A few days later the district governor and Dr. Starkowski were having a quiet talk in the dusk of the evening. They were sitting in Herr von Bauer's private office, and the latter had just confided to the lawyer that it was officially settled now--and the requisite document a visible fact--that the contested field on the Pruth was formally adjudged as belonging, not to the lord of the manor, but to the parish of Zulawce.
"I am simply thankful itissettled!" the governor was saying, rubbing his honest old hands. "I always suspected foul play, but since I had proof of it, the former judgment has weighed on me like a nightmare. It is more of a relief than I can tell you!"
"And yet that judgment was legally correct," said the lawyer, somewhat sadly; "the case had been investigated, and witnesses on both sides were examined, the evidence appearing unquestionable!"
"Is this intended for a covert reproach?"
"Certainly not," returned Starkowski; "and yet I cannot think of this tragic affair without a sad reflection on the short-sightedness of all human justice."
"You are right there," said the governor, sighing in his turn. "My only comfort is, that we, the authorities of this district, have done our human best; even that coward Kapronski, cannot be accused of wilful injustice. The peasants had been so foolish as to move the landmark, and the mandatar, rascal that he is, saw his opportunity for taking possession. It was quite correct that our commissioner should have told the peasants that their only remedy was the law; and the suit began. Both parties were ready to swear, and, indeed, there was no other means for eliciting the truth, except by putting them on their oath. I admit that Kapronski set about it somewhat summarily and offhandedly, but I doubt whether, in all conscientiousness I could have arrived at a better result myself. If witnesses are open to bribery, perjuring themselves, how should the most careful of judges get at the truth? There was oath against oath, a considerable number of the peasantry yielding evidence in favour of the manor against their own interests, and the lord of the manor, moreover, was in possession--how then, I ask, should even the court's judgment have been different? There is some comfort in this, I assure you; at the same time it is better comfort that the wrongful judgment with its sad consequences has been reversed--as far as possible at least."
"As far as possible," repeated the lawyer, thoughtfully. "Poor Taras----"
"Don't talk to me about that man," interrupted the governor, waxing hot; "or would you have me tax the short-sightedness of human justice with his history also?"
"Certainly, I should say."
"Certainly not, you mean! What, have you forgotten poor Hohenau? And what of his latest murder at Borsowka?"
"There I am staggered, I own," said the lawyer.
"Of course you are, because you insist on judging the man by the rules of your ethics," cried the governor, as though the deeper bearings of the soul were utterly beneath the legal mind; "but I, who am no psychologist, but a wretched district governor in this province of Galicia---worse luck!--I who have had plenty of opportunity of getting acquainted with any number of hajdamaks, I tell you he is no better than the rest of them! It is all very well to start the business with a fine pretence, a pretty cloak to cover one's rags; he has discarded it now, you see, and shows himself as he is--a mere wretched assassin. Let us change the subject; I have something more pleasant yet to tell you. What should you say to those poor wretches at Zulawce, in mortal terror of their lives on account of their perjury?--of course, they must bear the consequences!--they are going to be duly sentenced, and then----" the kind-hearted man could not go on for smiles.
"They are going to have a free pardon," added Starkowski; "are you sure?"
"I have got it in my desk, which is more, and I am highly delighted for once that the law should be circumvented. Of course, the line will be drawn between the instigators of these precious plans and those who were merely led on. There is Mr. Wenceslas Hajek, for instance, whom we shall have the honour of lodging in safe quarters within this city for a couple of years--I'd give him five, Willingly--and no expense to himself. Come in!"
There had been a knock at the door repeatedly, but the gentlemen had not heard it in the warmth of their discussion till it struck the governor at the tail end of his information. "Come in!"
The door opened showing a tall visitor, who stood still.
"A peasant by the look of him," said the governor, peering into the dusk. "This is beyond office hours, my friend; come again to-morrow."
There was a pause of silence, and then the man by the door came a step forward, saying, with trembling voice, "Excuse me, sirs, for disturbing you, but I would rather not go away again----"
"Taras!" exclaimed the lawyer, and the governor, bursting from his seat, stood still a moment, paralysed with the discovery; but then he flew to the window, flinging open the sash, and sent one terrified cry after another into the street below.
Taras never moved. "Do not be frightened," he said, sadly. "Look here, I am quite unarmed, and have come with peaceful intentions."
But the sentry outside and some of the clerks yet at work had heard the alarm; assistance already was pressing in at the door.
"Bind him!" cried the governor. And, nothing loth, the men clutched the prisoner.
But Starkowski interfered. "Stop!" he said. "You are five against one, and you see he offers no resistance." He walked up to Taras and looked him in the face. "You have not come with any evil intention?"
"No, sir."
Starkowski seemed quite satisfied; turning to the governor, "Leave your men in the room," he said, "but there is no need to bind him, I'll go bail."
But the poor governor was not so easily quieted, and his voice positively shook when he addressed the man of whom all the district had stood in mortal fear these months past. "Step closer," he said, "we are ready to hear you."
And Taras came nearer, looking pale and wan, a stricken figure, resting his worn frame against the table. "I have come to give myself up," he said, "and I pray to be dealt with according to my deserts."
"And where are your people?"
"I have disbanded them; there is no fear of their committing further violence."
"Whereare they?"
"They have gone different ways; but I have not come to betray them, and shall not do so. Concerning myself I will answer any question, and that must suffice. But before interrogating me, please have a clerk here to write it all down, for I should like those at Vienna to have the truth in my own words. I would especially wish the Emperor to know it, and his kind uncle, Ludwig."
The governor was going to retort sharply, but he restrained himself; the man after all had not desired anything improper. But the shock had been too great to enable him to open proceedings on the spot. "You will be interrogated to-morrow morning," he said, "and, whatever your misdeeds, it shall be set over against them that you have given yourself up of your own free will. I will not have you put in irons, and no one shall dare to insult you; but I shall have you well guarded."
"Do whatever the law requires," replied Taras. "But there is no fear of my escaping again, even if never a door were locked upon me. It is my conscience which brought me hither, and it will keep me here. Indeed, if any one attempted to set me free against my will, I should oppose him as an enemy."
The governor had nothing more to say, beyond ordering the prisoner's removal to the city gaol. But Taras looked at him. "There is yet one thing," and his voice quivered; "may I speak to this gentleman--it is something I have deeply at heart."
The governor nodded assent, and Starkowski went up to the prisoner. "Ah, sir," said Taras, "I pray you not to believe that after all I turned a robber and murderer! I daresay you heard that I have had Zukowski killed, the poor old baron at Borsowka. I have; but I have been grievously deceived by evil men, on whose honesty I relied. I was fully persuaded I had judged righteously in this case also. I appeal to you--you know that I never yet told a lie--will you believe me?"
"I will--I do," said the lawyer, holding out his hand.
But Taras did not take it, there was a strange agitation in his face, he shook, and before the lawyer could prevent it, he had fallen on his knees, covering Starkowski's hand with kisses and tears. "Ah, sir," he sobbed, "this is the most merciful word you have spoken in your life!"
He rose and followed his keepers.
An hour later special messengers were speeding in all directions to announce to the magistrates and military authorities that the great trouble was at an end, that the avenger was in safe keeping of his own free will. At Colomea itself the news was flying from house to house, being received everywhere with exultant satisfaction. Two men only, whose interest in Taras's fate, because a personal one, was of the liveliest, were rather aghast at the news, calling their mortal enemy a fool for his pains, because he had put his head into the noose.
One of these worthies was Mr. Ladislas Kapronski, who had been obliged after all to return from Lemberg, not of his own choice, but because of the importunity of his immediate superiors, which left but two ways open to him, either to accept their pressing invitation or to quit the service. So he had arrived, hoping to escape with a sharp reproof; but the very first meeting of the Board showed he was not likely to be dealt with in a spirit of leniency, the district governor being especially vicious in the virtuous Kapronski's opinion. Nevertheless, he clang to his hope, giving the lie unblushingly to all accusations, since the one witness to be dreaded, even Taras, could not so easily be confronted with him; and who else should know whether he had perverted his message or not? So he carried his head high, and his collapse was sad to behold when, at a late hour that evening, the news reached him, "Taras is in safe keeping!" He jumped from his seat as though an adder had stung him; but, alas! there was no use in his rushing abroad to inquire whether it could really be true, since the strange rudeness--or, perhaps, deafness only--of his closer acquaintances had appeared of late to affect most people at Colomea, and now Kapronski in addressing any honest citizen could never be sure of a hearing! So he did not go forth from his chamber, but fell to chewing the bitter cud of retribution, listening intently for what terrible affirmation might come flying in to him through his open windows from the excited streets. The news plainly was a fact!
But if his cogitations were misery, what then must be said of that other one who deprecated Taras's act of surrender, Mr. Wenceslas Hajek, the ex-mandatar of Zulawce? This gentleman quite lately, at the invitation of two constables, had exchanged his princely residence at the castle of Drinkowce for the more modest abode of a prison cell, and this quite in spite of--or, in fact, rather because of--his sudden desire for a change of air in distant parts. It had transpired that he was quietly on to Paris. He had been admitted to bail, when proceedings were commenced against him on account of the discovered perjury, and the constables caught him in the very act of strapping his travelling bag. He was naturally annoyed at being thus overreached; but the virtuous Wanda, who had not intended to accompany him on his travels, most heroically witnessed his discomfiture, watching his being carried off with truly stoical calmness--she might even have been a Spartan matron! "Good riddance," she said quietly, "if they would but keep you in prison; it's the one place for you!" Whereupon he, gathering together the shreds of masculine courage, retorted: "Hell itself would be delightful if I had a chance of going thither without you!" from which amiable passage of arms the reader may infer that this marriage, founded on a love just about equalled by the mutual respect of the contracting couple, had turned out as happily as might have been foreseen, the actual result being that Herr Bogdan von Antoniewicz even now was taking measures to bring his daughter's case into the divorce court. But Mr. Hajek, who, it will be remembered, had prepared against such a contingency, felt no sorrows on this head; and indeed a husband blessed with a wife of the Countess Wanda's description might be tolerably certain that any inquiry into her character would bring to light ample mitigation of any blots in his. But if his domestic concerns sat easy on him, all the greater was his anxiety concerning that other trial, since there was no saying where a close inquiry might not land him, especially as his under-steward, Boleslaw Stipinski, had been so very foolish as to allow himself to be caught. Still, while Boleslaw had a tongue left wherewith to deny all charges as unblushingly as Hajek himself, the mandatar need not give himself up for lost--not while the only man who could witness to most of his crimes was far away, and not likely to be got hold of. What, then, must have been the feelings of the brazen-faced prisoner that evening when a call from the echoing corridor resounded in his cell, and he understood the words: "Look sharp, boys, they are bringing the avenger!" It was the chief warder calling upon his fellow gaolers. There was a running to and fro and a confusion of voices, followed presently by the usual silence of the place. And when the death-like stillness had again settled down the wretched man tried to persuade himself that he had been dreaming; but the early morning dispelled this delusion, his inquiry eliciting a gruff reply from the warder going his rounds. "Taras? Yes, he is on this very floor, more's the pity you cannot communicate with him," said the surly attendant, never perceiving the irony of his speech.
Early in the forenoon the new prisoner was brought to his preliminary examination, Herr von Bauer conducting it in person; and in accordance with his stated intention Taras yielded the fullest information concerning himself and his late doings, but refused persistently whatever might tend to incriminate his followers. He readily mentioned those who had led him into the murder at Borsowka; but not a fact, not a name besides, was to be got out of him. Nor could he be brought to give the slightest clue towards inculpating such of the peasants as had assisted his work by their contributions for the maintenance of his men. "They have aided and abetted a criminal course," he said; "but they did it with the best of intentions for the love of their suffering neighbours, and believing it to be the will of God."
"It might be better for you to give their names," said the governor, not unkindly, "for if you do not, how is it to be proved that you are speaking the truth? These contributions might be a myth, and you be taken for a common bandit after all, who committed murder for the sake of gain. Are you prepared to face this?"
"If the Almighty will thus punish me, I shall bear it," said he, sadly. "He knows I have spoken the truth."
The trial concluded with those questions laid as a duty upon the judge, even with the worst of criminals, ever since the great Empress left her womanly influence upon the Austrian law. "Do you desire spiritual assistance?" inquired the governor.
"Not now," said Taras; "I need no one to come between me and the Almighty. When death is at hand I will thankfully receive the holy sacrament, and I would ask you then to send for the parish priest of Zulawce, Father Leo, who on Palm Sunday gave me his promise to come to me whenever I should need him. He will do so."
"And have you any message to be transmitted to your wife?"
The extreme pallor of his face yielded to a flush which rose to the very roots of his hair. "No," he said faintly. "My wife was right in saying I had forfeited my claims on her and the children. It were sheer goodness and mercy on her part to remember me now. But since it is so, I must not ask for it; I can only wait."
But waiting for the prompting of her love seemed vain. Throughout the dreary tune of the legal proceedings, which lasted nearly four months, neither the pope nor Anusia visited the prisoner. The only human being who during all this sad time requested permission for occasional intercourse with the accused was Dr. Starkowski, who could not visit him in his capacity as legal defender till after the protracted inquiry, but prayed to be admitted as a friend. And he was allowed to see the prisoner occasionally in the presence of the chief warder, finding the unhappy man, for whom he had a truehearted sympathy, strangely quiet. "I have nothing to complain of," Taras would say; "I could not have expected anything else. And, calling to mind the terrible hour when that girl in her agony of remorse confessed to me how I had been deceived, this present time seems happiness in comparison. I am bearing the just punishment for my deeds even on this side of the grave--it is all I must ask for at the hand of man."
"All?" repeated the lawyer, with a peculiar stress on the word, and it seemed to him a very duty of Christian charity to offer to the unhappy man his willingness to plead with Anusia. "It will be no trouble," he added, rather awkwardly; "I have business at Zulawce, and might as well go and see her."
"I pray you not to do so," said Taras, earnestly. "It would be a bitter trial to her to have to speak about me to a stranger, and I have brought on her so much suffering already that it is not for me to add to it."
Starkowski nevertheless endeavoured to mediate, but in vain. Father Leo himself dissuaded him from his well-meant purpose. "Believe me, sir," said the honest priest, sadly, "there is nothing to be done. If human pleading availed anything, my entreaty would have done so! But no prayer and no exhortation will bend the iron purpose of that woman. This is the reason why I have refrained hitherto from going to Colomea: I have not the heart to meet him with no better news than this."
"Well, perhaps a stranger may be more successful," said Starkowski, and went over to Taras's farm. But he was met in the yard by Halko, with a message from his mistress. She did not desire to see him, the young man said wistfully, unless he were sent on business of the trial.
Towards the close of January, 1840, the inquiry was concluded; but, after all, not much more had come to light than had been known with more or less of exactness before. And if, on the one hand, it was beyond a doubt that Taras was guilty of the death of a great number of men, having brought loss and suffering to others, so also it proved a matter of certainty that in every case he had granted to the victim a kind of judicial inquiry, punishing them upon conviction. Also there was a considerable amount of actual evidence in his favour, Baron Zborowski, of Hankowce, especially doing his utmost in his behalf. On the whole a fairly just estimate of the man's activity during those seven months of the reign of terror in the land had been arrived at, but not a clue had been obtained concerning his fellows and helpers, who appeared simply to have vanished. One of his late followers only was caught--Karol Wygoda, whose whereabouts Taras himself had suggested. This wretch denied the charge persistently, until confronted with his former hetman, a look of whose eye sufficed to crush the man, whereupon he made a full confession, including the crime he had instigated at Borsowka.
But not only in this case was it apparent that Taras had in no wise lost his strange power over men; none of the perjured witnesses of Zulawce could hold out against him at the bar. But the most flagrant proof of the awe he still inspired, perhaps, was this, that Mr. Hajek, on the mere announcement of the governor's "I shall confront you with Taras to-morrow," fainted outright, and upon recovering his senses declared himself ready to confess on the spot. No doubt he acted from the consciousness that conviction was unavoidable, and that it would be useless to harass his feelings by so painful an interview.
Kapronski, on the contrary, felt that all his future career depended on the ordeal of a meeting with Taras, and, fortifying his flunkey spirit with this consideration, he tried hard to strike terror into the soul of the convicted bandit; but he collapsed woefully, and blow upon blow the righteous wrath of Taras came down upon his head. It was a strange sight these two--the one covered with the blood of his fellows, the other legally guilty at worst of a breach of discipline--but no one could doubt for a moment which of them was the nobler and better man.
On the last day of the inquiry the governor put the question to Taras who should be his advocate.
"Ah!" said Taras, "am I permitted to choose? I would have Dr. Starkowski in that case, for he will do his best for me."
"Certainly," replied the governor, continuing with some surprise; "have not you assured me again and again you had done with life? Yet you seem to rest confidence in the success of your advocate."
"Oh," returned Taras, "I never doubted the justice of my having to die; that is settled, and I would not have him or any one else endeavour to get me off. But there is another important matter in which I sorely need counsel."
What this might be Starkowski learned on his first professional visit to the prisoner. "They will not believe me," said Taras sadly; "they doubt the truth of my having maintained the band honestly, partly out of my own means, partly with the freewill contributions of well-meaning folks. And yet I cannot name any of those who helped me, for fear of their having to suffer for it. Is there no help, but that the suspicion most rest on me and mine, that I committed murder for vulgar gain's sake?"
The lawyer endeavoured to comfort him, saying he hoped to dispel this charge, proving it at variance with the character of his client, which was plainly apparent in the evidence. "But let us speak of something else now," he added, "which is more important--your own fate."
"Why, that is settled," replied Taras, quietly; "I have shed blood and must atone for it with my own. Please do not try to overthrow that!"
"Now, listen to me," said the lawyer, "there is such a thing as common sense. You have given yourself up of your own free will to satisfy justice; this is enough for your conscience, and it would be simply wicked in you to clamour to be hanged. Try to judge calmly in this respect. Looking at facts, of course I cannot doubt that the jury will find you guilty, because the law must have its course, but I have hopes that the Emperor may pardon you. There are strong reasons for a recommendation to mercy. Moreover, it is plain that the old Archduke Ludwig is interested in you, and he will not fail to plead in your favour."
"Will you listen to me now?" said Taras, quietly, when his counsel had finished. "I can have no other wish in this matter than to see that carried out which I have been striving for all my life--that is justice; and a sentence of death alone would be just! I can not prevent the Emperor pardoning me if he is so minded, but I will not have you petition him in my name. There is one favour only I would ask, if it comes to the dying ..." he paused, a shudder running through his frame.
"I know," said the lawyer, deeply affected, "you would like to be shot and not hung. Father Leo told me; old Jemilian come to him once secretly for confession ... Take comfort, I think I can promise you that much, if indeed it must come to the worst."
Towards the end of February, Taras was sentenced to death--"to be hung by the neck"--there could not have been any other verdict. But he was informed at the same time that the parishes of Ridowa and Zulawce, as well as Baron Zborowski, had petitioned the Emperor for mercy.
That same day Starkowski addressed a letter to Father Leo, acquainting him also with the sentence, and imploring him once again to try his influence with Anusia. The pope was deeply grieved. "Alas," he said to his wife, "even this news will not move the woman, and what else could I tell her? Have I not striven with her to the utmost?"
"You must try yet again," said the good little popadja; "it is the most sacred duty in all this life of yours."
"I am sure of that," he said, sorrowfully; "and my heart bleeds at the thought that once more I must plead in vain for her poor husband! I am truly sorry for Anusia herself, and shall never cease befriending her, but this hard-heartedness, this horrible power of vindictiveness in a woman fills me with loathing."
With a heavy heart he set out on his mission, finding Anusia in her sitting-room, her eldest boy, Wassilj, at her feet, reading to her with a clear voice from some book of spiritual comfort. On beholding her visitor, she gave a nod and ordered the little boy to leave them alone, but the child hesitated, obeying her repeated command reluctantly. She rose and went up to the pope with the icy quiet which had grown habitual with her; but her face was fearfully worn, and she looked quite an old woman now. There was scarcely a tremor in her voice. "I know what you have come for," she said "He has been sentenced to death."
"Yes," he replied. "But if ever----"
"Stop!" she interrupted; "would you have me and the children be present at----"
"Anusia!" he cried; "it is awful--fearful; do you know that your life-long repentance will never atone for this cruelty of heart?"
"Is that what you think?" she said, hoarsely; "and do you know how I loved him? do you know the depth of my suffering? God knows----"
"Do not call on Him," cried the pope, passionately; "He is holy and pitiful, and has nothing in common with the hardness of men."
"Priest," she said, confronting him wildly; "how dare you come between Him and me? His understanding me is the one hope which keeps me from madness----" and a cry burst from her; she fell at his feet, clinging to his knees, moaning: "Ah, turn not away from me! Try and consider the agony of my heart!"
He lifted her gently, making her sit down on a chair. "I do consider it," he said; "and I have borne this sorrow with you throughout. But do not think you can lessen it by being unforgiving and hard.... Come with me and see him," he added, folding his hands with his heart's entreaty; "it is his dying wish, will you not grant it? I will not plead his right to look for his wife and children."
"No, certainly," she interrupted him, and he shuddered at the cold denial glistening in her eyes; "he gave up his rights when he left us with no better excuse than his mad longing to obtain justice for any stranger. He could not have complained of me if I had told him as early as Palm Sunday, 'I cannot prevent your going, but you cease to be my husband,' I did not say that, I did not upbraid him, but I knelt to him and wept at his feet. He saw the agony of my soul, and went his way. I did not cease loving him, I only strove to save the children from his ruin. He would not have hesitated to make me the recipient of his plans, the go-between transmitting his messages to the village. He only thought of his work, never of what might come to us! And when we were taken to prison for his sake, he only said, 'And though they kill them I must go on with this cause!' Can a husband, a father, nay, a human being act thus? And when we were set free, and you and I went to see him, to entreat him to forego this life of bloodshed and murder lest his wife and children should have to bear the last fearful disgrace, did he listen to us? 'I cannot help it, I must go on,' he said. And neither can I help it now," she added, with a bitter moan; "he has brought me to it, and must bear the consequences!"
"And do you think this will help you to bear it?" said the pope. "Can it in any way lessen your sorrow?"
"No!" she cried; "but it is just! just! I am treating him as he treated me!"
"And is it justice you look for from your Saviour?" said he; "is it your deserts you will plead when you hope for His mercy in that day?" He paused solemnly, but once again he strove with her entreatingly, pleading for love and for pity. She moved not, and he could not see her face, for she had covered it with her hands; but when a sob burst from her ice-bound heart, and the tears welled through her fingers, hope rose within him, and, continuing to speak to her gently, he lifted his soul to God that the words might be given him which could touch her and carry light into the darkness of her fearful despair.
Neither of them heard the door open, both starting when suddenly the voice of little Wassilj was heard sobbing amid his tears. "Let me help you, Father Leo," faltered the child, "mother will listen to us, surely. And if she will not go with you, take me, please, for I love father dearly!"
At these words an agonised cry burst from the woman's heart; she caught up the boy and covered him with tears and kisses, crying: "I will go--I will go!"
Two days later Starkowski, with a flush on his face, entered the convict's cell. "Taras," he cried, "I am glad to tell you--your wife----"
"Is she coming?" faltered Taras. "O God, is it possible?"
He had risen, but staggered back to his chair--it was too much for him. Starkowski left him quietly; in his stead Anusia had entered the cell.
And husband and wife once more stood clasped to each other's heart.
The governor allowed Anusia to spend many hours with the prisoner. They spoke of the past, of the children's future, of the village, and everything they had in common--one subject only they both avoided, the ghastly event which soon would separate them for this life. Taras took leave of her and the children every evening as tenderly as though it were the eve of his final doom, but he never referred to it, and Anusia in her secret heart took it as a sign that after all he hoped for a pardon.
On the 15th of May, 1840, the decision arrived from Vienna. The Emperor had confirmed the sentence; a pardon could not be granted because "the notoriety of the case required the law to have its course." But it was left with the district governor to make all further arrangements and decide the mode of execution.
It so happened that Father Leo was with the governor early in the day when the decree arrived; he had come to beg for an interview with the convict, and Dr. Starkowski having been sent for, the three entered the cell together. Taras knew at once what they had come for, his face grew white, but he could stand erect, requiring no support, while the sentence was being imparted to him.
"You will be shot to-morrow morning," said the district governor. "Father Leo will go with you. Your execution shall not be a spectacle for the curious, for which reason I have fixed an early hour, and chosen a place at some distance--a quiet glen on the way to Zablotow, where a deserter was shot some time ago. None but myself and another magistrate will be present, and the fact will be kept secret to-day. Would you desire your wife to accompany you?"
"No," said Taras, "and I pray you not to tell her anything. We have settled everything, and I shall take leave of her and the children this evening just in the usual way, as though we were to meet again to-morrow. I think this will be the best course for her."
And he carried out this pious deception with a wondrous strength of purpose, passing the day in quiet intercourse with her and their children. When she had left in the evening, utterly unconscious of the final parting, he was removed to another cell, lit up and provided with altar and crucifix, to spend his last night in the customary way. Father Leo took his confession, Taras's voice being low and earnest, but he was very calm; and having received absolution and the sacrament at the hands of his friend, he passed the rest of the night in silent prayer.
At daybreak the following morning, when the town yet lay buried in sleep, three carriages drove away in the direction of Zablotow, the governor and a brother magistrate occupying the first, the condemned man, Father Leo, and a couple of soldiers the second, some more soldiers in the third bringing up the rear.
It was a perfect morning of spring. Taras drew deep breaths of the fragrant air, and his eye rested on the blossoming fruit-trees by the way. "God is kind to me," he said, turning to the pope, "letting His sun rise brightly on my dying hour."
"Yes, God is good," said the pope, "He is always kinder than men ..." The poor priest spoke his inmost feeling, but he regretted it almost immediately--was it for him to drop bitterness into the heart of the dying man?
But Taras only shook his head. "It is your grief for me which makes you unjust, Father Leo," he said, quietly. "I have thought deeply these last days, and I see there is much to be thankful for! I may be at rest, too, concerning my poor wife; and as for my children, I am certain you and Anusia will bring them up rightly, and they will live to be good."
"I will not fail in my duty by them; I shall look upon it as a holy vow," said the pope solemnly. And he kept it faithfully. The children of Taras are alive to this day, honoured and loved by their neighbours, richly blessed, too, in outward circumstances; and Wassilj Barabola would long ago have been made judge of his village had he not declined the distinction, remembering the promise he gave to his father.
"And even as regards myself!" said Taras. "All my life long I have endeavoured to farther the Right and promote justice, and if I have done grievous wrong myself, yet I have not failed entirely. But for this strife of mine, oppression would be more rampant than it is now; my own parish would not have received back the field of which we were defrauded, and the wicked mandatar would not have been replaced by a man who means well by the peasants. So you see, dear friend, the grace of God has been with me after all! I have not lived in vain; as for my evil deeds, I now pay the penalty, as is right and meet. Why should I complain!"
"Oh, Taras!" cried Leo, "what a heart was yours, and to come to such an end!"
"Nay," said Taras, "I am poor and sinful, and my pride was great; yet I always longed for the Right, and to see it done was my heart's desire. The Judge of men, I trust, will be merciful to me."
"Amen!" said Leo, with stifled voice, and he began to say the prayers, Taras repeating the words after him fervently. They reached the glen. The sentence was read, and the priest resumed prayers.
Taras stood up. The soldiers fired, and he was struck to the heart. He lay still in death, and his face bore an expression of deep content.
They buried him where he fell. There is no cross to show his grave, but the place to this day is known to the people as "the Glen of Taras."
Footnote 1: These mountaineers, like the Tirolese, know but one pronoun in addressing high or low, the "Thou" being used throughout the story in the original; but their straightforward simplicity may be sufficiently apparent, though substituting the English "You."
Footnote 2: Forced labour, a reminiscence of villanage, surviving in Slavonic countries.
Footnote 3: One of a church choir.
Footnote 4: Soldiers.
Footnote 5: The fur mantle.
Footnote 6: Orthodox Jews wear on their chest a short garment with fringes according to the rabinical tradition;videNumbers xv. 38.