Pan Zamoyski had not uttered pure calumny to his sister when he spoke
of Michael’s love for Anusia, for the young prince had fallen in love
with her, as had all, not excepting the pages of the castle. But that
love was not over-violent, and by no means aggressive; it was rather an
agreeable intoxication of the head and mind, than an impulse of the
heart, which, when it loves, impels to permanent possession of the
object beloved. For such action Michael had not the energy.
Nevertheless, Princess Griselda, dreaming of a brilliant future for her
son, was greatly terrified at that feeling. In the first moment the
sudden consent of her brother to Anusia’s departure astonished her; now
she ceased thinking of that, so far had the threatening danger seized
her whole soul. A conversation with her son, who grew pale and
trembled, and who before he had confessed anything shed tears,
confirmed her in the supposition that the danger was terrible.
Still she did not conquer her scruples of conscience at once, and it
was only when Anusia, who wanted to see a new world, new people, and
perhaps also turn the head of the handsome cavalier, fell at her feet
with a request for permission, that the princess did not find strength
sufficient to refuse.
Anusia, it is true, covered herself with tears at the thought of
parting with her mistress and mother; but for the clever girl it was
perfectly evident that by asking for the separation she had cleared
herself from every suspicion of having with preconceived purpose turned
the head of Prince Michael, or even Zamoyski himself.
Princess Griselda, from desire to know surely if there was a conspiracy
between her brother and Kmita, directed the latter to come to her
presence. Her brother’s promise not to leave Zamost had calmed her
considerably, it is true; she wished, however, to know more intimately
the man who was to conduct the young lady.
The conversation with Kmita set her at rest thoroughly.
There looked from the blue eyes of the young noble such sincerity and
truth that it was impossible to doubt him. He confessed at once that he
was in love with another, and besides he had neither the wish nor the
head for folly. Finally he gave his word as a cavalier that he would
guard the lady from every misfortune, even if he had to lay down his
head.
“I will take her safely to Pan Sapyeha, for Pan Zamoyski says that the
enemy has left Lublin. But I can do no more; not because I hesitate in
willing service for your highness, since I am always willing to shed my
blood for the widow of the greatest warrior and the glory of the whole
Commonwealth, but because I have my own grievous troubles, out of which
I know not whether I shall bring my life.”
“It is a question of nothing more,” answered the princess, “than that
you give her into the hands of Pan Sapyeha, and he will not refuse my
request to be her guardian.”
Here she gave Kmita her hand, which he kissed with the greatest
reverence, and she said in parting,—
“Be watchful, Cavalier, be watchful, and do not place safety in this,
that the country is free of the enemy.”
These last words arrested Kmita; but he had no time to think over them,
for Zamoyski soon caught him.
“Gracious Knight,” said he, gayly, “you are taking the greatest
ornament of Zamost away from me.”
“But at your wish,” answered Kmita.
“Take good care of her. She is a toothsome dainty. Some one may be
ready to take her from you.”
“Let him try! Oh, ho! I have given the word of a cavalier to the
princess, and with me my word is sacred.”
“Oh, I only say this as a jest. Fear not, neither take unusual
caution.”
“Still I will ask of your serene great mightiness a carriage with
windows.”
“I will give you two. But you are not going at once, are you?”
“I am in a hurry. As it is, I am here too long.”
“Then send your Tartars in advance to Krasnystav. I will hurry off a
courier to have oats ready for them there, and will give you an escort
of my own to that place. No evil can happen to you here, for this is my
country. I will give you good men of the German dragoons, bold fellows
and acquainted with the road. Besides, to Krasnystav the road is as if
cut out with a sickle.”
“But why am I to stay here?”
“To remain longer with us; you are a dear guest. I should be glad to
detain you a year. Meanwhile I shall send to the herds at Perespa;
perhaps some horse will be found which will not fail you in need.”
Kmita looked quickly into the eyes of his host; then, as if making a
sudden decision, said,—
“I thank you, I will remain, and will send on the Tartars.”
He went straight to give them orders, and taking Akbah Ulan to one side
he said,—
“Akbah Ulan, you are to go to Krasnystav by the road, straight as if
cut with a sickle. I stay here, and a day later will move after you
with Zamoyski’s escort. Listen now to what I say! You will not go to
Krasnystav, but strike into the first forest, not far from Zamost, so
that a living soul may not know of you; and when you hear a shot on the
highroad, hurry to me, for they are preparing some trick against me in
this place.”
“Your will,” said Akbah Ulan, placing his hand on his forehead, his
mouth, and his breast.
“I have seen through you, Pan Zamoyski,” said Kmita to himself. “In
Zamost you are afraid of your sister therefore you wish to seize the
young lady, and secret her somewhere in the neighborhood, and make of
me the instrument of your desires, and who knows if not to take my
life. But wait! You found a man keener than yourself; you will fall
into your own trap!”
In the evening Lieutenant Shurski knocked at Kmita’s door. This
officer, too, knew something, and had his suspicions; and because he
loved Anusia he preferred that she should depart, rather than fall into
the power of Zamoyski. Still he did not dare to speak openly, and
perhaps because he was not sure; but he wondered that Kmita had
consented to send the Tartars on in advance; he declared that the roads
were not so safe as was said, that everywhere armed bands were
wandering,—hands swift to deeds of violence.
Pan Andrei decided to feign that he divined nothing. “What can happen
to me?” asked he; “besides, Zamoyski gives me his own escort.”
“Bah! Germans!”
“Are they not reliable men?”
“Is it possible to depend upon those dog-brothers ever? It has happened
that after conspiring on the road they went over to the enemy.”
“But there are no Swedes on this side of the Vistula.”
“They are in Lublin, the dogs! It is not true that they have left. I
advise you honestly not to send the Tartars in advance, for it is
always safer in a large company.”
“It is a pity that you did not inform me before. I have one tongue in
my mouth, and an order given I never withdraw.”
Next morning the Tartars moved on. Kmita was to follow toward evening,
so as to pass the first night at Krasnystav. Two letters to Pan Sapyeha
were given him,—one from the princess, the other from her brother.
Kmita had a great desire to open the second, but he dared not; he
looked at it, however, before the light, and saw that inside was blank
paper. This discovery was proof to him that both the maiden and the
letters were to be taken from him on the road.
Meanwhile the horses came from Perespa, and Zamoyski presented the
knight with a steed beautiful beyond admiration; the steed he received
with thankfulness, thinking in his soul that he would ride farther on
him than Zamoyski expected. He thought also of his Tartars, who must
now be in the forest, and wild laughter seized him. At times again he
was indignant in soul, and promised to give the master of Zamost a
lesson.
Finally the hour of dinner came, which passed in great gloom. Anusia
had red eyes; the officers were in deep silence. Pan Zamoyski alone was
cheerful, and gave orders to fill the goblets; Kmita emptied his, one
after another. But when the hour of parting came, not many persons took
leave of the travellers, for Zamoyski had sent the officers to their
service. Anusia fell at the feet of the princess, and for a long time
could not be removed from her; the princess herself had evident
disquiet in her face. Perhaps she reproached herself in secret for
permitting the departure of a faithful servant at a period when mishap
might come easily. But the loud weeping of Michael, who held his fists
to his eyes, crying like a school-boy, confirmed the proud lady in her
conviction that it was needful to stifle the further growth of this
boyish affection. Besides, she was quieted by the hope that in the
family of Sapyeha the young lady would find protection, safety, and
also the great fortune which was to settle her fate for the rest of her
life.
“I commit her to your virtue, bravery, and honor,” said the princess
once more to Kmita; “and remember that you have sworn to me to conduct
her to Pan Sapyeha without fail.”
“I will take her as I would a glass, and in need will wind oakum around
her, because I have given my word; death alone will prevent me from
keeping it,” answered the knight.
He gave his arm to Anusia, but she was angry and did not look at him;
he had treated her rather slightingly, therefore she gave him her hand
very haughtily, turning her face and head in another direction.
She was sorry to depart, and fear seized her; but it was too late then
to draw back.
The moment came; they took their seats,—she in the carriage with her
old servant, Panna Suvalski, he on his horse,—and they started. Twelve
German horsemen surrounded the carriage and the wagon with Anusia’s
effects. When at last the doors in the Warsaw gate squeaked and the
rattle of wheels was heard on the drop-bridge, Anusia burst into loud
weeping.
Kmita bent toward the carriage. “Fear not, my lady, I will not eat
you!”
“Clown!” thought Anusia.
They rode some time along the houses outside the walls, straight toward
Old Zamost; then they entered fields and a pine-wood, which in those
days stretched along a hilly country to the Bug on one side; on the
other it extended, interrupted by villages, to Zavihost.
Night had fallen, but very calm and clear; the road was marked by a
silver line; only the rolling of the carriage and the tramp of the
horses broke the silence.
“My Tartars must be lurking here like wolves in a thicket,” thought
Kmita.
Then he bent his ear.
“What is that?” asked he of the officer who was leading the escort.
“A tramp! Some horseman is galloping after us!” answered the officer.
He had barely finished speaking when a Cossack hurried up on a foaming
horse, crying,—
“Pan Babinich! Pan Babinich! A letter from Pan Zamoyski.”
The retinue halted. The Cossack gave the letter to Kmita.
Kmita broke the seal, and by the light of a lantern read as follows:—
“Gracious and dearest Pan Babinich! Soon after the departure of Panna
Borzobogati tidings came to us that the Swedes not only have not left
Lublin, but that they intend to attack my Zamost. In view of this,
further journeying and peregrination become inconvenient. Considering
therefore the dangers to which a fair head might be exposed, we wish to
have Panna Borzobogati in Zamost. Those same knights will bring her
back; but you, who must be in haste to continue your journey, we do not
wish to trouble uselessly. Announcing which will of ours to your grace,
we beg you to give orders to the horseman according to our wishes.”
“Still he is honest enough not to attack my life; he only wishes to
make a fool of me,” thought Kmita. “But we shall soon see if there is a
trap here or not.”
Now Anusia put her head out of the window. “What is the matter?” asked
she.
“Nothing! Pan Zamoyski commends you once more to my bravery. Nothing
more.”
Here he turned to the driver,—
“Forward!”
The officer leading the horsemen reined in his horse. “Stop!” cried he
to the driver. Then to Kmita, “Why move on?”
“But why halt longer in the forest?” asked Kmita, with the face of a
stupid rogue.
“For you have received some order.”
“And what is that to you? I have received, and that is why I command to
move on.”
“Stop!” repeated the officer.
“Move on!” repeated Kmita.
“What is this?” inquired Anusia again.
“We will not go a step farther till I see the order!” said the officer,
with decision.
“You will not see the order, for it is not sent to you.”
“Since you will not obey it, I will carry it out. You move on to
Krasnystav, and have a care lest we give you something for the road,
but we will go home with the lady.”
Kmita only wished the officer to acknowledge that he knew the contents
of the order; this proved with perfect certainty that the whole affair
was a trick arranged in advance.
“Move on with God!” repeated the officer now, with a threat.
At that moment the horsemen began one after another to take out their
sabres.
“Oh, such sons! not to Zamost did you wish to take the maiden, but
aside somewhere, so that Pan Zamoyski might give free reign to his
wishes; but you have met with a more cunning man!” When Babinich had
said this, he fired upward from a pistol.
At this sound there was such an uproar in the forest, as if the shot
had roused whole legions of wolves sleeping near by. The howl was heard
in front, behind, from the sides. At once the tramp of horses sounded
with the cracking of limbs breaking under their hoofs, and on the road
were seen black groups of horsemen, who approached with unearthly
howling.
“Jesus! Mary! Joseph!” cried the terrified women in the carriage.
Now the Tartars rushed up like a cloud; but Kmita restrained them with
a triple cry, and turning to the astonished officer, began to boast,—
“Know whom you have met! Pan Zamoyski wished to make a fool of me, a
blind instrument. To you he intrusted the functions of a pander, which
you undertook, Sir Officer, for the favor of a master. Bow down to
Zamoyski from Babinich, and tell him that the maiden will go safely to
Pan Sapyeha.”
The officer looked around with frightened glance, and saw the wild
faces gazing with terrible eagerness on him and his men. It was evident
that they were waiting only for a word to hurl themselves on the twelve
horsemen and tear them in pieces.
“Your grace, you will do what you wish, for we cannot manage superior
power,” said he, with trembling voice; “but Pan Zamoyski is able to
avenge himself.”
Kmita laughed. “Let him avenge himself on you; for had it not come out
that you knew the contents of the order and had you not opposed the
advance, I should not have been sure of the trick, and should have
given you the maiden straightway. Tell the starosta to appoint a keener
pander than you.”
The calm tone with which Kmita said this assured the officer somewhat,
at least on this point,—that death did not threaten either him or his
troopers; therefore he breathed easily, and said,—
“And must we return with nothing to Zamost?”
“You will return with my letter, which will be written on the skin of
each one of you.”
“Your grace—”
“Take them!” cried Kmita; and he seized the officer himself by the
shoulder.
An uproar and struggle began around the carriage. The shouts of the
Tartars deadened the cries for assistance and the screams of terror
coming from the breasts of the women.
But the struggle did not last long, for a few minutes later the
horsemen were lying on the road tied, one at the side of the other.
Kmita gave command to flog them with bullock-skin whips, but not beyond
measure, so that they might retain strength to walk back to Zamost. The
common soldiers received one hundred, and the officer a hundred and
fifty lashes, in spite of the prayers and entreaties of Anusia, who not
knowing what was passing around her, and thinking that she had fallen
into terrible hands, began to implore with joined palms and tearful
eyes for her life.
“Spare my life, knight! In what am I guilty before you? Spare me, spare
me!”
“Be quiet, young lady!” roared Kmita.
“In what have I offended?”
“Maybe you are in the plot yourself?”
“In what plot? O God, be merciful to me, a sinner!”
“Then you did not know that Pan Zamoyski only permitted your departure
apparently, so as to separate you from the princess and carry you off
on the road, to make an attempt on your honor in some empty castle?”
“O Jesus of Nazareth!” screamed Anusia.
And there was so much truth and sincerity in that cry that Kmita said
more mildly,—
“How is that? Then you were not in the plot? That may be!”
Anusia covered her face with her hands, but she could say nothing; she
merely repeated, time after time,—
“Jesus, Mary! Jesus, Mary!”
“Calm yourself,” said Kmita, still more mildly. “You will go in safety
to Pan Sapyeha, for Pan Zamoyski did not know with whom he had to deal.
See, those men whom they are flogging were to carry you off. I give
them their lives, so that they may tell Pan Zamoyski how smoothly it
went with them.”
“Then have you defended me from shame?”
“I have, though I did not know whether you would be glad.”
Anusia, instead of making answer or contradiction, seized Pan Andrei’s
hand and pressed it to her pale lips; and sparks went from his feet to
his head.
“Give peace, for God’s sake!” cried he. “Sit in the carriage, for you
will wet your feet—and be not afraid! You would not be better cared for
with your mother.”
“I will go now with you even to the end of the world.”
“Do not say such things.”
“God will reward you for defending honor.”
“It is the first time that I have had the opportunity,” said Kmita. And
then he muttered in an undertone to himself: “So far I have defended
her as much as a cat sheds tears.”
Meanwhile the Tartars had ceased to beat the horsemen and Pan Andrei
gave command to drive them naked and bloody along the road toward
Zamost. They went, weeping bitterly. Their horses, weapons, and
clothing Kmita gave his Tartars; and then moved on quickly, for it was
unsafe to loiter.
On the road the young knight could not restrain himself from looking
into the carriage to gaze at the flashing eyes and wonderful face of
the maiden. He asked each time if she did not need something, if the
carriage was convenient, or the quick travelling did not tire her too
much.
She answered, with thankfulness, that it was pleasant to her as it had
never been. She had recovered from her terror completely. Her heart
rose in gratitude to her defender, and she thought: “He is not so rude
and surly as I held at first.”
“Ai, Olenka, what do I suffer for you!” said Kmita to himself; “do you
not feed me with ingratitude? Had this been in old times, u-ha!”
Then he remembered his comrades and the various deeds of violence which
he had committed in company with them; then he began to drive away
temptation, began to repeat for their unhappy souls, “Eternal rest.”
When they had reached Krasnystav, Kmita considered it better not to
wait for news from Zamost, and went on farther. But at parting he wrote
and sent to Zamoyski the following letter:—
Serene Great Mighty Lord Starosta,[5] and to me very Gracious Favorer
and Benefactor! Whomsoever God has made great in the world, to him He
deals out wit in more bountiful measure. I knew at once that you,
Serene Great Mighty Lord, only wished to put me on trial, when you sent
the order to give up Panna Borzobogati. I knew this all the better when
the horsemen betrayed that they knew the substance of the order, though
I did not show them the letter, and though you wrote to me that the
idea came to you only after my departure. As on the one hand I admire
all the more your penetration, so on the other, to put the careful
guardian more completely at rest, I promise anew that nothing will
suffice to lead me away from fulfilling the function imposed on me. But
since those soldiers, evidently misunderstanding your intention, turned
out to be great ruffians, and even threatened my life, I think that I
should have hit upon your thought if I had commanded to hang them.
Because I did not do so, I beg your forgiveness; still I gave orders to
flog them properly with bullock-skin whips, which punishment, if your
Great Mighty Lordship considers it too small, you can increase
according to your will. With this, hoping that I have earned the
increased confidence and gratitude of your Serene Great Mighty
Lordship, I subscribe myself the faithful and well-wishing servant of
your Serene Great Mighty Lordship.
Babinich.
The dragoons, when they had dragged themselves to Zamost late at night,
did not dare to appear before the eyes of their master; therefore he
learned of the whole matter from this letter which the Krasnystav
Cossack brought next day.
After he had read Kmita’s letter, Zamoyski shut himself up in his rooms
for three days, admitting no attendant save the chamber servants, who
brought him his food. They heard, also, how he swore in French, which
he did only when he was in the greatest fury.
By degrees, however, the storm was allayed. On the fourth day and fifth
Zamoyski was still very silent; he was ruminating over something and
pulling at his mustache; in a week, when he was very pleasant and had
drunk a little at table, he began to twirl his mustache, not to pull
it, and said to Princess Griselda,—
“Lady Sister, you know that there is no lack of penetration in me; a
couple of days ago I tested of purpose that noble who took Anusia, and
I can assure you that he will take her faithfully to Pan Sapyeha.”
About a month later, as it seems, Pan Sobiepan turned his heart in
another direction; and besides he became altogether convinced that what
had happened, happened with his will and knowledge.