GATHERING STRENGTH.
The steep, narrow path which from Zulawce winds westward into the
uplands, is not without danger to the pedestrian, but safe enough to
the small, sure-footed mountain pony of the Huzuls. Here and there it
takes you into one of those cool, dusky clefts which separate the
terraced heights, leading for the most part straight across the
mountains, so that each sudden rise is succeeded by an equally
precipitous descent, and the traveller would hardly imagine he were
nearing the very top of the chain, if every successive ridge he gained
did not show him a wider and more glorious expanse of the plain left
behind. For the view is open from every summit where the growing copse
wood is swept away or kept low by the terrific eastern gales which
burst upon these elevated regions from the broad level between the
Dniester and the Don; tall bracken and giant trees closing in the path
elsewhere, one particular spot excepted, where it winds between bare
rocks of a brownish yellow and strangely shaped.
This is the Red Hollow, some half-day's journey from Zulawce.
Traversing it, you would most likely follow the main path, westward
still, to the Black Water and into the Marmaros beyond; indeed, few
travellers, on reaching the centre of this rocky glen, where beneath a
stunted fir a small red cross is to be seen, would strike off at right
angles on what could scarcely be called a path. It is the poorest of
tracks, now ascending boldly, now descending abruptly amid boulders and
crumbling stones; and the traveller who loves his life, having ventured
so far, would do well to surrender himself to the safer instincts of
his pony. It is a desperate attempt at best; but whoever has dared it
will remember it with rapture. For having traversed a wilderness of
nature's _debris_, you pass a rocky entrance overlooking a valley, the
very home of beauty bright and still, wondrously fair, and its like
hardly to be found even amid the glories of the Carpathians.
Lovely beech woods enclose a small lake of clearest blue; the sheltered
slopes around are covered with wild flowers, in a profusion which is
rare even in the lower valleys; and between bright leaves, in due
season, the luscious, deep-coloured strawberries abound. Eastward the
lake has an outlet, a tumbling brook making its way through a narrow
cleft towards the Pruth, while all around from the slopes silvery rills
come down, just ruffling the blue mirror which receives them. Above and
beyond, this gem of mountain scenery is overhung with rugged peaks and
solemn fir woods, looking down in proud protection upon this most
favoured spot. The people round about have learned to call it again by
its ancient name, "The Crystal Springs;" but in the days we write of it
came to be known as "The Waters of Taras."
Here was his camp--hither he brought his men on that Palm Sunday of
1839.
The place was well chosen, secluded enough for safety, except in case
of treason; a natural fastness, too, which could be held against almost
any attack, and yet not far from the lowlands, for in following that
outlet of the lake the sedgy banks of the Pruth might be reached in
three hours. Moreover, the Red Hollow and its neighbourhood is the
best-stocked hunting ground in these game-haunts; a fact not to be
overlooked by a captain of outlaws, determined to make honest provision
for his men.
For the matter of that, however, it seemed at first as though Taras,
apart from this, need never be at a loss how to feed his men. The news
of his arrival by the Crystal Springs had scarcely had time to spread
before the dwellers in the glens round about arrived with a friendly
greeting of bread, sheep's flesh, butter, and milk for the new
neighbour. Taras knew what such hospitality cost these people, and he
had money enough and to spare; but he could not refuse their gifts,
well aware that they would look upon it as an insult to be resented.
Nor was he pleased that their young men should offer to join him, bold
and fearless as they were, huntsmen and shepherds of the mountain
wilds, accustomed to any hardship, and seasoned to any storm. Their
sympathy with the avenger was more the love of fighting than anything
else; but they were honest, and Taras knew they would not forsake him
in any plight, still less play him false in trouble. Nevertheless, to
most of them he turned a deaf ear. He knew that these half-savage
hordes were strangers to common obedience; he could never have trained
them to the discipline he intended to uphold, and though he might
perchance have taught them to respect property, he knew there was no
trusting them with defenceless women anywhere.
Three of them, however, he admitted, because he believed himself
certain of their inmost souls. These were a couple of huntsmen who had
acted as his guides on his former visits, and the "Royal Eagle," Julko
Rosenko, youngest son of Hilarion the Just, who dwelt by the Black
Water. His handsome presence, rare strength and activity, together with
a courage so dauntless and daring that it was conspicuous even among
that reckless tribe, had gained him the proud name he bore. And of the
Huzuls who offered themselves to Taras he was the only one actuated not
solely by a spirit of defiant adventurousness, but by a deep longing to
take vengeance for violence he had suffered. When a mere youth, he had,
by order of a military captain, been dragged from a fair to the
barracks at Wiznitz, and declared fit for service, against all show of
right. His fine figure had thus brought him to grief. In vain he
remonstrated, assuring his captors he was not even near the legal age
for conscription; their answer was: "We have no wings, young eagle, to
fetch you from your eyry when you may have reached the age. You had
better submit; be reasonable, and you will enjoy the life." But the
young man refused to be "reasonable;" no punishment, no bullying, could
force him to take the military oath. For eight months he held out, when
the visit of a higher officer brought sharp censure to the captain and
liberation to the youth. He returned to the mountains thirsting for
revenge; but Julko loved his father, Hilarion the Just, too dearly to
grieve him by joining those who were looked upon as the refuse of the
plains; he did not become a hajdamak, the repressed fury eating the
deeper into his passionate heart. Now, at last, the longed-for hour of
retribution seemed to have come: to join the avenger was no shame, but
a glory.
At first then Taras's band consisted of seven in all--the three Huzuls,
his own two men, and the youths, Lazarko and Wassilj, the latter of
whom was almost always absent reconnoitring. Old Jemilian would shake
his faithful head sadly, because the expected reinforcements were slow
in appearing; and when Wassilj, after his first day's scouting, made a
glowing description of the enthusiasm he had met with, the old man
laughed grimly, saying: "I doubt not but they will find us worthy of
song, even when we have come to the gallows." Taras was unmoved; his
heart having gone through the heaving waters, seemed to have gained the
shore of a mysterious calm. He was silent, solemn, and though a rare
smile might come to his lips, it never reached his eyes; but that
expression of brooding thought, of agonised conflict, had left him.
When the news was brought that Anusia had gone out of her mind he shook
his head. "I do not believe it," he said to Jemilian; "I know what one
can bear and not go mad. I know it from my own experience, but now the
worst is over. I have lost much, but I have recovered myself." And he
would cheer his followers: "Never fear, we shall lack neither work, nor
fit hands to do it." Whereupon he ordered the construction of a
storehouse, a shelter for horses, and barracks to lodge thirty men.
Nor was his confidence mistaken; not a week passed before helpers
poured in, one of the very first being a man whom neither Taras nor any
one else in that country would have expected to volunteer for such
service.
It was early in the morning, the rocky heights and the firs above them
stood forth against a background of brilliant light; but the lake below
and the meadows on the gentle slopes had just caught the first rosy
glimmer of day. Taras had relieved the "Royal Eagle," who had done
sentry duty through the night, and was sitting with his gun between his
knees on the solitary rock against which the barracks were to be
erected. He sat motionless, his eye commanding the fair valley from the
rocky entrance on the one side to the shrubby cleft on the other,
through which the lake found its outlet. The dewy stillness of early
morning hung on bush and brae. But suddenly he bent forward, listening.
There were steps approaching from the Red Hollow, distant yet, but
falling heavily on the rocky soil, as of a traveller unused to such
rough descent. The dark outline of a human figure grew visible
presently amid the yellowish rocks, and Taras scanned the new comer.
"A Jew!" he exclaimed, with great surprise; "and he carries a firelock!
what on earth can he want?"
Well might Taras wonder, for a Jew bearing arms had never crossed his
vision. Men of that persuasion in the East have a horror of weapons of
any kind, and any humble Israelite who may be met with occasionally in
the mountain-wilds is but a pedlar, trudging with his bundle of stuffs
from homestead to homestead with no ground of safety but the goodness
of the God of Abraham or the knowledge of his own abject poverty. But
the son of Jacob now coming hither carried his head high, and his
back was bowed by no other burden than the musket, the barrel of
which caught sparkles from the rising sun. He was young, tall, and
broad-shouldered; and if his ample caftan gave sorry proof of the
difficult path he had come by, there was no weariness in his movements.
With undaunted step he approached the hetman.
"I greet you, Taras." he said. "I recognised you at first sight,
although I daresay you have forgotten me; you used to be kind to me
when I was a boy."
Taras gave a searching glance at the face before him, sharp-featured,
gloomy, and furrowed as with terrible experience. "Nashko!" he cried,
"is it you? Little Nashko, the son of the innkeeper at Ridowa?"
He held out both his hands, and the Jew caught them, his face trembling
with delight. "I could hardly be sure of such a welcome," he said. "It
is I indeed--your old friend Nashko, son of Berish!"
"But how is it?" cried Taras, making him sit beside him. "When I left
my own village, twelve years ago, I cut you a reed-pipe to console you,
and now----"
"Now," continued the Jew, with a dark smile, "it is a wonder I am not
grey-haired, to judge from this face of mine. I am but four-and-twenty,
Taras, but an old man through sorrow and despair."
"Things have gone ill with you? You have suffered wrong, and come to me
to redress it?"
Nashko shook his head, yet added quickly, with a scrutinising look in
Taras's face. "And if it were so, would you help me, though I am a
Jew?"
"Can you doubt it?" exclaimed Taras, warmly. "Does the wrong-doer
inquire into his victim's faith? How, then, should I? As they inflict
wrong where they list, it is for me to right it wherever I find it. And
I would help you, even if I hated the Jews. But I do not hate you,
because, from a child upward, I have striven to be just. And whenever I
heard people speak ill of them, I thought of you, Nashko, and of your
father. Old Berish lived among us honestly and like one of ourselves.
He drew a modest livelihood from his tavern, and tilled his fields with
diligence. The people of Ridowa respected him, therefore, as they would
any other good man among them. And were not you as merry-hearted and
plucky a boy as any in the village? The only difference was that you
wore no cross, but the Jewish fringe.[6] And I always thought, it is
not the difference of race; but the Jews behave to us just as we behave
to them. Say on, then; what can I do for you?"
"Thank you, heartily," said the Jew, again seizing his hand. "But I
have not come to beg for your help. It is too late for that, both as
regards myself and my sister. And if there were a chance of revenge I
would do the deed alone! I have come with another prayer, and the words
you have just spoken give me courage to ask it. Let me join your band,
Taras!"
"You!" cried the outlaw, starting from his seat in sheer amazement. "A
Jew fighting for the right in the mountains. This has never been heard
of since the beginning of days. To be sure, you have grown up like one
of ourselves, as I have just been saying; still it is unheard-of. Poor
fellow, what grievous wrong you must have suffered!"
"Grievous, indeed; but after all it is only what has happened to others
before and will happen again," replied the Jew, his voice quivering
with the deep trouble of his soul. "But while some can rise from their
shame and forget it, others are undone for ever.... You will scarcely
remember my sister Jutta?"
"O! yes," returned Taras, eagerly, "a dear little golden-haired
thing--the prettiest child of the village."
"Well, she grew but the fairer as she grew in years. My father and I
guarded her as the apple of our eye; my mother having died early, he
and I brought her up, and she was the joy and pride of our life.
Several respectable men had asked her in marriage, although we were
poor, but my father would not give her to any of them; none seemed good
enough for our sweet girl. He regretted it sorely in his dying hour,
and could only take comfort in the sacred promise I made him,
henceforth to watch over her with double care and let my own happiness
in life be subordinate to hers. I kept my promise. Our farm brought in
little, and the tavern still less, because the lord of the manor
increased the rent from year to year; nevertheless, I remained at
Ridowa, because my going forth to look for a living elsewhere would
have obliged Jutta to seek service with strangers. For her sake also I
remained unmarried, that she might remain mistress of the house and my
only care. For both these reasons the Jews of Barnow were dissatisfied
with me, for, in the judgment of my people, it is well-nigh a wrong to
remain unwedded, and nearly as bad to live apart from one's fellows in
the faith without forcible reason. But I had other trouble to think of
than the displeasure of the Jews of Barnow! A young nephew of our
Count, a certain Baron Kaminski, was visiting at the manor. He saw my
sister, and fell in love with her--after the fashion, Taras, in which a
young Polish noble will play at love with a poor Jewish maiden! He
often came riding by, annoying her with his addresses whenever he knew
I was out of the way. She kept it from me as long as she could, knowing
my passionate temper, but the poor child at last could not help telling
me. She had judged me aright--I was furious; and had I met the
youngster in that hour, with these hands of mine I would have strangled
him. But, growing calmer, I judged it best to appeal to our Count,
begging him to interfere. He promised to speak to his nephew, and we
seemed to be left at peace, the young baron never coming near the
place, and even condescending to make some sort of apology on meeting
me accidentally elsewhere."
"I know their tricks," said Taras, darkly; "it was his cunning to throw
you off your guard."
"Yes," cried Nashko, drawing himself up and pacing to and fro wildly;
"it was! I had business at the distillery one day, which kept me away
over night. On returning, I found that the baron had been with his
lackeys and creatures. I barely listened to the poor girl's piteous
story, but snatched up my gun and forced my way into the manor-house.
The wretch had left the place, thinking himself safer in Poland. My
unhappy sister was seized with a burning fever, and, lest she should
die without help, there being no doctor near us, I took her to Barnow.
The people there had nursed their anger against us, and perhaps not
without some reason, as they viewed matters; but pity was strong, and
they stood by us in that time of sorrow. My sister was kindly taken
care of, and when she had recovered I made over to her all I possessed,
and went my way to seek the baron. I knew what awaited me if I did the
deed my heart demanded, but go I must. Again I missed him; he had left
for Paris. Thither I could not follow. I returned to Barnow, but my
sister was gone ..." He covered his face, his bosom heaving.
"Gone after him?" cried Taras, wondering.
"What do you mean!" retorted poor Nashko, with a proud look of disdain.
"Was she not an honest Jewish maiden? No; but the Sereth is a deep
river and holds fast its prey. I never learned why she did it; whether
for maidenly shame only, or because of any evil scorn, repressed while
she was ill, but flung at her when she was about again--I cannot tell.
But what is now left for me I know; and therefore your call to every
wronged one has found an echo in my heart I shook off the lethargy of
grief and despair, and I have come to ask you, judge and avenger as you
claim to be, will you let me join your band?"
Taras went up to him, laying his hand upon his shoulder. "Nashko," he
said, solemnly, "if I still hesitate, it is not because of your being a
Jew. A man who has gone through what I have gone through would not
deserve a ray of sunlight on his path if he could make any difference
between his brethren. And who is my brother but he who has suffered
wrong? My doubts, therefore, do not concern your faith, but yourself.
Let me ask you, have you really lost all hope that your heart can ever
grow still again and capable of being happy?"
"Certainly not," replied the Jew, firmly, and the fire of his eye spoke
of terrible possibilities; "such hope, on the contrary, is ever present
with me. My heart will grow calm again, and I shall be happy on the day
when I shall cleave the head of him who ruined my sister.... Spare
yourself any further trouble, Taras; the men of my race are wont to
consider before they act. And I have considered. Will you accept me as
one of yours?"
"Yes," said Taras, briefly, and called his men, who were not a little
taken aback on beholding their new comrade, a scornful remark hovering
on the lips of the "Royal Eagle," and shrinking back only at the
captain's look of command.
Julko Rosenko, the first volunteer of the mountain wilds, and the Jew,
the first one from the lowlands--or as, to this day, they are known in
song, the "Royal Eagle" and "Black Nashko"--are the only two of Taras's
band who strike the imagination either by their originality or by the
motives inspiring their action. All the others, whom a lawless or
revengeful disposition brought to his standard, may have been the
victims of tyranny, indeed, but they were men of a lower type, and
their history is but the outcome of the troublous confusion of
oppressors and oppressed struggling for mastery.
Thus there was with him a peasant from the Bukowina, one Thodika
Synkow, who to his fortieth year had lived quietly on his bit of land,
till the harshness of a tax-gatherer selling the very pillow from under
the head of his sick wife drove him to a deed of murder. There was an
under-steward from near the frontier, Stas Barilko, who after years of
faithful service had been cruelly flogged for having shot a hare
without his master's leave. There was a certain Sophron Hlinkowski, the
leader of a church choir, who in a dispute between the priest and the
parish concerning tithes had sided with the people, and, when the angry
pastor, with the approval of his superiors, suspended the church
services, had yielded to the entreaty of the peasants, reading prayers
when there was a funeral. That was his crime; the priest denounced him,
and the unfortunate precentor was sent to prison, finding himself a
beggar when his two years had expired. His only child had died, and his
wife had gone off with another man. So he joined Taras to "lift his
voice now after another fashion, and make the ears tingle of those who
used him so cruelly;" and Taras admitted him, as, indeed, he admitted
any one whom honest resentment brought to his standard, and who,
having nothing to lose, was possessed of the three requisites he looked
for--obedience, courage, and frugality. For Taras held strictly by the
words he had spoken beneath the linden: "Let none come to me who seeks
for pleasure in life, and no happy man shall join me." Many offered
themselves, setting aside this primary condition, but the hetman
subjected every one to the most rigid examination; and any one hoping
to find refuge with him from just punishment was rejected as
mercilessly as were the mere ruffians looking for booty. Yet, in spite
of such strict investigation, Taras's band on Easter morning consisted
of thirty well-armed and resolute men.
But he had to give audience to a host of people besides, peaceful men
coming to tell him of their troubles, or delegates pleading for a
wronged community. Some of their complaints were worthless enough, but
the greater number were well founded, strengthening him in his
conviction that this "unhappy land in which justice is not to be found"
was sorely in need of an "avenger." The wisdom he had gained at the
cost of his life's happiness made him sufficiently cautious not to
believe blindly any reports that might reach him, and the only promise
any of his suppliants got out of him was to the effect that he would
make inquiry, and "woe to you if you have lied to me, but woe to your
oppressors if you speak the truth!" And if they grew urgent, protesting
their honesty, and entreating for speedy redress, he would answer: "You
may look for me soon, but the hour shall not be fixed; for how can I be
sure there are no tell-tales among you, enabling the Whitecoats to meet
me? And, moreover, I have undertaken, first of all, to settle accounts
with the mandatar of Zulawce. Not that I long for his punishment before
that of any other evil-doer in the land, but a man must be true to his
word."
But, to judge from the intelligence brought to him by Wassilj, who on
the Saturday had returned from a reconnoitring expedition to Colomea,
it promised to be a desperate venture to get hold of the mandatar,
and Taras shrank from the risk of leading his faithful men to the
well-garrisoned district town merely to carry out to the letter an
assurance given. If, however, his spirits failed him for a moment, his
energy and confidence soon rose uppermost. Wassilj was ordered back to
Colomea to procure farther information, whilst Sefko and the Royal
Eagle were despatched to inquire into the complaints made by two
parishes on the plain, and Jemilian was sent off to announce to Anusia,
and through her to the village, the impending arrival of the
Whitecoats.
"Master," said the faithful old servant, hesitatingly, "have you
forgotten that the mistress----"
"Is gone out of her mind?" interrupted Taras. "She never did, and by
this time is as collected as you or I, Jemilian. She was stunned for a
moment, but she knows what is laid upon her, and will never flinch."
"Have you had farther news?" inquired the man, wondering.
"No, but I know my wife. My own heart tells me."
And Taras continued making his preparations. "I have promised to be
ready by Easter Day; that much, at least, I will keep." He assigned to
each man his place in the barracks, which, a light wooden structure,
had been run up already; he gave orders concerning the daily rations
and appointed the regulation of sentries. He also divided his band into
two distinct companies, setting a sub-captain over each. The Royal
Eagle should command the one, Black Nashko the other.
In naming the latter, Taras, with an imperious look, scanned the faces
of his followers as they were drawn up before him. A flush of anger was
plainly evident, and one of them, Stas Barilko, was about to speak. But
that look of the hetman's silenced him, Taras repeating, "Our brother
Nashko shall command these." Not a sound of dissent--and the sign for
dispersing was given.
The Jew then came forward. "Taras," he exclaimed, "why did you not take
me into your counsel? I fear this will be neither to your advantage,
nor to mine. As for me it matters little, but you and your cause must
not suffer. You should not have braved needlessly the prejudice in
which they have grown up, and which is next to religion with them."
"Needlessly?" exclaimed Taras. "I have appointed you, because after due
consideration I take you to be the most earnest and best qualified of
my followers. These others--well they will soon see for themselves that
you are worthy of my confidence; till then they will just obey."
"Yes, resentfully and under protest," urged the Jew, "and you should
avoid that, unless the most sacred principle were at stake. Remember
that your influence rests upon their free will alone."
"No!" cried Taras. "They could come to me or stay away of their own
free will. But having come, they are what I am, instruments towards the
gaining of a common and most holy end."
... The following morning--it was Easter Sunday--rose with all the
wondrous fragrance of spring. Taras had caused a plain wooden cross to
be erected, and the wild outlaws, bareheaded, gathered beneath the
sacred sign. Nashko only held aloof.
And, taking his place beside the cross, Taras spoke to his men. "My
brothers," he said, "we have neither priest nor altar to help us to
keep this day. But God is to be found wherever the heart of man will
turn to Him, and He will listen to the humble prayer we would offer
up--a homeless flock, having left all that men count dear for the sake
of His own holy justice."
He crossed himself and repeated the Lord's Prayer slowly and solemnly,
the men saying it after him; and after that Sophron, of the church
choir, stood up beside him, once more to do his duty in leading the
ancient Easter Hymn; and all their voices joined in the fine old
chorale:--
"Christ, the Lord, is risen to-day!"
Thus the homeless ones kept Easter in the mountains.
They were yet singing when Jemilian returned; and, service over, he
informed his master he had found Anusia exactly as Taras had predicted.
"She has even made ready for the soldiers," the man said. "The rest of
the people seem utterly confident, firmly believing that this night you
will storm the manor-house; and they are all preparing to witness it,
for Anusia refused to give them your message."
"What!" cried Taras, staggering.
"Refused point-blank," repeated Jemilian. "This is her answer--I took
care to remember it: 'Tell him,' she said, 'I shall be grateful for any
news of my lord and master, but I entreat him to send me word about
himself only, not concerning his plans or the movements of those
against him; for I will not speak an untruth when the men of the law
ask me, and I will keep a clean heart. That is my prayer, let him grant
it or not, as he pleases; but one thing I will never do, however
urgently he may demand it--I refuse to be the go-between, carrying his
messages to the village. I shall not do so in the present instance,
although his news is for the good of the people entirely, and I will
not do it in any case whatever. I will not share his guilt, nor his
punishment in the end--tell him so, he will understand. He has made our
children fatherless, he shall not make them motherless as well.' This
is her message!"
Taras grew white as death; but before he could answer another messenger
arrived, a lad whom the Royal Eagle had despatched from Zablotow, his
news being that the hussars were due at Zulawce by nightfall, to
anticipate Taras's expected attempt on the manor.
The hetman looked anxious, Jemilian lending words to his fear. "There
will be trouble," he said "if the soldiers come upon the excited
villagers in the night."
"There will!" cried Taras, "they must be warned at any risk. You must
go back directly, as fast as your horse will carry you. And if my wife
still refuses, you must get Father Leo to tell them."
Jemilian promised his best, but Taras continued anxious, growing even
more so with the setting sun, "All the misery of my life, so far, has
struck me unawares," he said to his friend Nashko, "and I doubt whether
a presaging voice is given to the heart of man; yet there is something
within me making me sore afraid for my wife and children this night."
On waking in the morning from restless slumbers, he found Jemilian by
his side. The old man looked wan, and his brow was clouded.
"They have been killed?" cried Taras, starting up.
"Not the mistress or the children," said Jemilian; "but blood has
flowed." He was already on his way back when the tumult arose, and,
returning cautiously, he learned what had happened, and that the smith
had received his death-wound.
"Do not take it to heart so much, dear master," said the man,
interrupting his report, for Taras was groaning pitifully. "The blood
which has been shed lies neither at your door nor at your wife's. She
did manage to have the people warned through Father Leo."
"At _my_ door!" cried Taras, wildly. But, checking himself, he
requested to be left alone. It was some time before he showed himself
to his men, and then, with a silent nod only to their greeting, he
departed into the lonely wood.
The rough men were at a loss to understand him. "Why, this is excellent
news," they said. "Such butchery would rouse the most law-abiding
people in the land!" The Jew alone guessed what moved the captain's
heart, and took courage to go after him. He found him lying beneath a
fir-tree, with a gloomy face and evidently suffering.
"Taras!" he said, taking his hand, "I understand your grief; but the
comfort remains that you did your best to avert this trouble."
But the captain shook his head. "A man must reap what he sows," he
said.
"Do you repent of the step you have taken?"
"No!" he cried, vehemently. "Oh! how little you understand me! If I had
not done so already, I would this day declare war against those that
are in power. I have but done what I _must_ do. But _what_ that
means--all the fearful scope of my undertaking--has only now grown
plain to me.... And more," he added, hoarsely ... "there is another
thing! I used to think at times that possibly I might come to an evil
end through this work of mine. Now I know it; I see now that my end can
not, must not, be a good one...."
"What has come to you, Taras?" cried the Jew, alarmed.
"I cannot explain it," said the captain, with a wistful look; "it is a
voice within me, not of the mind, but of the heart. I know it now!"
The following morning the deputies of the village, Wassilj, the
butcher, and Hritzko Pomenko, appeared before Taras, delivering their
message.
"We are convinced that you will stand by us," they said, "and only wish
to know what time you fix for the revenge."
He had listened quietly, but then made answer with a terrible
sternness: "Hearken!" he said, "if you had asked me to help you in
attacking the hussars, I would have refused, both for your sakes, since
it would harm you in the end, and for the sake of justice itself; for
these soldiers have only obeyed those they are bound to obey. I would
have reasoned with you, advising you to keep quiet, and if nevertheless
you had suffered wrong I would have made those responsible who ordered
it. But now you actually ask me to lift the arm of murder against the
Whitecoats, who have done you no injury. I have but one answer,
therefore--'Get ye gone from the camp of the avenger!' How could I have
anything to do with men capable of the thought even of assassination?"
"Taras!" exclaimed Wassilj, staggering as though he had received a
blow; but young Hritzko stood rooted to the ground, his eyes wide open
with amazement. Taras's men, on the contrary, looked sullenly before
them in plain disapproval.
"Yes," continued Taras; "let me repeat it. What you are thinking of is
not an act of sacred vengeance, but of revengeful murder. If I were not
sure you would never dare an attack without me, God knows I would send
word of your intention to the officer on the spot."
"Taras," now cried Hritzko, in his turn. "How is it? Have we not heard
your solemn declaration of war against the Emperor, and now you will
not rid us of his soldiers, the instruments of tyranny?"
"No," replied Taras, firmly, "I will not, because I am not an assassin,
but a champion of justice."
"A champion afraid of shedding blood?" interposed the butcher,
scornfully.
"A champion who will not shed innocent blood, unless it be the only way
of making justice victorious," returned Taras, solemnly. "If the
mandatar were at Zablotow under the protection of these soldiers, and I
had a force sufficient to risk an attack, I would do so this very
night. For he has sinned against the law of God, and must be brought to
judgment; and since Right is the most sacred thing upon earth, it is
better to shed blood than let this holy thing be dragged low. But
except for such reason, I will never consent to endanger an innocent
life, lest the deed rise against me and mine in the day of judgment."
"But, Taras," pleaded Hritzko, "this is all very well as regards
ourselves or the soldiers, but what of yourself? Do you think they
would have the slightest compunction in slaying you, wherever they find
you?"
"We will take care of ourselves," said Taras, quietly.
"I trust you may," rejoined the butcher. "Come, Hritzko, let us be
gone."
But the young man went up closer to Taras. "What answer would you have
us take back to our people?" said he, clasping Taras's hand. "They are
in the worst of moods, bitterly resenting the military interference,
but they have full confidence in your coming. All their fury will be
turned against you if we tell them how you judge of their purpose. Have
you no other message, Taras, which we might take back to them?"
"No," replied the captain, sternly. "Thank you for your good
intentions; but I have put off the fear of man, since I serve God. Tell
them the plain truth."
This happened about noon on the Tuesday. Towards evening Taras
assembled his men, some forty in number by this time, to hold his first
council of war, laying before them the two most important points of his
latest information. Wassilj Soklewicz had come back with the news of
the mandatar's matrimonial intentions, and that he was in the habit of
spending his evenings at the Armenian's villa. The Royal Eagle also had
returned from Kossowince, reporting that the complaints of that parish
against their avaricious and hard-hearted priest were but too well
founded; he had suspended all church functions, and was distraining for
tithes pitilessly.
"The measure of iniquity, both of the mandatar and of the priest, is
full to overflowing," Taras said. "Let us, then, hesitate no longer to
do the work, ridding the fair earth of these scoundrels. There is
danger in both undertakings, for soldiers are quartered at the manse of
Kossowince, and the villa which harbours the mandatar of an evening is
near the well-garrisoned district town. But we will rest our courage in
the Almighty, and do the deed. To-morrow, Wednesday, afternoon we
start, reaching Kossowince by night, to bring the evil-doer there to
his doom, and before the midnight of Thursday we must be ready for
passing judgment on the mandatar. Will you follow me?"
"Urrahah!" was the wild answer of delight, and as the men gathered
round their watch-fires the excitement of action was among them. Nashko
only had retired by himself, musing sadly.
"Poor Taras!" he said, sighing. "These fellows understand his meaning
no better than any brute cattle could follow a Sunday's sermon. They
think him a misguided fool for trusting me, and they resented his
refusal to the people of Zulawce. But for his resolve to fall to work
he might have found himself obliged to begin his judgments upon his own
followers in the first place. Their meanness is forced back now within
their own hearts, but it will break out again sooner or later. He will
hold his own against the men of the law, but who shall keep his soul
undefiled from the breath of these lawless ones?"
With the earliest dawn the men began getting themselves ready for the
intended raid, polishing their arms and grooming their horses, whilst
Taras held farther counsel with Nashko and the Royal Eagle, giving to
each his special orders. The morning passed in high excitement.
But suddenly--the sun was just nearing the zenith--the alarm was given
from the direction of the Red Hollow, and all eyes turned thither; the
figure of a horseman was seen coming at full speed down the steep
declivity. "The fellow is mad," was the general outcry, "he will break
his neck in a moment."
Taras also was straining his eyes, and grew white with apprehension,
having recognised his young servant, Halko. "There is trouble at home!"
he cried, rushing to meet the messenger.
But in spite of the headlong career to which the bold rider forced his
helpless steed, he reached the rocky entrance of the valley safely, and
then, just at the last reckless plunge, the poor animal rolled over,
the young man, in a flying leap, coming to the ground. A cry of horror
burst from the expectant band, but the horse only lay gasping; the
youth jumping up from his fall like a wild-cat, hastened onward with
quickening steps, stopping in front of Taras.
"The chestnut is done for," he panted, "but I have kept my promise, to
reach you by noon. This is the mistress's message!" And he reported how
the commissioner had threatened Anusia. All the band had assembled
round him, listening eagerly. "The cowards!" they cried when he had
done, "being afraid of us, they are going to wage war upon women!"
Taras alone seemed calm. "It is well," he said to the youth; "did you
not say the commissioner intends to return in the evening? We will have
a word with him, then. Julko, I will ask you to bring him hither, not
harming him, but blindfolding his eyes.... You, Halko, go back to my
wife, and tell her to be of good cheer."
The Royal Eagle forthwith led off his men in the direction of the
Pruth, Taras quietly setting himself to inspect the preparations of the
others, seeing to the needful ammunition, the necessary rations, and
holding everything in readiness for the night's expedition. Watching
him thus calmly engaged, one would scarcely have guessed that such a
message had just reached him, and that he was expecting a meeting that
must stir his troubled heart to its depth. At dusk all was in
readiness, the men standing by their horses, listening impatiently for
any sign of Julko's return. But the last glimmer of daylight faded, the
stars shone forth, and night spread her mantle over the mountains; not
a sound yet, save the murmuring whispers in the tall firs and, far off,
the hooting of an owl.
"The bird of ill omen!" said the men, with bated breath; "who can tell
what may have happened to Julko?"
But Taras heeded them not, lost in thought. The bird's dismal cry had
wakened another voice within him; or, rather, it appeared like an echo
of his own inner consciousness, which, rising from the depths of his
being, quivered through him in awful agony. And then it seemed as
though the bird kept crying: "You are about to shed the blood of
man--you! you!"
Jemilian went up to him. "They keep us waiting here rather long!" he
said anxiously. Taras shivered and stared at him. The man had to repeat
his remark.
"Never mind," he now made answer, his voice rising as though to silence
that other voice within; and he drew himself up. "Julko may have had to
wait before catching him, and the way up the ravine is difficult even
in daylight.... But is it that you are afraid of the dark, children
that you are! Well, then, light a fire; it will serve at the same time
to show off that coward of a commissioner when he does arrive."
The captain's words acted like magic, freeing the souls of these men as
from a nightmare; and when, a few minutes later, a great pile of
firwood sent up shoots of ruddy flame, spreading light and warmth,
their spirits rose mightily. They formed a circle round the welcome
fire, and one of their number produced a bagpipe, to the plaintive
droning of which they fell to dancing that strangest of reels known
throughout the Carpathians, and which, executed by these men and in
such circumstances, once more assumed what was, no doubt, its original
character--that of a war-dance.
Taras did not interfere, but looked for Nashko, who once more kept
aloof with his own saddened thoughts.
"What is the time?" he inquired.
The Jew was the only one of all these men who possessed a watch, and
only Taras and Sophron, besides himself, understood the art of telling
the hour by such means.
"Eleven. Are you beginning to be anxious?"
"No! What should have happened? But hark! listen!"
"I hear nothing."
"But I do.... Hark!" and Taras turned to the merrymakers with an
imperious "Silence!" They stood still like statues, and the bagpipe
ceased wailing.
They could all hear it now--a peculiar, whirring sound, not unlike that
of an arrow cutting the air. It came from afar, through the stillness
of the night. "It is Julko signalling," the men cried, delightedly; and
Taras, taking his own whistle, signalled back. A moment's silence, and
again the sound reached them--longdrawn, and thrice repeated.
"You understand its meaning," said Taras to his men. "They have missed
the track in the dark. Away with you, Stas and Jemilian; take torches
and go to meet them, and keep signalling as you go." The two obeyed,
while the rest of the men, at his word, took their places by their
horses.
But the minutes passed, and nothing was heard save the signalling and
counter-signalling in the wood, till at last the sounds seemed
blending, and presently the sign was given that the seekers and the
sought had met. Ere long their voices could be distinguished, together
with the tramping of their steeds.
First of all the Royal Eagle burst upon the waiting band. "We were
sadly detained," he reported to the captain; "two full hours we had to
lie in ambush by the Pruth, and when the night overtook us we missed
our way. But we have caught him all right."
"Not injuring him, I hope!"
"No--that is to say, he suffered no harm at our hands, but fear may
have killed him, for all I know."
And, indeed, there was no saying whether it was a living man or a dead
body that was being brought before the captain. Julko, not satisfied
with lashing the commissioner to the saddle, had ordered a man to mount
behind him that he might be supported and saved from striking his head
against the low-hanging branches, blindfolded as he was. A cloak also
had been thrown round his shivering shoulders. Thus the poor wretch
clung helplessly to the neck of the horse that carried him, the men
shouting with laughter on beholding his abject figure; but a look of
Taras's silenced them.
"Has he fainted?" inquired he of the man whose brawny arm enfolded the
commissioner.
"No, captain," was the answer, "it is just his pretence; only a few
minutes ago he implored me to let him make his escape, promising me a
hundred florins if he got away safely. I felt sorely tempted to pitch
into him, but I remembered your injunctions." And the man looked so
disappointed, that even Taras could not but smile. "Untie him," he
said.
It was done. When the bandage was taken from his eyes Kapronski
staggered and fell, his head striking the ground. That was no
play-acting, for the scene thus suddenly presented to his vision might
well have confounded a more courageous and less guilty man: first and
foremost the towering figure of Taras, and behind him the band of
outlaws armed to the teeth and leaning against their horses, all of
them lit up by the lurid glare of their watchfire.
"Put him on his feet," exclaimed the captain, impatiently, two men
endeavouring to do so, but they only got him to his knees. "For pity's
sake," he whimpered, lifting his folded hands to Taras.
The latter came a step nearer. "Ah!" he cried scornfully, "is it you,
friend Ladislas Kapronski? Get up, man; you need not shake like that."
The commissioner now managed to stand on his legs, but his head hung on
his bosom, and his clasped hands continued in entreaty.
"I am not going to say a word concerning the matter at issue," began
Taras, "you men of the law will just go on murdering justice--well,
continue in your ways, but...."
At the mention of justice, Kapronski gasped, apparently recovering
himself. "Yes," he said, with an obsequious bow, "I always told them at
the Board it was no use arraigning _you_, who are as daring as you are
just; and you have got the people to back you, honoured--much honoured,
Mr. Taras."
"Be silent," cried the latter, "I am ashamed of you, for after all you
are a man!... It is not on account of these matters, or concerning
myself, that I wanted to see you, but because of your having threatened
my wife."
"For pity's sake! I did but as I was told!"
"Indeed," said Taras, with so searching a look that the commissioner,
unable to meet it, shook afresh. "Indeed! Then why are you trembling
like that? Was it not rather an invention of your own cowardly brain?"
"No!" exclaimed Kapronski, "I swear by all the saints----"
"I will take your word for what it may be worth. I might well doubt
you; you are fully capable of a lie--but the thing in itself is
preposterous. That you, who call yourselves guardians of the law,
should think even of such a glaring wrong! And how cowardly--how
cowardly it is! You, with all the military at your command, are you not
able to protect yourselves against me save by attacking my wife and
children?"
"Oh, indeed," pleaded Kapronski, "did I not do my best to warn them?
But my advice was not taken. I assure you----"
"No need of farther words; but listen to what I have to say, and take
back my message to the Board.... No amount of threatening will prevent
my carrying out the sacred duty I have undertaken. And if my wife and
my poor children were indeed at your mercy, and I knew they would meet
death at your hands for any act of mine, laid upon me by that duty, I
would carry out such act unflinchingly. Do you take that in?"
"Ah!--yes--oh!"
"Well, then, listen again. I cannot hinder you from taking my wife and
my children to prison, or even from taking their lives. But I tell you
this: on the day you make good those threats, it will become my first
and highest and most sacred duty to rid the land of the worst of
evil-doers--of you, the so-called guardians of the law. Woe to any of
you, then, who may fall into my hands! I shall have you hanged, every
one, on these trees of ours...."
"Oh, no, not me--for pity's sake! I was always trying----"
"Well, hanging might be too good for you," said Taras, sternly. "I knew
you were an abject coward, but this is worse even than the name you
bear.... I regret to send you with an honest man's message. For there
is yet another matter to speak about--and you shall tell them I have
sworn to you a sacred oath that there is no deceit nor cunning in my
request, but pity for the people alone. I earnestly pray the
authorities to withdraw the soldiers from Zulawce. The hussars have
done mischief enough already, and the infantry may do worse if they
stay. There is no need of military occupation, for I give you my word
that I shall not enter the village, not even if I knew the mandatar to
be at the manor. I should bide my time to get hold of him elsewhere.
Let me repeat it. I shall never set foot within the parish of Zulawce
if my request be granted; and since the man lives not who could say
that Taras ever broke his word, perhaps even you will believe me."
"Oh!--certainly--yes. I myself----"
"Stop your talking! This, then, is the message you shall bear; but I
have a word for yourself also. See that you keep from lying in
delivering my message, for the truth sooner or later will come to be
known; and if ever I find that you altered one single word of what I
have told you, I shall----"
"For pity's sake! I'll never alter a single letter!"
"Well, we shall see. I said I would not harm you in limb or life; but
since you have shown yourself such a mean, craven coward, it is meet
you should suffer punishment--that punishment which within these
mountains is reserved for such meanness;" and, turning to his men, "Cut
off his hair!" he said.
"Ah--pity!" groaned Kapronski, but it availed him not. He found himself
held fast with a merciless grip, while Sophron made short work of the
commissioner's well-oiled locks, leaving his head like a field of
stubble in the dreary autumn.
"Now tie him to his horse again," said Taras, "blindfolding him as
before."
It was done.
"Light the torches! Mount, and let us be off! By the Pruth we will
leave him to his own devices."
The signals sounded, the procession formed, vanishing in the deeper
shadows of the cleft which leads to the river in the direction of
Kossowince....