The horned, daring soul in truth was unwilling to go out of its bodily
enclosure, and did not go out. In a month after his return to Lyubich
Pan Andrei’s wounds began to heal; but still earlier he regained
consciousness, and looking around the room, he saw at once where he
was. Then he called the faithful Soroka.
“Soroka,” said he, “the mercy of God is upon me. I feel that I shall
not die.”
“According to order!” answered the old soldier, brushing away a tear
with his fist.
And Kmita continued as if to himself: “The penance is over,—I see that
clearly. The mercy of God is upon me!”
Then he was silent for a moment; only his lips were moving in prayer.
“Soroka!” said he again, after a time.
“At the service of your grace!”
“Who are in Vodokty?”
“The lady and the sword-bearer of Rossyeni.”
“Praised be the name of the Lord! Did any one come here to inquire
about me?”
“They sent from Vodokty until we told them that you would be well.”
“And did they stop then?”
“Then they stopped.”
“They know nothing yet, but they shall know from me,” said Kmita. “Did
you tell no one that I fought as Babinich?”
“There was no order,” answered the soldier.
“And the Lauda men with Pan Volodyovski have not come home yet?”
“Not yet; but they may come any day.”
With this the conversation of the first day was at an end. Two weeks
later Kmita had risen and was walking on crutches; the following week
he insisted on going to church.
“We will go to Upita,” said he to Soroka; “for it is needful to begin
with God, and after Mass we will go to Vodokty.”
Soroka did not dare to oppose; therefore he merely ordered straw to be
placed in the wagon. Pan Andrei arrayed himself in holiday costume, and
they drove away.
They arrived at an hour when there were few people yet in the church.
Pan Andrei, leaning on Soroka’s arm, went to the high altar itself, and
knelt in the collator’s seat; his face was very thin, emaciated, and
besides he wore a long beard which had grown during the war and his
sickness. Whoever looked at him thought that he was some passing
personage who had come in to Mass; for there was movement everywhere,
the country was full of passing nobles who were going from the field to
their own estates.
The church filled slowly with people and with neighboring nobles; then
owners of inherited land from a distance began to arrive, for in many
places churches had been burned, and it was necessary to come to Mass
as far as Upita.
Kmita, sunk in prayer, saw no one. He was roused first from his pious
meditation by the squeaking of footstools under the tread of persons
entering the pew. Then he raised his head, looked, and saw right there
above him the sweet, sad face of Olenka.
She also saw him, and recognized him that moment; for she drew back
suddenly, as if frightened. First a flush, and then a deathly pallor
came out on her face; but with the greatest exercise of will she
overcame her emotion, and knelt there near him; the third place was
occupied by the sword-bearer.
And Kmita and she bowed their heads, and rested their faces on their
hands; they knelt there in silence side by side, and their hearts beat
so that both heard them perfectly. At last Pan Andrei spoke,—
“May Jesus Christ be praised!”
“For the ages of ages,” answered Olenka, in an undertone. And they said
no more. Now the priest came out to preach. Kmita listened to him; but
in spite of his efforts he could not distinguish the words, he could
not understand the preacher. Here she is, the desired one, for whom he
had yearned during years, who had not left his mind nor his heart; she
was here now at his side. He felt her near; and he dared not turn his
eyes to her, for he was in the church, but closing his lids, he caught
her breathing with his ear.
“Olenka! Olenka is near me!” said he to himself, “see, God has
commanded us to meet in the church after absence.” Then his thoughts
and his heart repeated without ceasing: “Olenka, Olenka, Olenka!”
And at moments a weeping joy caught him by the throat, and again he was
carried away by such an enthusiasm of thankful prayer that he lost
consciousness of what was happening to him.
She knelt continually, with her face hidden in her hands.
The priest had finished the sermon, and descended from the pulpit.
All at once a clatter of arms was heard in front of the church, and a
tramp of horses’ hoofs. Some one cried before the threshold of the
church, “Lauda returning!” and suddenly in the sanctuary itself were
heard murmurs, then a bustle, then a still louder calling,—
“Lauda! Lauda!”
The crowd began to sway; all heads were turned at once toward the door.
With that there was a throng in the door, and a body of armed men
appeared in the church. At the head of them marched with a clatter of
spurs Volodyovski and Zagloba. The crowd opened before them; they
passed through the whole church, knelt before the altar, prayed a short
time, and then entered the vestry.
The Lauda men halted half-way, not greeting any one, out of respect for
the place.
Ah, what a sight! Grim faces, swarthy from winds, grown thin from toils
of war, cut with sabres of Swedes, Germans, Hungarians, and
Wallachians! The whole history of the war and the glory of God-fearing
Lauda was written on them with swords. There were the gloomy Butryms,
the Stakyans, the Domasheviches, the Gostsyeviches, a few of all; but
hardly one fourth returned of those who on a time had left Lauda.
Many women are seeking in vain for their husbands, many old men are
searching in vain for their sons; therefore the weeping increases, for
those too who find their own are weeping from joy. The whole church is
filled with sobbing. From time to time some one cries out a beloved
name, and is silent; and they stand in glory, leaning on their sabres,
but over their deep scars tears too are falling on their mustaches.
Now a bell, rung at the door of the vestry, quieted the weeping and the
murmur. All knelt; the priest came to finish Mass, and after him
Volodyovski and Zagloba.
But the priest was so moved that when he turned to the people, saying,
“_Dominus vobiscum!_” his voice trembled. When he came to the Gospel,
and all the sabres were drawn at once from the scabbards, as a sign
that Lauda was ever ready to defend the faith, and in the church it was
bright from steel, the priest had barely strength to finish the Gospel.
Then amid universal emotion the concluding prayer was sung, and Mass
was ended; but the priest, when he had placed the sacrament in the
tabernacle, turned, after the last Gospel, to the people, in sign that
he wished to say something.
There was silence, therefore, and the priest with cordial words greeted
first the returning soldiers; then he gave notice that he would read a
letter from the king, brought by the colonel of the Lauda squadron.
The silence grew deeper, and after a while the voice from the altar was
heard through the whole church,—
“We, Yan Kazimir, King of Poland, Grand Duke of Lithuania, Mazovia,
Prussia, etc., etc., etc. In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy
Ghost, Amen!
“Since wicked people must receive punishment in this temporal life for
their crimes against king and country before they stand in presence of
the heavenly tribunal, it is equally just that virtue receive a reward,
which should add the lustre of glory to virtue itself, and give
posterity the desire to follow its examples.
“Therefore we make it known to the whole order of knighthood, namely,
to men of arms and civilians having office, together with all the
inhabitants of the Grand Principality of Lithuania and our Starostaship
of Jmud, that whatever accusations have rested on Pan Andrei Kmita, the
banneret of Orsha, who is greatly beloved by us, are to vanish from the
memory of men, in view of the following services and merit, and are to
detract in nowise from the honor and glory of the said banneret of
Orsha.”
Here the priest ceased to read, and looked toward the bench on which
Pan Andrei was sitting. Kmita rose for a moment, and sitting down
again, rested his haggard head on the railing and closed his lids, as
if in a faint.
But all eyes were turned to him; all lips began to whisper,—
“Pan Kmita! Kmita! There, near the Billeviches.”
But the priest beckoned, and began to read on amid deep silence,—
“Which banneret of Orsha, though in the beginning of this unfortunate
Swedish invasion he declared himself on the side of the prince voevoda,
did it not from any selfishness, but from the purest good-will to the
country, brought to this error by Prince Yanush Radzivill, who
persuaded him that no road of safety remained to the Commonwealth save
that which the prince himself took.
“But when he visited Prince Boguslav, who, thinking him a traitor,
discovered to him clearly all the hostile intrigues against the
country, the said banneret of Orsha not only did not promise to raise
his hand against our person, but with armed force carried away Prince
Boguslav himself, so as to avenge us and the suffering country.”
“O God, be merciful to me, a sinner!” cried the voice of a woman right
there near Pan Andrei; and in the church there broke out anew a murmur
of amazement.
The priest read on,—
“He was shot by Boguslav, but had barely recovered when he went to
Chenstohova, and there defended with his own breast that most sacred
Retreat, giving an example of endurance and valor to all; there, in
danger of his life and health, he blew up with powder the greatest
siege-gun. Seized after that daring deed, he was condemned to death by
cruel enemies, and tortured with living fire.”
With this the weeping of women was heard here and there through the
church. Olenka was trembling as in a paroxysm of fever.
“But rescued by the power of the Queen of the Angels from those
terrible straits, he came to us in Silesia, and on our return to this
dear country, when the treacherous enemy prepared an ambush for us, the
said banneret of Orsha rushed himself, with his three attendants, on
the whole power of the enemy, to save our person. There, cut down and
thrust through with rapiers, swimming in his own blood, he was borne
from the field as if lifeless—”
Olenka placed both her hands on her temples, and raising her head,
began to catch the air into her parted lips. From her bosom came out
the groan,—
“O God! O God! O God!”
And again the voice of the priest sounded, also more and more moved:—
“And when with our endeavors he returned to health, he did not rest,
but continued the war, standing forth with immeasurable praise in every
necessity, held up as a model to knighthood by the hetmans of both
people, till the fortunate capture of Warsaw, after which he was sent
to Prussia under the assumed name of Babinich—”
When that name was heard in the church, the noise of the people changed
as it were into the roar of a river.
“Then he is Babinich? Then he is that crusher of the Swedes, the savior
of Volmontovichi, the victor in so many battles,—that is Kmita?”
The murmur increased still more; throngs began to push toward the altar
to see him more closely.
“God bless him! God bless him!” said hundreds of voices.
The priest turned to the seat and blessed Pan Andrei, who, leaning
continually against the railing, was more like a dead than a living
man, for the soul had gone out of him with happiness and had risen
toward the sky.
The priest read on,—
“He visited the enemy’s country with fire and sword, was the main cause
of the victory at Prostki; with his own hand he overthrew and captured
Prince Boguslav. Called late to our starostaship of Jmud, what immense
service he rendered there, how many towns and villages he saved from
the hands of the enemy, must be known to the inhabitants of that
starostaship better than to others.”
“It is known, it is known, it is known!” was thundered through the
whole church.
“Silence!” said the priest, raising the king’s letter.
“Therefore we, considering all his services to us and the country, so
many that a son could not have done more for his father and his mother,
have determined to publish them in this our letter, so that so great a
cavalier, so great a defender of the faith, of king and Commonwealth,
should no longer be pursued by the ill-will of men, but go clothed with
the praise and universal love proper to the virtuous. Before then the
next Diet, confirming these our wishes, shall remove from him every
stain, and before we shall reward him with the starostaship of Upita,
which is vacant, we ask earnestly of the inhabitants dear to us of our
starostaship of Jmud to retain in their hearts and thoughts these our
words, which justice itself, the foundation of States, has commanded us
to put into their memory.”
Here the priest concluded, and turning to the altar began to pray; but
Pan Andrei felt on a sudden that a soft hand was seizing his hand. He
looked. It was Olenka; and before he had time to come to himself, to
withdraw his hand, she had raised it and pressed it to her lips in
presence of all, before the altar and the people.
“Olenka!” cried the astonished Kmita.
But she had arisen, and covering her face with a veil, said to old
Billevich,—
“Uncle, let us go, let us go from here quickly!”
And they went out through the door of the vestry.
Pan Andrei tried to rise to follow her, but he could not. His strength
left him entirely.
But a quarter of an hour later he was in front of the church, supported
on one side by Pan Volodyovski, on the other by Zagloba.
The throng of people, small nobles and common men, crowded around.
Women, some barely able to tear away from the breast of a husband
returned from the war, led by curiosity special to the sex, ran to look
at that Kmita, once terrible, now the savior of Lauda and the coming
starosta. The throng became greater every instant, till the Lauda men
had at last to surround him and protect him from the crush.
“Pan Andrei!” cried Zagloba, “see, we have brought you a present. You
did not expect such a one. Now to Vodokty, to Vodokty, to the betrothal
and the wedding!”
Further words of Zagloba were lost in the thundering shout raised at
once by the Lauda men, under the leadership of Yuzva Footless,—
“Long life to Pan Kmita!”
“Long life!” repeated the crowd. “Long life to our starosta of Upita!
Long life!”
“All to Vodokty!” roared Zagloba, again.
“To Vodokty! to Vodokty!” shouted a thousand throats. “As best men to
Vodokty with Pan Kmita, with our savior! To the lady! to Vodokty!”
And an immense movement began. Lauda mounted its horses; every man
living rushed to wagons, carts, ponies. People on foot began to run
across field and forest. The shout “To Vodokty!” rang through the whole
place. The roads were thronged with many-colored crowds.
Kmita rode in his little wagon between Volodyovski and Zagloba, and
time after time he embraced one or the other of them. He was not able
to speak yet, he was too much excited; but they pushed on as if Tartars
were attacking Upita. All the wagons and carts rushed in like manner
around them.
They were well outside the place, when Pan Michael suddenly bent to
Kmita’s ear. “Yendrek,” asked he, “but do you not know where the other
is?”
“In Vodokty.”
Then, whether it was the wind or excitement that began to move the
mustaches of Pan Michael, is unknown; it is enough that during the
whole way they did not cease to thrust forward like two awls, or like
the feelers of a Maybug.
Zagloba was singing with delight in such a terrible bass voice that he
frightened the horses,—
“There were two of us, Kasyenko, two in this world;
But methinks, somehow, that three are now riding.”
Anusia was not at church that Sunday, for she had in her turn to stay
with the weakly Panna Kulvyets, with whom she and Olenka remained on
alternate days.
The whole morning she had been occupied with watching and taking care
of the sick woman, so that it was late when she could go to her
prayers. Barely had she said the last “Amen,” when there was a
thundering before the gate, and Olenka rushed into the room like a
storm.
“Jesus! Mary! What has happened?” screamed Anusia, looking at her.
“Anusia, you do not know who Pan Babinich is? He is Pan Kmita!”
Anusia sprang to her feet: “Who told you?”
“The king’s letter was read—Pan Volodyovski brought it—the Lauda men—”
“Has Pan Volodyovski returned?” screamed Anusia; and she threw herself
into Olenka’s arms.
Olenka took this outburst of feeling as a proof of Anusia’s love for
her; for she had become feverish, was almost unconscious. On her face
were fiery spots, and her breast rose and fell as if from great pain.
Then Olenka began to tell without order and in a broken voice
everything which she had heard in the church, running at the same time
through the room as if demented, repeating every moment, “I am not
worthy of him!” reproaching herself terribly, saying that she had done
him more injustice than all others, that she had not even been willing
to pray for him, when he was swimming in his own blood in defence of
the Holy Lady, the country, and the king.
In vain did Anusia, while running after her through the room, endeavor
to comfort her. She repeated continually one thing,—that she was not
worthy of him, that she would not dare to look in his eyes; then again
she would begin to speak of the deeds of Babinich, of the seizure of
Boguslav, of his revenge, of saving the king, of Prostki,
Volmontovichi, and Chenstohova; and at last of her own faults, of her
stubbornness, for which she must do penance in the cloister.
Further reproaches were interrupted by Pan Tomash, who, falling into
the room like a bomb, cried,—
“In God’s name, all Upita is rolling after us! They are already in the
village, and Babinich is surely with them!”
Indeed, a distant shout at that moment announced the approach of the
crowds. The sword-bearer, seizing Olenka, conducted her to the porch;
Anusia rushed after them.
At that moment the throng of men and horses looked black in the
distance; and as far as the eye could reach the whole road was packed
with them. At last they reached the yard. Those on foot were storming
over ditches and fences; the wagons rolled in through the gates, and
all were shouting and throwing up their caps.
At last appeared the crowd of armed Lauda men, and the wagon, in which
sat three persons,—Kmita, Volodyovski, and Zagloba.
The wagon stopped at some distance, for so many people had crowded up
before the entrance that it was impossible to approach. Zagloba and
Volodyovski sprang out first, and helping Kmita to descend, took him at
once by the arms.
“Give room!” cried Zagloba.
“Give room!” repeated the Lauda men.
The people pushed back at once, so that in the middle of the crowd
there was an open road along which the two knights led Kmita to the
porch. He was very pale, but walked with head erect, at once confused
and happy.
Olenka leaned against the door-post, and dropped her arms without
control at her sides; but when he was near she looked into the face of
the emaciated man,—who after such a time of separation approached, like
Lazarus, without a drop of blood in his face,—then sobbing, rent her
breast again. He, from weeping, from happiness, and from confusion, did
not know himself what to say,—
“What, Olenka, what?”
But she dropped suddenly to his knees,—
“Yendrek!” cried she, “I am not worthy to kiss thy wounds!”
At that moment strength came back to the knight; he seized her from the
ground like a feather, and pressed her to his bosom.
One immense shout, from which the walls of the house trembled and the
last of the leaves fell from the trees, dinned every ear. The Lauda men
began to fire from pistols; caps flew into the air; around nothing was
to be seen but faces carried away by joy, gleaming eyes, and open
mouths shouting,—
“Vivat Kmita! vivat Panna Billevich! vivat the young couple!”
“Vivat two couples!” roared Zagloba; but his voice was lost in the
general storm.
Vodokty was turned as it were into a camp. All day they were
slaughtering oxen and sheep at command of the sword-bearer, and digging
out of the ground barrels of mead and beer. In the evening all sat down
to a feast,—the oldest and most noted in the rooms, the younger in the
servants’ hall; the simple people rejoiced equally at fires in the
yard.
At the chief table the cup went around in honor of two happy pairs; but
when good feeling had reached the highest degree, Zagloba raised the
following toast:—
“To thee I return, worthy Pan Andrei, and to thee old friend, Pan
Michael! It was not enough to expose your breasts, to shed blood, to
cut down the enemy! Your work is not finished; for since a multitude of
people have fallen in time of this terrible war, you must now give new
inhabitants, new defenders to this Commonwealth. For this I think you
will not lack either in manhood or good will. Worthy gentlemen! to the
honor of those coming generations! May God bless them, and permit them
to guard this legacy which we leave them, restored by our toil, by our
sweat, by our blood. When grievous times come, let them remember us and
never despair, considering that there are no straits out of which it is
impossible to rise, with united forces and the help of God.”
Pan Andrei not long after his marriage served in a new war which broke
out on the eastern side of the Commonwealth; but the thundering victory
of Charnyetski and Sapyeha over Hovanski and Dolgoruki, and the hetmans
of the kingdom over Sheremetyeff, soon brought it to an end. Then Kmita
returned, covered with fresh glory, and settled down permanently in
Vodokty. After him his cousin Yakub became banneret of Orsha,—Yakub,
who afterward belonged to the unfortunate confederation of the army;
but Pan Andrei, standing soul and heart with the king, rewarded with
the starostaship of Upita, lived long in exemplary harmony and love
with Lauda, surrounded by universal respect. His ill-wishers—for who
has them not?—said, it is true, that he listened over-much to his wife
in everything. He was not ashamed of that, however, but acknowledged
himself that in every important affair he sought her advice.
FOOTNOTES:
Footnote 1: This name is derived from _baba_ an old woman.
Footnote 2: Sapyeha.
Footnote 3: Lvoff.
Footnote 4: Self-lord Zamoyski.
Footnote 5: Zamoyski was starosta of Kaluj.
Footnote 6: “Strachy na Lachy” (Terror on Poles) is a Polish saying,
about equivalent to “impossible.”
Footnote 7: “Two-bridged” or “of two bridges,” from _bis_ and _pons_.
Footnote 8: Byes means “devil;” so Byes Cornutus is “horned devil.”
Footnote 9: Rogaty means “horned.” Borzobogaty means “quickly rich.”
Bardzorogaty means “greatly horned.”
Footnote 10: This means that if Zagloba had been preceptor to the
hetman or Kovalski, they would have had better wit. “Having a stave
loose or lacking in his barrel,” means, in Polish, that a man’s mind is
not right.
THE END.
_THE ZAGLOBA ROMANCES_
_by Henryk Sienkiewicz. Translated from
the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin_.
WITH FIRE AND SWORD
An Historical Novel of Poland and Russia. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. $1.50
_net_.
The first of the famous trilogy of historical romances of Poland,
Russia, and Sweden. Their publication has been received as an event in
literature. Charles Dudley Warner, in _Harper’s Magazine_, affirms that
the Polish author has in Zagloba _given a new creation to literature_.
_A capital story_. The only modern romance with which it can be
compared for fire, sprightliness, rapidity of action, swift changes,
and absorbing interest is “The Three Musketeers” of Dumas.—_New York
Tribune_.
THE DELUGE
An Historical Novel of Poland, Sweden, and Russia. A Sequel to “With
Fire and Sword.” With map. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. $3.00 _net_
Marvellous in its grand descriptions.—_Chicago Inter-Ocean_.
Has the humor of a Cervantes and the grim vigor of Defoe.—_Boston
Gazette_.
PAN MICHAEL
An Historical Novel of Poland, Russia, and the Ukraine. A Sequel to
“With Fire and Sword” and “The Deluge.” Crown 8vo. $1.50 _net_.
The interest of the trilogy, both historical and romantic, is
splendidly sustained.—_The Dial_, Chicago.
LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, Publishers
Boston, Massachusetts
QUO VADIS
A Narrative of the Time of Nero. By Henryk Sienkiewicz. Translated from
the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. $1.50 _net_.
One of the most remarkable books of the decade. It burns upon the brain
the struggles and triumphs of the early Church.—_Boston Daily
Advertiser_.
It will become recognized by virtue of its own merits as the one heroic
monument built by the modern novelist above the ruins of decadent Rome,
and in honor of the blessed martyrs of the early Church.—_Brooklyn
Eagle_.
Our debt to Sienkiewicz is not less than our debt to his translator and
friend, Jeremiah Curtin. The diversity of the language, the rapid flow
of thought, the picturesque imagery of the descriptions are all
his.—_Boston Transcript_.
_By the same Author_
THE KNIGHTS OF THE CROSS
An Historical Romance of Poland and Germany. Translated from the Polish
by Jeremiah Curtin. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. $1.75 _net_.
The construction of the story is beyond praise. It is difficult to
conceive of any one who will not pick the book up with
eagerness.—_Chicago Evening Post_.
A book that holds your almost breathless attention as in a vise from
the very beginning, for in it love and strife, the most thrilling of
all worldly subjects, are described masterfully.—_The Boston Journal_.
Another remarkable book. His descriptions are tremendously effective;
one can almost hear the sound of the carnage; to the mind’s eye the
scene of battle is unfolded by a master artist.—_The Hartford Courant_.
Thrillingly dramatic, full of strange local color and very faithful to
its period, besides having that sense of the mysterious and weird that
throbs in the Polish blood and infects alike their music and
literature.—_The St. Paul Globe_.
LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, Publishers
Boston, Massachusetts