The following day the district governor arrived at Zulawce. He had been careful to let the villagers have full assurance beforehand that he was coming with truly peaceful intentions, but he considered it prudent, nevertheless, to provide himself with a considerable escort of hussars, since besides sifting the evidence concerning the field, there was that republic to be overthrown, and a new mandatar to be introduced. For Count George Borecki had succeeded at last in finding a man who expressed himself willing to unravel the complication left by Wenceslas Hajek, this man of enterprise fortunately being an old acquaintance of the villagers, Mr. Severin Gonta; and there was some hope of his succeeding, for he was thoroughly acquainted with local affairs and enjoyed the good will of the peasantry besides. But Herr von Bauer was not so certain that hostility was entirely out of the question, and apart from the consciousness of doing his duty in a matter of justice; he very gladly relied on the sharp sabres of his body-guard as well.
But his apprehensions happily proved unfounded. On his reaching the wooden bridge leading over the Pruth, the whole parish, to be sure, was there awaiting him, but peacefully inclined, thanks to Simeon Pomenki, who had addressed the republicans on the previous evening to this effect: "There now, you see, we get all we ever could ask for--the field which is ours, our own old mandatar, who is no fiend, and exemption from punishment for what is passed. If we are not satisfied with this, but insist on carrying on the conflict, we had better apply for admission into the madhouse at once. But I am no fool, and prefer the chances offered me of continuing on my farm." This harangue did not miss its aim, and Simeon was able to receive the district governor in the name of the community respectfully.
Herr von Bauer was ready to be conciliated, and replied with his customary bluntness: "It is a satisfaction to see you, rascals though you are; but you are poor wretches after all, and have had to suffer for the life you have led us, so we'll forget all about it and be friends again. As for you, old Simeon, I'll not even inquire into your private feelings as King of Zulawce. You'll hand me over that crown now, and if ever you men here are going to play the fools again, send us word first, and we'll say be hanged to all the parish. So that is settled; and in the meantime we shall expect better things of you."
After which impressive statement old Gonta addressed the peasantry on behalf of the Count, and if he was less outspoken, his kindliness was quite as apparent, winning over the villagers entirely when he assured them in conclusion that he was prepared himself to plead their rights concerning that field, and that he felt sure of Count George's readiness to withdraw any claims that might have been urged in his name, without waiting to see what decision the authorities might form.
In these circumstances it was easy for the district governor to arrive at the truth concerning the field, though he experienced some difficulty in eliciting a confession from the perjured witnesses. The experienced magistrate perceived well enough--and was ready to make allowance for it--that these persons would think it hard to be excluded from the general pardon; but he went through with his duty bravely, assuring them that, although the instigators could expect little mercy, those who had been led on by them might hope to be treated leniently, if a point of the law could possibly be stretched in their favour. And he succeeded at last in making out several cases in which the mandatar, either personally or by means of his under-steward, Boleslaw, had corrupted the witnesses and led them on to perjury. He had the true charity not to inquire more closely than was absolutely necessary, and allowed the crest-fallen sinners to return to their homes, the judge going bail on their behalf.
His object accomplished, he returned to Zablotow, where Dr. Starkowski and Father Leo were to await him with the results of their mission. He was fully prepared to hear of their failure, and not surprised, therefore, at their tale.
"We shall have to proceed now against the misguided man," he said, quietly. "Let him do his worst. We can breathe more freely now than we could before, for our own conscience is at ease! To be sure, all we can do for the present is to protect the lowlands against him as best we can; an expedition to the Black Water, in the hope of catching him, would be sheer madness, for the whole of the Carpathians would rise in an uproar. I know those Huzuls! But he will be brought to book somehow. It is well he believes that God is with those who seek what is right--he will find it so sooner or later!"
September verged upon October, and though almost daily expected, no farther violence transpired, the reason being that no complaints had reached Taras which appeared to him worthy of redress. But before the month was out he received information which roused him to action. A certain nobleman, Baron Stephen Zukowski, of Borsowka, in the district of Czortkow, was accused to him by Karol Wygoda, the piper, who had continued with Taras, and in whom the latter rested full confidence. "Your work is but half done, hetman," the man exclaimed, "while that fiend is allowed to suck the very blood from the people of Borsowka!" and he enumerated a whole string of iniquities to be brought home to that nobleman.
Taras was indignant. "We will put an end to his doings!" he cried. "But how do you come to know of them?"
"I knew the wretch long ago; for though my own home is miles away from that village, I was in service there in my younger days, and could see for myself--indeed, his unblushing crimes were done in the light of day. Not a head of cattle was safe from his cupidity, and not a girl from his wickedness--but these are old tales, it is well nigh twenty years ago, and I believed the old sinner had gone to his account long since. But he is alive still, and carrying on his evil doings, as I learned yesterday, quite accidentally. You had given me leave, as you know, to join the merrymaking at Zabie and pick up a few coppers with my bagpipe. I met an old fiddler there who had just come from Borsowka. Ah, hetman, the iniquity done in that place keeps crying to heaven--it is worse than any we ever heard of elsewhere! 'Why don't the injured people call upon Taras to help them?' I inquired of the fiddler. 'Indeed,' he said, 'it is strange they do not think of it, but the horrors of their existence are enough to kill even hope in their hearts.' So the fiddler said, and I can well believe it; at the same time, I agree it is well to be careful. And I propose that you should send me to Borsowka to make inquiry. I know some folk there whom I can trust, and they will tell me the truth no doubt. I feel I must do this for conscience' sake, and out of compassion for those villagers among whom I lived."
"This is good of you," said Taras. "Go, and the Almighty speed you. It is a solace to my soul that some few honest men will cleave to me, knowing the sacredness of our common duty."
These words rose from the depth of his heart! and indeed, he needed some comfort--something to cling to--lest he should break down and fail. He had informed his men on returning from the hamlet of Magura what answer he had given to the messengers of the Board; but what a wrench it had been to his dearest affections, and the sore cost of his final parting from wife and child, they never learned from his lips.
As compared with this deepest sorrow, no other trouble befalling the unhappy man might be thought to affect him, yet his burden seemed to be added to daily; and in spite of the honest desire to avoid all contention, in spite of the real friendship Hilarion entertained for him, there were constant bickerings between his own followers and the clansmen. It was Nashko especially, who, on account of his faith, appeared to be a convenient butt for the mockery of the Huzuls. Now Taras could not allow this to continue, if only for this reason: the Jew had acquitted himself splendidly, fully justifying the confidence reported in him, and would, in any future enterprise, naturally have to retain his position of a leader; so the Huzuls must be taught to respect him, and Taras begged Hilarion to explain to his people that a man should not be derided for worshipping the Almighty in one way and not in another.
The patriarch fixed his eyes on the ground, keeping a long silence, as was his wont before answering, and when he began to speak he appeared to have forgotten the matter in hand. "Taras," he said, "have you ever ridden an ox?" and receiving a rather surprised "No" in return, he said, with a half smile, "Well, neither have I, and I don't know that any one else ever did. But why not? Might there not be found an animal among the species, well-grown and nimble enough to serve as a mount? In fact, I should say it is quite possible. At the same time, neither you nor I ever thought of trying it. And why? simply because, for a fact, God who made the ox, did not intend it for a steed, and because every man who used an ox for such a purpose against its nature would look a fine fool on its back. You will allow that?"
"I daresay, but I don't admit the simile; a Jew is as good a man as you or I."
"Certainly," said Hilarion. "The ox and the horse are equally useful, only in different ways; and a Jew is as good a man as ourselves, but differently endowed. Say what you like, but a Jew is ill-fitted for the bearing of arms, or to lead men in warfare; they are considered to be cowardly and servile, and no doubt are so."
"Nashko is a brave man, and has acquitted himself like a hero."
"I am sure he has," rejoined the old man, "but I maintain we do not ride an ox, even though we should know of one exceptionally well fitted to carry us. And we do not do so for the one reason that oxen as a rule are not considered to be first-rate steeds. And if a man insists on making the experiment, though it should turn out to his own satisfaction, he must not quarrel with his neighbours for laughing at him, nor scold his horses if they toss their heads at the queer creature he is stabling along with them. No, Taras," he added more seriously, "it is never satisfactory to fight established opinion, and you seem determined to run that head of yours right through the thickest walls; and not content with overthrowing injustice wherever you see it, you would actually have the world make friends with the Jews. Taras, have you considered that sometimes it is not the walls which go to pieces, but----"
"The head may dash out its brains against them, I know that," said Taras, quietly, "and it does not deter me for one moment. I entreat you to lay it upon your people not to sin against the laws of hospitality with regard to Nashko. He who offends him offends me."
"I am sorry for that," replied Hilarion, "but I cannot help it. He who receives hospitality must consider the ways of his hosts."
So the conversation served not to heal the jar, as Taras had hoped, but rather widened it, and the Huzuls annoyed Nashko even more than before. Taras was grievously disappointed, and resolved to avoid further altercation, but something happened which forced him against his will to appeal a second time to the patriarch's sense of justice. It concerned Tatiana.
The poor maiden once more had reason to bewail her bewitching beauty. Hilarion had offered her the shelter of his house, and she had gratefully accepted it, endeavouring to repay her benefactors by faithful service. She could not have lived many days among the tribe to whom her strange fate had brought her without perceiving that their moral sense was of the bluntest; but she endeavoured to keep out of harm's way by attending to her work, and to nothing else. The impudent youths, moreover, soon discovered that the youngest son of the house, the Royal Eagle, was not inclined to have her molested; and, indeed, he interfered with any intended liberty of theirs so effectually, that they dared not offer it, for even the boldest of them could ill stand his ground against that young hero. The girl was glad of his protection, her natural light-heartedness returning, till one day, when gone a-milking to a distant pasture, she grew aware, to her intense dismay, that Julko had defended her for no very lofty motive. She broke away from her ungenerous admirer, and like a hunted deer fled to Taras's camp, falling on her knees before him with the bitter cry: "If you cannot save me from shame, it had been better for me to die on the gallows!"
Taras endeavoured to calm her, and was going to set out immediately for Hilarion's dwelling. But Nashko laid hold of his arm, excitedly. The Jew, who had kept his composure so admirably through all the petty insults offered to himself, was shaking with rage, and his eyes flashed fire.
"Do not humble yourself in vain!" he cried. "You are going to ask these men for manly generosity--thesemen, Taras! Why, they will never even understand your meaning; and if they did they are too savage, too low, to grant it!"
"You smart at the recollection of their insults," said Taras; "but this is unjust."
"I do not!" cried the Jew, passionately.
"What is it, then, that moves you like this?"
Nashko grew white, and again the crimson glow flushed his clear-cut face. "Go," he murmured, "and judge for yourself."
Taras went, and was hardly able to believe his ears, for Hilarion's reply was of the shortest and driest. "There is no help for it," he said.
"What?" cried Taras, utterly amazed. "Do you mean to say that we have saved the girl from her ignominious fate only to hand her over as a plaything to that son of yours? For shame!"
"Moderate your feelings," returned the aged man, quietly. "If the Royal Eagle has cast his eye on a maiden, and would have her, she has every reason to be proud of it."
"In honourable wedlock, then?"
"Oh dear, no! he is promised in marriage to the only granddaughter of my cousin Stanko, on the other side of the Czernahora, and she will be his wife as soon as she attains her sixteenth year. Stanko and myself arranged this more than ten years ago, for she is his heiress and must marry into the family."
"Then I was right in concluding that he desires the girl for his pleasure merely?"
"Yes, certainly; and why should he not? she is fair enough to behold. Why on earth do you look as if he meant to eat her? You cannot expect him to consider her more unattainable than any of our own girls. I give you leave to ask any Huzul maiden you please whether she would not feel honoured by his attentions."
"That is nothing to me," cried Taras. "Tatiana considers it shame, and I call it vilest disgrace! I entreat you to hold her safe from your son."
"I cannot interfere; I said so before," said the old man; "and there would be little use endeavouring. If the maiden indeed is so coy as you tell me, I can only advise her to leave the settlement."
Furiously indignant, Taras went back to the camp. Karol Wygoda had returned in his absence, bringing with him two peasants from Borsowka. But Taras waved them aside; he was going to consult with Nashko first, who rushed out to meet him anxiously.
"You were right," said Taras, grinding his teeth, "and I know not where we can hope to protect her."
"But I do," cried the Jew, eagerly. "She dare not leave the mountains, because prison still awaits her in the lowlands; but we must place her where Julko's power is not acknowledged. I have thought it might be best to take her to Zabie; I have acquaintances there, an old Jewish innkeeper and his wife, who I doubt not will give her shelter. They have no children of their own, and I know they can be trusted. I mentioned the girl's sad history there the other day, and the good wife shed tears, assuring me she would love to show kindness to one in such trouble."
"But if Julko should follow me thither?" interposed the girl, anxiously.
"Even if he should, he will not dare to use violence," said the Jew. "But I do not think him capable of that. He is not a scoundrel, but only a lawless youth whose nature at times is too strong for him, and who never learned to keep it under. Moreover, it is true Huzul fashion--out of sight, out of mind. You will be safe there, I think."
"Let us hope so," said Taras, deciding for this plan; "for, indeed, we have no other choice. Make ready, poor girl, to ride with us!"
And turning to Karol now, he required his report.
"Captain, it is just fearful!" asserted this man, "If that priest at Kossowince was a fiend, this baron is one double-dyed." And therewith he proceeded to give instances of his atrocious cruelty and oppression.
"Have the people appealed to the law?" inquired Taras.
"Indeed, they have; but he is not only the greatest scoundrel, but the vilest liar under the sun. He has given the lie to every accusation, and the magistrates have believed the nobleman rather than the poor, ignorant peasants. Ah! captain, you should have seen their grateful tears when I told them I was one of your men, and that you had sent me. They are waiting and hoping for you now, as for their only saviour; but hear their own messengers."
And his companions came nearer--a poorly-clad elderly man of dignified bearing, who introduced himself as Harassim Perko, the judge of Borsowka, and a younger peasant wearing a fine sheepskin. He called himself Wassilj Bertulak, and his voice was husky, as with suppressed tears, in giving his tale of woe; indeed, he could hardly speak.
"Our people have sent me because the monster's most recent crime has laid low the pride of my life. Ah! my poor daughter!" and he turned away, overcome with sobs. But all the more minute was the judge's account, and it did not require his final entreaty to confirm Taras's resolve that he must start on the spot for Borsowka.
The assistance of the Huzuls was not needed in the present instance, for although Taras's men numbered less than a score now, they would suffice for overpowering the baron, who, with a few old servants, lived in the quiet manor house of Borsowka. Taras therefore returned to Hilarion only to take his leave.
"The Almighty speed you," said Hilarion. "Let us part friends. You are a welcome guest here whenever you please to return, and the flower of the clan is ever at your service. I have partaken of your blood and you of mine; this is a tie which can never be severed. Remember it always."
"I shall remember it," said Taras, bending over the old man's hand.
He mounted with his men, and the little troop followed the Czeremosz till they reached Zabie. There he handed over Tatiana to the old Jewish couple, requiring their solemn assurance that they would watch over her as though she were a child of their own, and after the fashion of their race they gave the promise with many oaths. This settled, the band dashed away towards the plain, the two men of Borsowka in their midst.
Early on the fourth day, riding under cover of the night only, they reached the chalky cliffs on the left bank of the Dniester. There they rested for the last time, being within a few miles of the quiet manor house they were about to enter. Late in the afternoon a pale faced girl, looking troubled and shy, appeared in the glen where they halted. Wassilj Bertulak going to meet her, greeted her with a father's affection, and taking her by the hand brought her to Taras. "My poor girl," he said, "she has come to see the scoundrel meet with his reward."
"Oh! no! no!" cried the girl, alarmed.
"Yes, yes, it is necessary," urged the father, "for he might deny it all."
Taras looked compassionately at the troubled girl. "Stay with us," he said, tenderly. "Poor child! I daresay it is a sore effort to you to tell of your grievous sorrow in the presence of so many strange men. But let the thought comfort you that you do it in order to save others from similar harm."
And then he made his disposition for the night. The manor house was in a lonely place, inhabited only by the baron, his old body-servant, Stephen, and Peter, the coachman; the steward and the rest of the men sleeping in the farm-buildings near the village. Resistance, therefore, need not be expected, and Taras satisfied himself with appointing Nashko and the greater part of his men to guard the grounds, whilst he, with the others, would bring the accused nobleman to his doom.
About eleven they started, reaching the modest building soon after midnight. The outer door was not even locked. "No doubt that coachman has attractions in the village," whispered the judge, who was of Taras's party. But when they entered the basement, in order to make sure of Stephen, that conjecture proved to be erroneous. They found but one man, the coachman, who started aghast and prayed for his life pitifully. "I am no assassin," said Taras, and inquired about Stephen. "His dying sister sent for him this morning," stammered the terrified Peter; "and the baron gave him leave to go."
Taras thereupon ordered Sefko to guard the man; he, with the others, mounting the stairs. The baron seemed to have been roused, for a door opened, a streak of light appearing, a voice weak with age calling out, "Peter, what is the matter?"
"We have come to tell you," the strong voice of Taras made answer. "I am the avenger."
There was a cry in response, and a sound as of breaking glass; sudden darkness enveloped the scene, for the lamp had fallen from the trembling hands. But power to attempt an escape seemed wanting. And when Taras, torch in hand, reached the upper landing, he found the aged nobleman leaning against his open bedroom door, simply petrified with dismay.
Lazarko, at a sign of the captain's, pushed him back into the room. It was a spacious chamber, but poorly furnished, and serving evidently as a library besides, for the walls all round were covered with bookshelves, and a large table in the middle was littered with volumes and papers. The whole aspect of the room seemed to deny that it was inhabited by a man of low pursuits. And so did the baron's own appearance. Taras looked at him surprised, for the man he had come to judge was bowed with age, and of a venerable countenance. But for a moment only he hesitated, his inflexible sternness returning. He knew that appearances were deceptive: did not that monster at Kossowince gaze at him like an angel of light?
"I have come to judge you," said Taras, austerely. "You have wronged your peasants with unheard-of oppression."
"I?" groaned the poor old man, sinking into a chair. "By the blessed Lord and His saints, some one must have lied to you!"
"Do not call upon the holy names!" returned Taras, with lowering brow. "I am prepared to hear you deny the charge, but witnesses are at hand. Is it true, or not, that you have acted like a tyrant by your people, robbing and wronging them fearfully?"
"I call God to witness that this is false!" cried Zukowski, solemnly, lifting his hand. "Ask the judge, he will tell you; his name his Harassim Perko, and his is the first house this side of the village. He can be here within an hour if you send for him."
"He is nearer than you suppose," said Taras, turning to the door; and the elder of his two guides entered. "Here he is," continued Taras, "do you call upon him as a witness?"
"This is not the judge of Borsowka," exclaimed the baron, and rose to his feet. "Why this is Dimitri Buliga, an old good-for-nothing whom no one respects here, and he left the village some time ago."
These words were spoken with such a show of simple truth and honest indignation that Taras looked at the peasant doubtfully. But the man never winced; answering the charge with a smile almost. "I must say, Baron, this beats all we ever knew of you as a liar! It is natural that you should seek for a loop-hole, but I suppose I know that I am I! This is preposterous ... After this it will seem useless, hetman, to ask this wretch another question. Let that man of yours speak for my identity whom you sent to us, he knows me--that is one comfort."
And Karol Wygoda cried out: "Yes, hetman, certainly, I have known him these twenty years; his name his Harassim Perko, and he is the judge of this village."
"It is false," groaned the baron, and, stepping closer, he looked into Wygoda's face. "You also seem known to me ... Yes, I remember--your Christian, name is Karol, and you were in my service as a farm labourer years ago. I remember you because you are the only man I ever had to hand over to the law."
Karol listened with an unperturbed air, looking at the baron with an amused sort of wonder, as one might examine a natural curiosity; and, turning to the hetman, he said: "There now, this is as fine a proof as we could expect of this man's capacity of wronging a poor fellow. I daresay he may remember having seen me since I lived in the village; but I never set foot on his property, and still less did I give him any chance of handing me over to the law, as he says."
"Have you no fear of God, man?" broke in the baron. "I----"
"Stop," said Taras; "answer me one more question. Do you think that your own servants are likely to betray you, or tell a lie in order to have you killed?"
"God forbid!" exclaimed the baron, eagerly. "Honest old Stephen, I fear, cannot have returned, but my coachman sleeps in the house, and he can tell you that this man is not Harassim, the judge."
"Have him in," ordered Taras, and the coachman appeared; his hands had been tied on his back, he was pale as death, and shook from head to foot.
"You have nothing to fear," said Taras; "we only want you to tell the truth; but woe to you if you prevaricate. Who is this man?"
"Harassim Perko, the judge," stammered the fellow.
"Peter!" cried the baron, "you have lost your senses. Why, you know the judge as well as I do."
"This is sufficient," said Taras. "Be silent now, till I require you to speak. Say, judge, has this man taken unlawful possession of part of the common field?"
"He has," replied the man, adding a minute statement.
"What have you to say to this, Baron?" inquired Taras, of the nobleman, when the accuser had finished.
"It is false," reiterated Zukowski--"a whole web of falsehood. I have told you that this man is not the judge, but that good-for-nothing Dimitri. If you, indeed, are bent on justice, Taras, I pray you send to the village for the real judge. Do not soil your hands with innocent blood."
"It is you that are bent on lying," said Taras, scornfully. "Other scoundrels have endeavoured to deceive me, and to stay me in the performance of my sacred duty; but a man of such brazen face I have never yet set eyes upon. It is a pity that you seem willing to die as you have lived.... But we have yet other witnesses--bring them in."
The peasant Wassilj entered, followed by the reluctant girl; her father had almost to drag her in.
"Do you know these two?" said Taras.
"The man is a stranger to me," replied the baron, unhesitatingly; "I have never set eyes on him. But that girl was in my house this morning, with a message from my poor Stephen's dying sister, entreating him to come.... Taras!" he added, excitedly; "now I see all this wretched plot. They have made up this tale of the dying sister to decoy my good old Stephen away, who would rather have died than betray me, and I suppose they have bribed my coachman. They are deceiving you, so that you should order me to be murdered!"
"This is cleverly put together," said Taras, coldly, "it is lamentable, indeed, that, gifted as you seem to be, you did not make better use of your life; it might have saved you from this hour. Answer me, Marinia, as in the presence of God Almighty. Is it true that you were in this house this morning for the first time in your life?"
"No!" she faltered.
"But you were here three weeks ago when this wretch wronged you?"
"Yes!"
"How dare you!" cried the baron, with flashing eyes. "Oh, God! how should I--look at my grey hairs, man!"
"Silence!" returned Taras. "What have you to say, Peter--does this girl speak the truth?"
"She does--old Stephen told me."
"The Lord have mercy on me!" groaned the doomed man. "Taras, have pity on my age. I have but little money in the house, but what there is, take it all--only spare me!"
"I am not a robber, but an instrument of God's justice," replied Taras, solemnly. "It is very evident that you have deserved death amply. If you would recommend your soul to the Judge above, I will give you ten minutes."
"Spare me, for mercy's sake! Call any of the peasants, there is not a man in the village but would stand by me."
"We have had sufficient witness. Say your prayers."
"Assassin!" cried the aged baron, and with the strength of despair he flew at Taras. But a bullet from Lazarko's pistol laid him dead at their feet.
The girl shrieked and fainted, her father carrying her from the room. The others remained till they had found the cash-box. It contained, as the baron had said, but a moderate sum.
Taras avoided touching the money. "Take it," he said to the judge, "and divide it justly among those that have suffered most."
Before the day broke the manor house of Borsowka lay wrapped in silence as before, and utterly lonely, for Peter the coachman had gone off with the two villagers, Taras and his little band speeding back to the mountains.
The following day, after a sharp ride, they reached the low-lying, water-intersected waste between Kotzman and Zastawna, where they resolved to halt till the evening. The place being within easy distance of Karol Wygoda's home, the latter begged to be allowed to look up his relations. "I have no objection," said Taras, "only be careful not to fall in with any traitors. I shall expect you back by sundown."
Karol promised and went.
But he did not return. Taras, growing anxious, kept waiting for him, gazing into the deepening night, but not a sound broke on the stillness.
"We had better start without him," said Nashko, at last. "Either he has been caught, and in that case it were folly for us to tarry; or else he has made up his mind to remain with his own people, in which case we cannot force him to come back to us."
"I cannot believe that," said Taras; "for he has ever proved himself a trustworthy man; he would certainly have told me if he had any idea of leaving us. And I cannot bear to think that the faithful soul has come to grief. Some accident may have detained him; indeed, I feel sure he will return. Let us wait till midnight, at least."
But midnight came and no Karol. With a troubled heart Taras at last gave orders to mount.
On the third day, which they spent under the shelter of the forest by the Czeremosz, Taras consulted his men, whether they had better return to the camp in the Dembronia Forest, trusting to the Huzuls for further assistance in any considerable enterprise, or move northward to the Welyki Lys and gather a new band to their banner. But they would not decide. "We follow you whichever way you lead us," they said.
"Well, then," said Taras; "I am for taking you back to the Dembronia Forest. The Huzuls, certainly, are troublesome confederates, but we must not consult our feelings, we must do what seems best for the cause we serve. While Hilarion is inclined to back us we are strong, whereas without him we might not always be able to fight great wrongs effectively."
It was late in the evening of this day that they rode into Zabie. The village lay hushed in sleep, the cottages standing dark and silent, the inn excepted, whence a pale light gleamed, though the place was closed for the night. Taras rode up to one of the uncurtained windows, and peered in. The large bar-room was empty, save for a bowed figure sitting by the hearth, motionless.
"It is Froïm, the innkeeper," cried Nashko, who was looking in at another window. "For God's sake--I trust nothing has happened!" And, trembling violently, he tapped at the pane.
The old Jew started, turning to the table as if to extinguish the flickering lamp. But recognising Nashko's voice, he came to the window instead, opening it, and saying with a hoarse whisper: "I suppose you would like to have a last look at her!"
"Tatiana!" cried Taras. "Man, say, what is it?"
"We could not have her laid out here," continued the innkeeper, slowly and shaking with emotion. "Poor lamb! we would have loved to show her that last honour, but we are Jews. She is in the little chapel of the cemetery, and to-morrow they are going to bury her."
"She is dead!" cried Nashko, with anguished voice.
"Did you not know? I thought you might have returned so speedily for this sad reason," cried Froïm. "We got her out of the water yesterday--the good pope here, and myself, and some of the villagers; but it was hard work, for the Czeremosz is a cruel river, holding fast its prey."
"Tell us," cried Taras, "who has dared to take her life?"
"It was her own brave doing," cried the old Jew. "She would rather die than be dishonoured. Ah! how fair and sweet she was, and how good; and to come by such an end!" The honest innkeeper struggled with his tears, continuing, amid sobs, "We have known her these few days only, my wife and I, but we grieve for her as for a child of our own."
"But how did it happen?" cried Taras, vehemently.
"Cannot you see?" returned the old Jew. "Two days ago, toward midnight, that Huzul came----"
"The Royal Eagle?"
"Yes; but Vulture were a truer name! He came with a hundred of his men--or two hundred for aught I can tell--and, knocking at this very window, insisted that I should let him in. 'What do you want?' said I. 'Open the door,' says he, 'or I shall force it open.' 'I am a poor old Jew,' I replied, 'and there are but three women in the house besides me--my wife, and her servant, and Tatiana. Of course we cannot resist you, but I ask you whether it is fit for a son of Hilarion, whom they call the Just, to turn house-breaker, and worse!' 'Open,' he retorted, 'or you shall rue it.' 'So please the God of Abraham,' said I, 'but I shall never let you in with my own hand, for I have sworn to keep the girl safe, and God Almighty will punish him who breaks his oath. I am afraid of you, of course I am, for I am but a poor old Jew, but much more do I fear God, and I will not let you in.' So he kicked open the door and carried off the girl. On to his own horse he lifted her, holding her in the saddle before him, and was off to the Black Water. But she was a jewel of a maid, and her honour was dearer to her than life. She slipped from the horse as they rode by the river and leapt into the roaring water. They tried to save her, but in vain. I heard of it early in the morning, and went to seek for the body with some of our men, the good pope himself coming with us. And, as I said, they'll bury her to-morrow morning. Go to the chapel if you like to have a last look at her."
The piteous tale had been interrupted with many an indignant exclamation from the men, Nashko and Taras only listening speechless, nor could they find words at once.
"Come to the chapel!" said Taras, after a sorrowful pause.
In deep silence and slowly the band rode through the village, reaching the cemetery at the other end. There they dismounted, casting the bridles over the railings, and one after another they entered the chapel, baring their heads.
It was a modest place, damp and bare, lit up with a couple of torches. And there, at the foot of a large, crude crucifix, stood the open coffin in which they had laid the body. No one was watching by the dead, those to whom the pope had delegated that pious duty no doubt preferring to spend the blustering night in more congenial quarters.
With bowed heads and murmuring a prayer the outlaws stood by the humble coffin and gazed at the marble features, lovely even in death. The fair face, but for its pallor, seemed bound in sleep only, and the green wreath, the crown of virginity, rested lovingly on the maiden's brow. The hearts of these rough men were stirred to their depths, but one only was unable to keep silence, and with a smothered cry the maiden's name burst from his lips. He broke down utterly.
That was Nashko. Taras went up to him gently and led him out into the night, making him sit down on the steps of the chapel. And bending over him, he passed his hand tenderly over his face.
"I know ..." he murmured, "I have seen it for some time ... and if I cannot avenge her, you will do it!..."
It was a sad, humble funeral. The blasts of October moaned in the valley, and the rain hissed and wept. For which reason the villagers preferred to remain indoors when the little bell called them early in the morning to attend the body to its resting-place, the charitable among them murmuring a prayer for the dead. "She needs it," they said, "having laid hands on herself!" For which reason, also, the judge and the elders had insisted that she must be buried by the outer wall of the cemetery, although the honest pope had tried his utmost to show them that the girl deserved their pity, even their admiration, rather than their contempt. But the villagers clung to their opinion, and all the priest could do was to take care that she should be buried with full church honours. If no one else were willing he, at least, would consign her to her grave reverently. He appeared at the mortuary chapel soon after eight o'clock, followed by some half-dozen mourners, and started back dismayed on beholding a band of armed and wild-looking men, evidently waiting for the funeral. But he proceeded with his sacred duly bravely, and felt touched not a little on perceiving how fervently these ill-famed outlaws joined in the prayer he offered up by the grave.
Having ended, Taras came forward, begging him to read three masses for the maiden they had buried. He promised, but refused the money the captain was offering him.
"You may take it without fear," said Taras, smiling sadly, "it is honestly acquired--we rob no man."
The priest gave a searching glance in the face before him, which looked old and anguished with the burden of sorrow this man had borne. "I believe you," he said, "but permit me to do a good work for this poor girl without taking reward."
Taras made no answer, but bowing low, he kissed the priest's hand reverently. The good man, seeing him so deeply moved, took courage to whisper a word urged by his deepest heart. "You poor, misguided man," he said, gently, "how long will you go on like this?"
"As long as there is need for it," said Taras, in a tone equally low, but none the less firm and decided. "I have been kept from wrong so far, but I see much of it about me."
The pope could but shake his head mournfully, and went his way. Taras and his men remaining yet a while in the cemetery to say their prayers by the newly-made grave. Nashko only stood aside, gazing at them fixedly, and his eyes glowed with a terrible fire.
But a pitiful scene awaited these men on leaving the graveyard--the old innkeeper and his wife standing without, weeping and sobbing; forbidden by the strictness of their faith to pass within an enclosure at the entrance of which there was a crucifix, they had abstained from coming nearer, but from a distance had endeavoured to do honour to the dead after their own fashion.
Taras went up to the old Jew. "You have done what you could," he said, "and we thank you."
"What is the use of making words," cried Froïm, passionately. "I know I have done what I could, but I could not save her! I'm a poor old Jew, but you are a strong, hale Christian, and if I were you I'd make the rascal rue it dearly."
"This is the very thing I am going to do," returned Taras, quietly. "I shall go straight to the Black Water to accuse him to his father. And if Hilarion will not bring him to due punishment, I shall do so."
And the band mounted, turning their horses' heads westwards, towards the towering peaks of the Czernahora. They stopped for the night at the hamlet of Magura, reaching the settlement early the following day.
The patriarch appeared to have expected them, for his eldest son made haste to invite Taras into his sire's presence, Hilarion receiving him with the same dignified complacency with which he had parted from him the week before. "You have come to call for justice against that young son of mine; but I have anticipated it, and punished him as he deserves."
"And what is his punishment?" inquired Taras.
"I have sent him to a distant pasture, where he will have to stay till I give him leave to return, and I shall take good care not to do so before the spring. This will furnish him with leisure to consider his folly."
"Folly!" exclaimed Taras, bitterly.
"Yes, folly!" repeated the patriarch, pointedly. "Was she the only pretty girl to be had? He ought to have seen that Tatiana had no taste for him, but his vanity blinded him; it was sheer folly."
"But I call it a crime," cried Taras, hotly; "a mean, dastardly crime!"
The old man nodded. "I expected to hear you say this," he said calmly; "but you are wronging the youth. You must bear in mind that he is a Huzul. And, besides, how should he have foreseen that the girl would drown herself? I suppose that even in the lowlands suicide for such a reason is rarely heard of; but up here, I swear to you, such desperation in a girl is utterly unknown. If you will bear this in mind, you cannot accuse him of anything worse than folly."
"It was a dastardly crime," repeated Taras. "A man acting thus by a poor defenceless girl dishonours himself, and ought to be dealt with accordingly."
"Do you expect me to understand that I should order my son to have his hair cut off as a sign that he is no longer fit for the society of the brave and honourable of his kind?"
"I do," replied Taras, fiercely; "I even demand it. And if you refuse, I must carry out the punishment myself."
There was a long pause of silence. Taras stood erect, fully expecting to meet with the old man's indignant denial. But Hilarion preserved an unperturbed calm, closing his eyes as one in deep thought. Now and then he would nod his head like one arriving at a conclusion, and presently he touched a small gong by his side. His eldest son entered. "Call hither the clansmen, young and old, as many of them as are about the settlement, and request the followers of this man also to enter my house. Let all hear my decision."
The spacious room presently began to fill, the Huzuls thronging in first, Taras's men following. And when silence had settled the aged patriarch again nodded to himself, and thereupon he rose from his seat, holding in his hand an intertwining twig of willow--for Taras had interrupted some quiet occupation of his--and with solemn voice he began:
"Listen to me, ye men of my people, for I, Hilarion, called the Just, to whom you look for guidance, have cause to speak to you. Mark it well, and tell others if need be ... You all were present when this man of the lowlands, Taras, whom they call the avenger, first came to me; and you know how I received him. You witnessed our solemn covenant; how we swore friendship to one another, not only for to-day or to-morrow, but partaking of each other's blood as a sign that it shall never be broken while the red life-stream pulses through our veins. I have kept this sacred vow; but he just now has wronged it grievously, casting insult, nay, shame, on me by insisting that a member of my own house shall be punished, not because I say so, but because he wills it, and threatening that he himself will carry out such punishment if I fail to do so. It is my own flesh and blood, even my youngest son Julko, whom he will have dishonoured."
A cry of indignation burst from the Huzuls, and they turned upon Taras.
"Silence!" commanded the old man. "I have called you to hear what I have to say, and for nothing else.... But what I say is this: a man who can thus insult me no longer can be my friend and brother." He held up the twig in his hand. "He and I have been as this branch of willow, closely intertwined; but henceforth we are severed, and there is nought to heal the disruption!" He broke the twig, casting the parts from him, one to his right and one to his left.
"Urrahah!" shouted the Huzuls; but again the patriarch enforced silence, and, turning to Taras, he said:
"You are no longer my friend, but a man who has offered me deadly insult; yet the sacred law of our fathers lays it upon me never to forget that we partook of one another's blood! I therefore may not, and will not, have recourse to active enmity beyond what you yourself will force me to by further affront. It were sufficient affront, however, if a man who has acted as you have done should continue to insult me by his presence! For which reason I banish you from this settlement, and from these mountains, to the extent of my authority. You will leave the settlement at once, withdrawing from my reach within these mountains in three days. And let me warn you that none of you shall ever see the lowlands again if, after this, you dare brave the presence of my people. It is not on my son's account that I thus threaten you, for I shall take care to inform him of your intentions, putting him on his guard, and the Huzul lives not who fears his enemy when once he knows him! It is not in order to protect him, therefore, that I have said this, but simply because you have so deserved it. And now be gone!"
"I go," replied Taras; "but I call God and all here present to witness that you are disgracing yourself and me. I will not avenge it, for I also will remember the friendship we had sworn. But as for your son Julko, I shall know how to find him and visit his wrong on him, like any other evildoer."
The fury of the Huzuls knew no bounds, and Taras would have been lost had the aged Hilarion himself not stepped between him and the indignant clansmen, enabling him and his followers to leave the house and mount their horses, the wild cries of their hitherto confederates pursuing them as they rode away.
It was a sad departure, and with heavy hearts the little band returned through the dreary landscape to the hamlet of Magura. What should they do now, and whither turn their steps? Dark and gloomy lay the future before them, but none of the men uttered a word of complaint.
Having reached the hamlet and seen to their horses' needs, Taras gathered his men about him.
"I would not for a moment delude you with fair speeches," he said; "you know for yourselves how matters stand. Just answer me one question: Will you stay with me, or go your way? I could not upbraid any one whose courage failed him to continue this life of ours. It has been full of hardships hitherto; it will be almost unendurable now that the Huzuls also are against us."
"Tell us about yourself, hetman," said Wassilj Soklewicz; "what are you going to do?"
"I must continue to the end," replied Taras; "it is not for me to fail in my duty, even if you all forsake me. I shall endeavour to win other followers."
"Is it thus?" cried the faithful youth; "then we will share your fate!" All the rest of them crying in chorus, "We will not forsake you!"
"I dare not dissuade you," said Taras, "it is not I, but the cause which claims your fealty!... Now the next question is, where shall we encamp ourselves? In the lowlands the military are on the look-out for us, and here we are in danger of the Huzuls. I propose we retire to our island fortress in the Wallachian bog. By the Crystal Springs, or indeed anywhere within the mountains the Huzuls would rout us out; I know them better even than you can know them. They were true to us while they were friends, they will be intense in their hatred now they are our enemies. But we are safe from them on that island, where we have the advantage, moreover, of being in the very midst of the country we would rid from oppression, and in a hiding-place we could hold against almost any odds. I do not deceive myself concerning the danger even there, but I know no better place."
They resolved, then, to venture into the lowlands the following morning, after which these homeless outcasts lay down by their horses, sleeping as calmly as though they had found rest by their own firesides knowing nothing of the dread burdens of life.
Two only were awake--Nashko, keeping watch outside the hamlet, and Taras, tossing on the bundle of straw that formed his couch. Sleep was far from the unhappy man, much as he longed for it; indeed it had but rarely come to him since that terrible hour, that last meeting in this very place, separating him for ever from wife and child. Alas! and what nameless agony tortured him in those hours that seemed an eternity to the sore heart within! It was then he heard those voices that would not be silenced, of regret not only concerning the lost happiness of his life, but of a far more terrible regret--of awful accusation, much as he fought against it when daylight and activity returned. The night winds moaned, sounding to him like the blending curses of a hundred voices, the never-silent reproaches of all those whom he had brought to their doom. And when he succeeded for a moment in turning his back upon the irredeemable past, fixing his relentless gaze on the life before him, the life he would have to tread, what was it but a glaring reality, a fearful outcome of the shadows behind?
He was glad of the first streak of daylight stealing into the barn, and, rising from his troubled rest, he went out into the cold grey morning, seeking the Jew, who walked to and fro at his post looking pale and wan like a belated ghost. He nodded sadly on beholding his friend.
"We shall not be able to mount for a couple of hours yet," said Taras. "Turn in now, and have a rest."
"I could not sleep," replied Nashko, "but I am stiff with the cold, and could scarcely ride without first stretching my limbs on the straw." And, handing him his gun, he went away.
Taras walked up and down, slowly at first, till the nipping cold forced him to a quicker pace. It was as dismal a morning of late autumn as could well be imagined. Cutting gusts of east wind kept hissing through the narrow valley, rattling in the gloomy fir-wood, and having their own cold play with the whirling snow-flakes. The sun must have risen by that time, but it was nowhere to be seen; a pale, cheerless light only, descending from the snow-capped mountains, showed the muddy road and its windings, with a look of hopelessness about it. Not a living creature anywhere, not a sound of animated being beyond the croaking of a solitary raven on a fir-tree near.
The unhappy man cast a listless glance at the dismal prophet. The raven is looked upon as a bird of ill-omen, but what of trouble yet untasted could its call forebode? Death? Nay, for would he not have welcomed it gladly! And yet, though he seemed to know the very sum of human suffering laid upon him by a terrible fate, even by his own awful will, there was an agony approaching him that very morning, the direst possibility of grief for his heart and soul, and that cheerless day was to be the saddest of all his sad life....
An hour might have passed, but daylight seemed as far off as ever, and the wind continued its play with the whirling snow-flakes, so that Taras did not perceive the approach of a horseman, who was fighting his way hither from Zabie, till he pulled up close by the hamlet. It was a puny, elderly figure, ill-at-ease evidently on his miserable horse, and shivering with the cold; for though his garment was bedizened abundantly with gaudy ribands and glittering tinsel, there was not a scrap of fur to yield comfort, his queer head-gear, a tricoloured fool's cap, being fully in keeping with his tawdry appearance. On his back, by a leathern strap, he carried--not a gun to betoken the mountaineer--but a wooden case, from which protruded the neck of a violin. Taras examined this strange horseman with not a little wonder, concluding presently that it was some sort of a mountebank seen about the village fairs in the lowlands, where they pick up a scanty living, now playing the fiddle, now performing some jugglery. But what gain might this artist be seeking in the wintry mountains?
"What a mercy," cried the horseman, "to fall in with a living creature at last! How long shall I have to struggle on, tell me, before reaching the Dembronia Forest?"
"What on earth do you want there?" asked Taras, surprised. "You would find only wolves to make merry at your bidding, if that is it--why, the forest is utterly uninhabited!"
"Then I am better informed than you," retorted the fiddler; "the avenger and his band are in the forest, if no one else is."
"Do you want him?"
"To be sure, and badly! The poor wretch of a girl, I believe, would claw my eyes out if I did not fetch him as I promised."
"What girl? But you may save yourself farther trouble--I am the avenger."
"You!" cried the man, crossing himself quickly. But coming a little closer, he peered with a half-fearful curiosity into the hetman's sorrowful face. "You might be he, certainly," he muttered; "you look exactly as they told me, and poor Kasia said I could not possibly mistake the terrible gloom on your face. I suppose I had better believe you, and you must come with me, else that wretched girl will die of her remorse."
"What girl? what is it? Where am I wanted? Do speak plainly!"
"At the inn at Zabie. She'd have come to you instead of asking you to come to her--I mean Kasia, my sister's daughter--she says it is killing her, and she must not die without telling you."
"Telling me what? Has she any complaints to make against any wrong-doer?"
"No; she has done that once too often already, and is grievously sorry for it now. It is not you, though, who are to blame--nor in fact, is she, poor thing--but her sweetheart, Jacek, that good-for-nothing rascal; if you can pay him out for it, 'twere well if you did. For it was a damned lie, all that story at Borsowka----"
"At Borsowka?'" exclaimed Taras, staggering. "At Borsowka!" he repeated hoarsely. And clutching the fiddler with his strong hand, he dragged him from the saddle and shook him till the poor creature gasped for breath. "Speak the truth!... Is it that Marinia who sent you?"
"You are strangling me! Help!" groaned the fiddler. "It is not my fault ... help!... murder!"
At this moment Nashko, who had heard the cry, came out, followed by the others.
"What is it?" they inquired, and the Jew, taking in the situation, endeavoured to free the agonised messenger from the captain's powerful grasp.
"Aren't you rather hard on him?" he whispered to his friend. "What has he come for?"
But Taras, letting go his hold, stared about him like one demented, and a shriek burst from him--"A horse! for God's sake, a horse!" His men moved not, utterly confounded. But he broke away, dragging a horse from the barn, the first he could lay hold on, and mounting it without saddle or bridle dashed away in the direction of Zabie as fast as the frightened animal could carry him.
Two hours later he stopped by the inn. The horse was done for. He cared not, but rushed up to old Froïm, who came to meet him. "Where is she?" he cried, wildly.
"Who? the sick woman?" inquired the innkeeper. "We made up a bed for her in the little lean-to."
Another minute and Taras stood by the couch. The girl had greatly changed since that terrible night. She looked as though she had passed through an illness, and her eyes were deep in their sockets. "Ah," she moaned, "you have come, and I may tell you. It has left me no peace day or night. I ran away from Jacek to look for my uncle Gregori, that he might try and find you, for he was always...."
"Be quick about it," interrupted Taras. "I want to know the truth!"
"Ah! do not look at me with those eyes," cried the unhappy girl, hiding her face in her hands, and indeed the man bending over her was fearful to behold. "I want to tell you ... I wish I had never done it, but they made me!"
"Be quick about it!" repeated Taras, hoarsely. "You are not Marinia Bertulak, and no peasant girl from Borsowka. Your name is Kasia, and you keep company with jugglers?"
"Yes, yes! I am Kasia Wywolow."
"And you lied to me in that night, all of you?"
"Yes, we did; the old baron only spoke the truth. The man who pretended to be my father was Jacek, with whom I have been going about to fairs; and the other one was a farm labourer, Dimitri Buliga, and not the village judge...."
"And why did you deceive me?"
"It was all Karol's doing. We, Jacek and I, fell in with him at the merry-making here at Zabie, and he talked us over; after which he went to Borsowka, where he bribed the coachman and prevailed on Dimitri to play the judge. He said he knew exactly how to set about it to make you believe the story ... he had an old grudge against the poor baron, who years ago brought him to punishment for theft. He stole away from you as soon as the deed was done, dividing the spoils with Jacek and Dimitri, who waited for him at Kotzman. But I suffered agony with remorse, and it brought me here."
"That will do," said Taras, faintly; "thank you." And he staggered from the room. The old innkeeper came upon him presently where he lay in a merciful swoon.
It was late in the afternoon when his men came after him, and with them the fiddler Gregori. They had not been able to gather the full truth from the bewildered messenger, but they had understood sufficiently to know that Karol Wygoda had deceived them shamefully, and it had filled their honest hearts with indignant grief. But pity for their unhappy leader was uppermost, for they felt rather than knew how fearfully the discovery must affect him; and since he had left no orders, they waited hour after hour, with growing anxiety, thinking he might return; and as he did not, they now came to seek him.
"Yes, he is here," said old Froïm, sorrowfully, in answer to Nashko's inquiry, "and I think he is seriously ill. I do not know what that young woman may have told him," he added under his breath, "but it must have been something very awful; for he fainted right out, and when I had managed to bring him to again, he just said: 'I must go my way to the gallows now,' and never another word has crossed his lips. I have tried to rouse him, but he is like a stone, staring blankly; it could not be worse if he had buried wife and child. I have spoken to him, I have implored him, but not a sign is to be got from him. Will you try it?--he may yield to your words."
Nashko told his companions what the old Jew had said, and they all agreed. "Try and rouse him," they said, "tell him that to us he is as noble and just as before. How should he, how should we, in God's eyes, be guilty of this blackguard Karol's wickedness!"
Nashko took heart and entered the little room, where Froïm had prepared a couch for the stricken hetman, but he was unable to deliver the men's message. For no sooner had he closed the door than Taras turned to him, saying huskily, but firmly: "Please leave me to myself till to-morrow morning; I must think it over; not for my own sake, for I know what I have to do, but for yours--I would like to counsel each of you for the best I can hardly collect my thoughts as yet, it is as though I had been struck with lightning. Let me come to myself first. I daresay Froïm will find a night's lodging for you; and to-morrow--yes, to-morrow morning when the day has risen, I will see you." Taras seemed fully determined, and Nashko could but yield.
The following day early, when the men had gathered in the great empty bar-room, Taras came among them. They had not seen him for a space of four-and-twenty hours, but the havoc wrought in his appearance seemed the work of years. He was fearfully altered, looking like an old man now, overcome with life's distress.
"Dear friends," he said, speaking very calmly and kindly, "I pray you listen to me, but do not try to turn me from my firm resolve. I release you one and all from the fealty you have sworn to me. I am your leader no longer. Please God, this will be the last time that you will see me; I have prayed to Him earnestly to let my life and the yielding up of its every hope be sufficient atonement. Yes, I have pleaded with Him in mercy to let your ways be far from mine; for the path I have to tread will now take me to Colomea, to prison, and thence to the final doom."
A cry of horror interrupted him. "For God's sake," they cried, "what is it that has come to you?"
"Not thus, if you love me," he said, gently, warding them off. "I have followed the voice of my own heart so far, let me follow it still. That voice has deceived me hitherto, leading me to misery and crime; it is speaking well this day for the first time! Yet, be very sure, I was not wrong in saying that the plain will of God required Right and Justice to be upheld in this world; not wrong in accusing those of their shortcomings whose sacred duty it is to see that justice rules here below, but who do not carry out this duty to its fullest, holiest meaning. My mistake was this, that I fancied this unfulfilled duty could by the will of God devolve upon me or any other individual man. To be sure I who sacrificed all earthly happiness at the shrine of justice, who became a murderer in blind love of the right, and now go to the gallows--I most not be unjust, not even against myself, and therefore I say it was a natural mistake. For what more natural than to argue: Since they will not guard the right whose bounden duty it is, I will do so, who am strong at heart and pure of purpose! But, nevertheless, it was a grievous mistake. I see it now. I still believe in that grand, holy ladder of His making which is intended to join earth to heaven; but plainly it is not His will, even if some of its steps at times be rotten, that any single man should take upon himself to make up in his own poor strength for any failings in that glorious institution for working out the divine will. It were proud, sinful presumption in any man, and I have done evil in His sight, not merely in disregarding what mischief must accrue if others followed my example, but chiefly on account of the awful delusion thatIwas above erring, and thatmyjudgments must needs be just! And how did I come to imagine this? Because I chose to believe that the Almightymustkeep me from foiling--me, His servant, the righteous, justice-loving Taras. It was just my pride! The magistrates, the courts, might err, but I never! And yet how great is the danger if the carrying out of justice be vested in any individual man!--the work I have undertaken could not but end like this! I believed I was doing right, and I have been utterly confounded. The Baron of Borsowka was a righteous man, and I, who presumed to judge him, have been his murderer."
"But that was not your fault; you were deceived by Karol!" they cried.
"I was," replied Taras; "yet the guilt rests with me for not examining into the charge more carefully. Why did I refuse his urgent request to send for witnesses to the village? I am his murderer. I, and no one else; and since I have judged falsely in his case, how can I be sure that I have not done so in others? But, be that as it may, I am an assassin, and it behoves me to expiate my crime, submitting to those whom God has called to judge any evildoer in the land. I am going to Colomea to give myself up."
Vainly they strove to turn him from his resolve. He kept repeating: "I follow the voice within, and it has begun to speak truth." With heavy hearts they perceived it was utterly useless to plead with him, and listened to his last farewell. He enjoined them to separate at once and to begin a new life each for himself in different parts of the country. He had a word of sympathy, of advice for each. "Forty florins are still in my possession," he added, producing the sum; "it is all I have left of the money contributed by honest peasants towards my work. Take it and divide it fairly. Let it be the same with the proceeds of your arms and horses."
And he took leave of them, of each man separately, the Jew being last. "Nashko," he said, "I have yet a request to make of you. You love me, I know, and I am about to die. Will you grant it?"
"Surely," said the Jew, with tear-stifled voice.
"I know your intentions with regard to Julko," said Taras, "and I know the reason.... But I ask you to forbear, and to leave these mountains without bringing him to his due."
"The thought of revenge was sweet," said the Jew, "but I will do your desire."
"Whither will you betake yourself?" asked Taras. "I was able to advise them all, but I know not what to say to you; besides, your judgment is better than mine."
"I shall go away--far, far away," said Nashko. "I have heard that in following the sun through many lands you reach the wide sea at last, and crossing the sea you reach a country where a man is a man, and no one inquires into his creed. I shall try for that country, and if so be that I get there----"
"God speed you!" said Taras, deeply moved, "for your heart is honest and you have been true to me. So have you all: the Almighty watch over your lives!"
He left the room and, seeking his horse, he sped away from his friends towards the lowlands, vanishing from their gaze.