am Taras, the avenger."
"Taras!" exclaimed the man, with a tone of the greatest surprise. "Taras!" he repeated, leaning out from his window as far as he could. "Is it you, indeed? Ah! it is too much almost to believe. What happiness--what honour!... Light the torch, wife, quickly, that I may see his face!... But no, you want me to come"--and he drew back his head; "I am coming--coming at once."
"No, stay. Tell me first--are you sure there is a body of hussars by the bridge?"
"Yes, certainly; some thirty of them. Are you in ignorance of their resolves against you at Colomea? I know all about it, having been to market to-day. And there is no need to hide it now, I made fifteen florins--out of my sheep, that is. And I have not told you my name--I am Stenko Worobka."
"Yes, yes, Stenko; tell me quickly."
"Ah, yes; I am an old fool! It is just this: with the early morning to-day the car returned, and the two constables safe enough, but no commissioner. The town was aghast; that is, the people said it was no great loss if Taras had a fancy for keeping Mr. Kapronski; but it seemed certain that if he meant to carry out his threats at all he would come first to Colomea to strangle the mandatar. And so they dispatched a courier to Zablotow to call the hussars that brought such trouble to your own village, and I saw them arrive before night. But the magistrates did not approve that you and the soldiers should fight it out beneath their own eyes--dear me, that I should be able to tell you all this; what happiness! what rare good luck! What was I going to say?--yes, they resolved to catch you on the road, and so they ordered the hussars and such Whitecoats as were quartered in the city to station themselves in a half-circle between the town and the mountains, making sure thus to cut off your approach. The soldiers are all at their posts by this time; a body of hussars, as I told you, keeping the bridge yonder."
"And where are the rest of them?"
"Well, some guard the road towards Horodenka, others keeping a look-out in the direction of Cieniawa; others again are by St. Mary's Cross. They think not a mouse could thus pass their vigilance, for they keep patrolling diligently."
"Well, we have not met a soul so far."
"I daresay--ha! ha! what a joke!--don't you see, this is just the one loophole in their net. They make sure that so long as they hold the bridge no one could cross this boisterous river."
"Isit fordable?"
"Yes, to be sure--not very comfortably, but we can manage it--close by here.... So you are really bent on going to Colomea? There is no reason why you should not do so; why, they did not--ha! ha! how delightful!--they did not keep back a dozen soldiers."
Taras was revolving the situation in his mind. "We will do it," he said, after some cogitation; "it is a venture for life and death, but we will risk it. But there is not a moment to be lost."
The peasant was ready to guide them, and mounting behind one of the men, they dashed back to the others. Taras reported to them what he had just learned, "Let us venture," he said. "Yes, yes, let us try it," cried Julko and Nashko, in high spirits, all the others assenting.
Under the peasant's guidance they forthwith set about fording the river; the current was wild and strong, the deep darkness of the night adding to the danger; but they crossed in safety. "We have managed it, thanks to you," said Taras to the peasant; "and here is your florin."
But Stenko refused, quite hurt at the offer. "Do you think I should take pay," he cried; "are you not our own avenger? Nay, I am more than rewarded, and you must let me come with you, for this night is darker than the inside of a cow--you would scarcely reach the town; besides, you will want to ford the river again as you return."
"But you have a wife and your property to think of. I must warn you," said Taras, "it would go ill with you if they caught you thus aiding us."
"They won't then," decided the peasant, confidently. "And don't you know that a man cannot escape his destiny? If it is my fate to come by an evil end I shall have to face it whether I guide you or not."
After which philosophical remark two of Taras's men had to be satisfied with being mounted one behind the other, leaving a horse free for the peasant who rode beside Taras at the head of the band. At a sharp pace they traversed the fields and meadows of Korolowka, and presently found themselves on the high road leading to the district town. The country appeared desolate; but close by the town they met some peasants who so late in the night had set out to return from their week's marketing. Not that important business had detained them to this hour, but the public-house had, as might be judged by their unsteady gait. Yet the vapours of drink were at once dispelled when they found themselves suddenly surrounded and questioned by an armed band on horseback; and though trembling with fright they were able to confirm the news that all the garrison of the place as well as the hussars had been sent to waylay the Avenger, and only a handful of soldiers now were within, at the main guard-house, for the sake of sentry duty in the prisons.
They left the high road, Wassilj Soklewicz now acting as guide, for he alone knew the villa where they hoped to find Hajek. It lay on the road towards St. Mary's Cross, a German colony; it was a spacious building, but low, situated in its own grounds, which were guarded in front by a strong iron railing. Orchards stretched away at the back of it, and meadows on both sides. The nearest habitation was a quarter of a mile distant, the town fully a mile. Just as they came in sight of the place, a clear sound cut the air, the clock in the little belfry was announcing the first hour after midnight. And close upon it--already they could see the lighted windows of the house--a sharp whistle was given, followed by another....
The men started. "An ambush!" they cried. "Fall back!"
"No; forward," ordered Taras, spurring his horse. "The wretch has set spies to be warned of our approach.... He is here! There, look!..."
He was pointing towards the house, the lighted windows of which one after another were darkening rapidly. The gate, just as they reached it, closed with a bang, and retreating footsteps were heard.
"Try your axes!" cried Taras; and some of the men, jumping from their horses, belaboured the gate with powerful blows. The strong bars were bending, and some already giving way.
But suddenly the door of the villa opened, and between two torchbearers an aged man came forth, bareheaded, and carrying a key--it was Herr von Antoniewicz.
"My good people," he began, "why are you ruining my gate like this? Was there no better way of asking for admittance? There is no reason why you should not come in, if you tell me who you are and what brings you hither at this late hour."
"You know that well enough!" cried Taras; "the wretch is in hiding here."
"Yes," said the old man, continuing slowly and distinctly, "I am afraid we know that he cannot escape you, and I am ready to let you in, on your word of honour that you will harm no one else, and that you will not kill him here, but take him away with you. You see I am anxious to spare my daughter's feelings, who was going to be his wife."
"He seems to have found a worthy father-in-law, anyhow," said Taras, scornfully. "However, you have my word; now open on the spot."
The Armenian did so unhesitatingly. Julko and Nashko with the main body taking up their position by the gate, while Taras and some dozen of the men entered the grounds. About half of them were ordered to watch the exits of the house, the others following their captain inside.
"Where is the mandatar?" inquired Taras of Antoniewicz.
"Somewhere about the sitting-rooms," replied that worthy man, as quietly as though he were directing a casual visitor to his guest. "At least I left him there. He fell in a dead faint when I explained to him that I had no intention, nor indeed the power, to save him from your hands. I daresay he has recovered by this time, and is hiding in some corner."
Taras traversed the ante-hall, where Frau von Antoniewicz and the Countess Wanda awaited him kneeling. They were in floods of tears, trembling with emotion as they caught hold of his feet to stop his progress. "Mercy!" they moaned. "For pity's sake forgive him!" Taras endeavoured to free himself from their grasp, but they clung to him, and he was too much of a man to use force with women.
"Let me go," he said; "it is quite useless to waste a word about him."
But they clung all the faster, "What, shall I have to see it with my own eyes?" cried the amiable Wanda with dishevelled locks and rolling her eyes--a very picture of despair.
"You need not--you are free to leave the house. I have nothing to do with women."
"Alas!" whined the mother, "how should we, helpless women, venture to face all your men?"
"They won't harm you. Moreover, your husband is welcome to go with you. Of course you will keep in the grounds for the present."
He sent an order to this effect to the men keeping the front door, and thereupon, with Jemilian, Sefko, Wassilj, and one or two others of his most trustworthy followers, he set himself to search the rooms. Their torches flared brightly, but the spacious apartments appeared untenanted. They looked into every chimney, beneath every couch, and behind the hangings with rising impatience, making such careful examination that not a kitten could have escaped, far less a man. But not a creature did they find. They had reached the last room on this floor--the dining room.
It was locked. "Ah!" said Taras, with a sigh of relief. The door soon yielded. The table showed the remains of dessert, empty champagne bottles and glasses half filled. There appeared to have been five covers.
"Who may have been the fifth at this feast?" said Jemilian, wondering.
"Caught him!" cried Wassilj at this moment from the further corner of the room. "Here he is!" And sure enough something like a man it seemed, but in the strangest hiding place. The large fuel basket had been turned upside down, and emptied of its contents of firewood, and some one had squeezed himself in as best he might. But success was not equal to the effort, a pair of coattails showing treacherously; on Wassilj giving the basket a kick it capsized, but the man inside stuck fast, yelling, however, vociferously.
"That is not Hajek's voice!" cried Taras, Wassilj and Sefko dragging its owner from the basket. And, indeed, it was not the mandatar, but only the fifth at the late banquet, the ere-while champion of Poland's honour--Mr. Thaddeus de Bazanski. But how little he that was half-brother of Nicolas I. at this moment showed worthy of his august descent! His head and shoulders covered with wood chips, his garments torn, his knees trembling, and his face so white with terror that the nose itself had only the faintest flush left of its usual redness. Thus he stood before them, clutching the immortal confederatka to his bosom, and so overpowered with fear that he could only shiver and quake in speechless agony.
"Who on earth are you?" inquired Taras, peremptorily.
"I ... oh!... a visitor ... mercy! I could not help it!"
"Where is the mandatar?"
"He got away--made his escape while old Bogdan kept you talking ..." Taras stamped furiously. "Ah, mercy, I will tell you everything!" faltered the whilom conqueror of Ostrolenka, sinking to his knees. "They did not think there was much fear of your coming, on account of the soldiers, but Mr. Hajek insisted on setting spies, that he might be warned of any possible danger. We were still at table--and a fine banquet it was--when suddenly the signal was given; there was barely time left to lock the outer gate and drag the mandatar from the house. He could not stand on his own legs for fear of meeting you; but since there was a chance of his getting away safely through the orchards, and gaining the town, old Bogdan and his womenfolk undertook to lead you off the scent. They expected me to take a part also, but I stoutly refused. 'How should I deceive this Taras, this noble avenger,' I said; 'I shall do no such thing; for Taras is a brave man, an honourable man, a generous----'"
Which eulogy was not even heard by Taras. "Follow me!" he called out to his men, bursting from the house. "I want to have a word with that pack of deceivers; where are they?"
"Made their escape, hetman," reported the men at the door.
"Their escape? I will hold every one of you answerable!"
The two men in charge of the grounds now came up. "Hetman," they said; "we can hardly be blamed. These three deceitful serpents would have got round an archangel, not to say the devil himself. We had asked them to keep near the house, and there they stood awhile, when the old woman suddenly gave a cry with all the antics of swooning; upon which the young one implored us to assist in carrying her mother into the arbour yonder. And then she fell a-shrieking, 'Water! water! for pity's sake, get some water!' Well, as they were women after all, and the old man, who kept wringing his hands, assured us she would die unless we complied, what else could we do? We went for water, and returning quickly enough, we found they had gone--disappeared in the darkness. We searched the orchard, but they have escaped us, much to our disgust."
Taras looked gloomy.
"I may come back to that presently," he said, sternly; "the next thing to be done is this--the house which has given shelter to the mandatar, and whose owners have deceived me so shamefully, shall disappear from the earth.... Set fire to it, in the basement, beneath the roof, everywhere--let it flare up quickly ... but "--and he drew his pistol--"if any of you value his life, let him beware of plundering!"
The men gave a wild halloo, brandishing their torches, and burst into the house.
"And what is to be done with this man?" said Wassilj, dragging the Polish champion behind him.
"Who are you, then?" now asked Taras. "What is your name?"
"Thaddeus Bazanski, and--and----"
"I can tell you all about him," interrupted Wassilj; "one of the mandatar's men has just told me. He is a miserable wretch, living on his betters, and making money in all sorts of mean ways. It is he that brought about the engagement between the mandatar and that fair, fat creature of a countess!"
"I don't deny it," cried the would-be nobleman, eagerly. "But I am sure, if you knew all about her, and what bliss awaits your enemy in wedlock, you would say 'Thank you' to me!"
Taras could not repress a smile, the man spoke with such utter assurance; but his brow clouded again as Wassilj continued: "He is a Polish nobleman by his own showing. True, he is nothing but a beggar now; but he keeps telling his listeners howhegot money out of his peasants before he lost his vast possessions."
"Indeed?" said Taras, frowningly.
"Ah, no," whined Thaddy; "I never owned any possessions. How, indeed, should I have come by any land?"
"Well, captain, these are his tales whenever he can get a man to drink with."
"That much is true," said the imperial offspring, with woe-begone countenance. "A man must live--I mean, one gets thirsty and is bound to drink. And no one will stand me a glass unless I give him a fine story in return. They don't mind the lying, so I go on inventing. But I am not noble at all--never was, or fought any battles either. My father was a poor cobbler, and I--I----"
"Well, out with it!"
"I am nothing particular, at present. How I manage to live, most honoured avenger, I have just confessed to you--this young man in that has spoken the truth. In my younger days I was a--a--well, something of an artist."
"Indeed! what sort of an artist?"
Thaddy smiled bashfully, and since the word was not forthcoming, he took refuge in signs, passing his hands over his jaws and under his chin, at which he blushed and smiled afresh.
"What, a cut-throat?"
"Oh, dear, no; only a barber!" cried Thaddy. "As sure as I hope for better days, you may believe me--just nothing but a barber! And I think I could give you proof of my craft still. Might I perhaps have the honour----"
"No, thank you," said Taras, and turning to Wassilj, he added, "Let him off!"
The hero of Ostrolenka bowed to the ground in gratitude, and still clasping the famous confederatka, he vanished into the night as quickly as his legs would carry him.
The men returned. "We have done it, hetman," they reported. "We have set fire to all the rooms not facing the town, so that it may not be perceived there too soon."
The signal to mount was given; and the band was ready to start. "We will yet gain our end," cried Taras. "We will seek the wretch in his own dwelling within the town."
But he had scarcely done speaking, when the tocsin broke upon the night with its own lugubrious notes of warning. Taras looked at the villa, smoke was rising, but no flame as yet. "This is not the alarm of fire," he exclaimed, "but rather in warning of our coming! They must have received information. Well, never mind! The townsfolk will not harm us, and the few soldiers we shall get the better of. I suppose we must make straight for the main guard-house, and I should not wonder if we found our man there--he will not feel safe in his own dwelling. Are you ready?"