THE BANNER SOILED.
The following day the district governor arrived at Zulawce. He had been
careful to let the villagers have full assurance beforehand that he was
coming with truly peaceful intentions, but he considered it prudent,
nevertheless, to provide himself with a considerable escort of hussars,
since besides sifting the evidence concerning the field, there was that
republic to be overthrown, and a new mandatar to be introduced. For
Count George Borecki had succeeded at last in finding a man who
expressed himself willing to unravel the complication left by Wenceslas
Hajek, this man of enterprise fortunately being an old acquaintance of
the villagers, Mr. Severin Gonta; and there was some hope of his
succeeding, for he was thoroughly acquainted with local affairs and
enjoyed the good will of the peasantry besides. But Herr von Bauer was
not so certain that hostility was entirely out of the question, and
apart from the consciousness of doing his duty in a matter of justice;
he very gladly relied on the sharp sabres of his body-guard as well.
But his apprehensions happily proved unfounded. On his reaching the
wooden bridge leading over the Pruth, the whole parish, to be sure, was
there awaiting him, but peacefully inclined, thanks to Simeon Pomenki,
who had addressed the republicans on the previous evening to this
effect: "There now, you see, we get all we ever could ask for--the
field which is ours, our own old mandatar, who is no fiend, and
exemption from punishment for what is passed. If we are not satisfied
with this, but insist on carrying on the conflict, we had better apply
for admission into the madhouse at once. But I am no fool, and prefer
the chances offered me of continuing on my farm." This harangue did not
miss its aim, and Simeon was able to receive the district governor in
the name of the community respectfully.
Herr von Bauer was ready to be conciliated, and replied with his
customary bluntness: "It is a satisfaction to see you, rascals though
you are; but you are poor wretches after all, and have had to suffer
for the life you have led us, so we'll forget all about it and be
friends again. As for you, old Simeon, I'll not even inquire into your
private feelings as King of Zulawce. You'll hand me over that crown
now, and if ever you men here are going to play the fools again, send
us word first, and we'll say be hanged to all the parish. So that is
settled; and in the meantime we shall expect better things of you."
After which impressive statement old Gonta addressed the peasantry on
behalf of the Count, and if he was less outspoken, his kindliness was
quite as apparent, winning over the villagers entirely when he assured
them in conclusion that he was prepared himself to plead their rights
concerning that field, and that he felt sure of Count George's
readiness to withdraw any claims that might have been urged in his
name, without waiting to see what decision the authorities might form.
In these circumstances it was easy for the district governor to arrive
at the truth concerning the field, though he experienced some
difficulty in eliciting a confession from the perjured witnesses. The
experienced magistrate perceived well enough--and was ready to make
allowance for it--that these persons would think it hard to be excluded
from the general pardon; but he went through with his duty bravely,
assuring them that, although the instigators could expect little mercy,
those who had been led on by them might hope to be treated leniently,
if a point of the law could possibly be stretched in their favour. And
he succeeded at last in making out several cases in which the mandatar,
either personally or by means of his under-steward, Boleslaw, had
corrupted the witnesses and led them on to perjury. He had the true
charity not to inquire more closely than was absolutely necessary, and
allowed the crest-fallen sinners to return to their homes, the judge
going bail on their behalf.
His object accomplished, he returned to Zablotow, where Dr. Starkowski
and Father Leo were to await him with the results of their mission. He
was fully prepared to hear of their failure, and not surprised,
therefore, at their tale.
"We shall have to proceed now against the misguided man," he said,
quietly. "Let him do his worst. We can breathe more freely now than we
could before, for our own conscience is at ease! To be sure, all we can
do for the present is to protect the lowlands against him as best we
can; an expedition to the Black Water, in the hope of catching him,
would be sheer madness, for the whole of the Carpathians would rise in
an uproar. I know those Huzuls! But he will be brought to book somehow.
It is well he believes that God is with those who seek what is
right--he will find it so sooner or later!"
September verged upon October, and though almost daily expected, no
farther violence transpired, the reason being that no complaints had
reached Taras which appeared to him worthy of redress. But before the
month was out he received information which roused him to action. A
certain nobleman, Baron Stephen Zukowski, of Borsowka, in the district
of Czortkow, was accused to him by Karol Wygoda, the piper, who had
continued with Taras, and in whom the latter rested full confidence.
"Your work is but half done, hetman," the man exclaimed, "while that
fiend is allowed to suck the very blood from the people of Borsowka!"
and he enumerated a whole string of iniquities to be brought home to
that nobleman.
Taras was indignant. "We will put an end to his doings!" he cried. "But
how do you come to know of them?"
"I knew the wretch long ago; for though my own home is miles away from
that village, I was in service there in my younger days, and could see
for myself--indeed, his unblushing crimes were done in the light of
day. Not a head of cattle was safe from his cupidity, and not a girl
from his wickedness--but these are old tales, it is well nigh twenty
years ago, and I believed the old sinner had gone to his account long
since. But he is alive still, and carrying on his evil doings, as I
learned yesterday, quite accidentally. You had given me leave, as you
know, to join the merrymaking at Zabie and pick up a few coppers with
my bagpipe. I met an old fiddler there who had just come from Borsowka.
Ah, hetman, the iniquity done in that place keeps crying to heaven--it
is worse than any we ever heard of elsewhere! 'Why don't the injured
people call upon Taras to help them?' I inquired of the fiddler.
'Indeed,' he said, 'it is strange they do not think of it, but the
horrors of their existence are enough to kill even hope in their
hearts.' So the fiddler said, and I can well believe it; at the same
time, I agree it is well to be careful. And I propose that you should
send me to Borsowka to make inquiry. I know some folk there whom I can
trust, and they will tell me the truth no doubt. I feel I must do this
for conscience' sake, and out of compassion for those villagers among
whom I lived."
"This is good of you," said Taras. "Go, and the Almighty speed you. It
is a solace to my soul that some few honest men will cleave to me,
knowing the sacredness of our common duty."
These words rose from the depth of his heart! and indeed, he needed
some comfort--something to cling to--lest he should break down and
fail. He had informed his men on returning from the hamlet of Magura
what answer he had given to the messengers of the Board; but what a
wrench it had been to his dearest affections, and the sore cost of his
final parting from wife and child, they never learned from his lips.
As compared with this deepest sorrow, no other trouble befalling the
unhappy man might be thought to affect him, yet his burden seemed to be
added to daily; and in spite of the honest desire to avoid all
contention, in spite of the real friendship Hilarion entertained for
him, there were constant bickerings between his own followers and the
clansmen. It was Nashko especially, who, on account of his faith,
appeared to be a convenient butt for the mockery of the Huzuls. Now
Taras could not allow this to continue, if only for this reason: the
Jew had acquitted himself splendidly, fully justifying the confidence
reported in him, and would, in any future enterprise, naturally have to
retain his position of a leader; so the Huzuls must be taught to
respect him, and Taras begged Hilarion to explain to his people that a
man should not be derided for worshipping the Almighty in one way and
not in another.
The patriarch fixed his eyes on the ground, keeping a long silence, as
was his wont before answering, and when he began to speak he appeared
to have forgotten the matter in hand. "Taras," he said, "have you ever
ridden an ox?" and receiving a rather surprised "No" in return, he
said, with a half smile, "Well, neither have I, and I don't know that
any one else ever did. But why not? Might there not be found an animal
among the species, well-grown and nimble enough to serve as a mount? In
fact, I should say it is quite possible. At the same time, neither you
nor I ever thought of trying it. And why? simply because, for a fact,
God who made the ox, did not intend it for a steed, and because every
man who used an ox for such a purpose against its nature would look a
fine fool on its back. You will allow that?"
"I daresay, but I don't admit the simile; a Jew is as good a man as you
or I."
"Certainly," said Hilarion. "The ox and the horse are equally useful,
only in different ways; and a Jew is as good a man as ourselves, but
differently endowed. Say what you like, but a Jew is ill-fitted for the
bearing of arms, or to lead men in warfare; they are considered to be
cowardly and servile, and no doubt are so."
"Nashko is a brave man, and has acquitted himself like a hero."
"I am sure he has," rejoined the old man, "but I maintain we do not
ride an ox, even though we should know of one exceptionally well fitted
to carry us. And we do not do so for the one reason that oxen as a rule
are not considered to be first-rate steeds. And if a man insists on
making the experiment, though it should turn out to his own
satisfaction, he must not quarrel with his neighbours for laughing at
him, nor scold his horses if they toss their heads at the queer
creature he is stabling along with them. No, Taras," he added more
seriously, "it is never satisfactory to fight established opinion, and
you seem determined to run that head of yours right through the
thickest walls; and not content with overthrowing injustice wherever
you see it, you would actually have the world make friends with the
Jews. Taras, have you considered that sometimes it is not the walls
which go to pieces, but----"
"The head may dash out its brains against them, I know that," said
Taras, quietly, "and it does not deter me for one moment. I entreat you
to lay it upon your people not to sin against the laws of hospitality
with regard to Nashko. He who offends him offends me."
"I am sorry for that," replied Hilarion, "but I cannot help it. He who
receives hospitality must consider the ways of his hosts."
So the conversation served not to heal the jar, as Taras had hoped, but
rather widened it, and the Huzuls annoyed Nashko even more than before.
Taras was grievously disappointed, and resolved to avoid further
altercation, but something happened which forced him against his will
to appeal a second time to the patriarch's sense of justice. It
concerned Tatiana.
The poor maiden once more had reason to bewail her bewitching beauty.
Hilarion had offered her the shelter of his house, and she had
gratefully accepted it, endeavouring to repay her benefactors by
faithful service. She could not have lived many days among the tribe to
whom her strange fate had brought her without perceiving that their
moral sense was of the bluntest; but she endeavoured to keep out of
harm's way by attending to her work, and to nothing else. The impudent
youths, moreover, soon discovered that the youngest son of the house,
the Royal Eagle, was not inclined to have her molested; and, indeed, he
interfered with any intended liberty of theirs so effectually, that
they dared not offer it, for even the boldest of them could ill stand
his ground against that young hero. The girl was glad of his
protection, her natural light-heartedness returning, till one day, when
gone a-milking to a distant pasture, she grew aware, to her intense
dismay, that Julko had defended her for no very lofty motive. She broke
away from her ungenerous admirer, and like a hunted deer fled to
Taras's camp, falling on her knees before him with the bitter cry: "If
you cannot save me from shame, it had been better for me to die on the
gallows!"
Taras endeavoured to calm her, and was going to set out immediately for
Hilarion's dwelling. But Nashko laid hold of his arm, excitedly. The
Jew, who had kept his composure so admirably through all the petty
insults offered to himself, was shaking with rage, and his eyes flashed
fire.
"Do not humble yourself in vain!" he cried. "You are going to ask these
men for manly generosity--_these_ men, Taras! Why, they will never even
understand your meaning; and if they did they are too savage, too low,
to grant it!"
"You smart at the recollection of their insults," said Taras; "but this
is unjust."
"I do not!" cried the Jew, passionately.
"What is it, then, that moves you like this?"
Nashko grew white, and again the crimson glow flushed his clear-cut
face. "Go," he murmured, "and judge for yourself."
Taras went, and was hardly able to believe his ears, for Hilarion's
reply was of the shortest and driest. "There is no help for it," he
said.
"What?" cried Taras, utterly amazed. "Do you mean to say that we have
saved the girl from her ignominious fate only to hand her over as a
plaything to that son of yours? For shame!"
"Moderate your feelings," returned the aged man, quietly. "If the Royal
Eagle has cast his eye on a maiden, and would have her, she has every
reason to be proud of it."
"In honourable wedlock, then?"
"Oh dear, no! he is promised in marriage to the only granddaughter of
my cousin Stanko, on the other side of the Czernahora, and she will be
his wife as soon as she attains her sixteenth year. Stanko and myself
arranged this more than ten years ago, for she is his heiress and must
marry into the family."
"Then I was right in concluding that he desires the girl for his
pleasure merely?"
"Yes, certainly; and why should he not? she is fair enough to behold.
Why on earth do you look as if he meant to eat her? You cannot expect
him to consider her more unattainable than any of our own girls. I give
you leave to ask any Huzul maiden you please whether she would not feel
honoured by his attentions."
"That is nothing to me," cried Taras. "Tatiana considers it shame, and
I call it vilest disgrace! I entreat you to hold her safe from your
son."
"I cannot interfere; I said so before," said the old man; "and there
would be little use endeavouring. If the maiden indeed is so coy as you
tell me, I can only advise her to leave the settlement."
Furiously indignant, Taras went back to the camp. Karol Wygoda had
returned in his absence, bringing with him two peasants from Borsowka.
But Taras waved them aside; he was going to consult with Nashko first,
who rushed out to meet him anxiously.
"You were right," said Taras, grinding his teeth, "and I know not where
we can hope to protect her."
"But I do," cried the Jew, eagerly. "She dare not leave the mountains,
because prison still awaits her in the lowlands; but we must place her
where Julko's power is not acknowledged. I have thought it might be
best to take her to Zabie; I have acquaintances there, an old Jewish
innkeeper and his wife, who I doubt not will give her shelter. They
have no children of their own, and I know they can be trusted. I
mentioned the girl's sad history there the other day, and the good wife
shed tears, assuring me she would love to show kindness to one in such
trouble."
"But if Julko should follow me thither?" interposed the girl,
anxiously.
"Even if he should, he will not dare to use violence," said the Jew.
"But I do not think him capable of that. He is not a scoundrel, but
only a lawless youth whose nature at times is too strong for him,
and who never learned to keep it under. Moreover, it is true Huzul
fashion--out of sight, out of mind. You will be safe there, I think."
"Let us hope so," said Taras, deciding for this plan; "for, indeed, we
have no other choice. Make ready, poor girl, to ride with us!"
And turning to Karol now, he required his report.
"Captain, it is just fearful!" asserted this man, "If that priest at
Kossowince was a fiend, this baron is one double-dyed." And therewith
he proceeded to give instances of his atrocious cruelty and oppression.
"Have the people appealed to the law?" inquired Taras.
"Indeed, they have; but he is not only the greatest scoundrel, but the
vilest liar under the sun. He has given the lie to every accusation,
and the magistrates have believed the nobleman rather than the poor,
ignorant peasants. Ah! captain, you should have seen their grateful
tears when I told them I was one of your men, and that you had sent me.
They are waiting and hoping for you now, as for their only saviour; but
hear their own messengers."
And his companions came nearer--a poorly-clad elderly man of dignified
bearing, who introduced himself as Harassim Perko, the judge of
Borsowka, and a younger peasant wearing a fine sheepskin. He called
himself Wassilj Bertulak, and his voice was husky, as with suppressed
tears, in giving his tale of woe; indeed, he could hardly speak.
"Our people have sent me because the monster's most recent crime has
laid low the pride of my life. Ah! my poor daughter!" and he turned
away, overcome with sobs. But all the more minute was the judge's
account, and it did not require his final entreaty to confirm Taras's
resolve that he must start on the spot for Borsowka.
The assistance of the Huzuls was not needed in the present instance,
for although Taras's men numbered less than a score now, they would
suffice for overpowering the baron, who, with a few old servants, lived
in the quiet manor house of Borsowka. Taras therefore returned to
Hilarion only to take his leave.
"The Almighty speed you," said Hilarion. "Let us part friends. You are
a welcome guest here whenever you please to return, and the flower of
the clan is ever at your service. I have partaken of your blood and you
of mine; this is a tie which can never be severed. Remember it always."
"I shall remember it," said Taras, bending over the old man's hand.
He mounted with his men, and the little troop followed the Czeremosz
till they reached Zabie. There he handed over Tatiana to the old Jewish
couple, requiring their solemn assurance that they would watch over her
as though she were a child of their own, and after the fashion of their
race they gave the promise with many oaths. This settled, the band
dashed away towards the plain, the two men of Borsowka in their midst.
Early on the fourth day, riding under cover of the night only, they
reached the chalky cliffs on the left bank of the Dniester. There they
rested for the last time, being within a few miles of the quiet manor
house they were about to enter. Late in the afternoon a pale faced
girl, looking troubled and shy, appeared in the glen where they halted.
Wassilj Bertulak going to meet her, greeted her with a father's
affection, and taking her by the hand brought her to Taras. "My poor
girl," he said, "she has come to see the scoundrel meet with his
reward."
"Oh! no! no!" cried the girl, alarmed.
"Yes, yes, it is necessary," urged the father, "for he might deny it
all."
Taras looked compassionately at the troubled girl. "Stay with us," he
said, tenderly. "Poor child! I daresay it is a sore effort to you to
tell of your grievous sorrow in the presence of so many strange men.
But let the thought comfort you that you do it in order to save others
from similar harm."
And then he made his disposition for the night. The manor house was in
a lonely place, inhabited only by the baron, his old body-servant,
Stephen, and Peter, the coachman; the steward and the rest of the men
sleeping in the farm-buildings near the village. Resistance, therefore,
need not be expected, and Taras satisfied himself with appointing
Nashko and the greater part of his men to guard the grounds, whilst he,
with the others, would bring the accused nobleman to his doom.
About eleven they started, reaching the modest building soon after
midnight. The outer door was not even locked. "No doubt that coachman
has attractions in the village," whispered the judge, who was of
Taras's party. But when they entered the basement, in order to make
sure of Stephen, that conjecture proved to be erroneous. They found but
one man, the coachman, who started aghast and prayed for his life
pitifully. "I am no assassin," said Taras, and inquired about Stephen.
"His dying sister sent for him this morning," stammered the terrified
Peter; "and the baron gave him leave to go."
Taras thereupon ordered Sefko to guard the man; he, with the others,
mounting the stairs. The baron seemed to have been roused, for a door
opened, a streak of light appearing, a voice weak with age calling out,
"Peter, what is the matter?"
"We have come to tell you," the strong voice of Taras made answer. "I
am the avenger."
There was a cry in response, and a sound as of breaking glass; sudden
darkness enveloped the scene, for the lamp had fallen from the
trembling hands. But power to attempt an escape seemed wanting. And
when Taras, torch in hand, reached the upper landing, he found the aged
nobleman leaning against his open bedroom door, simply petrified with
dismay.
Lazarko, at a sign of the captain's, pushed him back into the room. It
was a spacious chamber, but poorly furnished, and serving evidently as
a library besides, for the walls all round were covered with
bookshelves, and a large table in the middle was littered with volumes
and papers. The whole aspect of the room seemed to deny that it was
inhabited by a man of low pursuits. And so did the baron's own
appearance. Taras looked at him surprised, for the man he had come to
judge was bowed with age, and of a venerable countenance. But for a
moment only he hesitated, his inflexible sternness returning. He knew
that appearances were deceptive: did not that monster at Kossowince
gaze at him like an angel of light?
"I have come to judge you," said Taras, austerely. "You have wronged
your peasants with unheard-of oppression."
"I?" groaned the poor old man, sinking into a chair. "By the blessed
Lord and His saints, some one must have lied to you!"
"Do not call upon the holy names!" returned Taras, with lowering brow.
"I am prepared to hear you deny the charge, but witnesses are at hand.
Is it true, or not, that you have acted like a tyrant by your people,
robbing and wronging them fearfully?"
"I call God to witness that this is false!" cried Zukowski, solemnly,
lifting his hand. "Ask the judge, he will tell you; his name his
Harassim Perko, and his is the first house this side of the village. He
can be here within an hour if you send for him."
"He is nearer than you suppose," said Taras, turning to the door; and
the elder of his two guides entered. "Here he is," continued Taras, "do
you call upon him as a witness?"
"This is not the judge of Borsowka," exclaimed the baron, and rose to
his feet. "Why this is Dimitri Buliga, an old good-for-nothing whom no
one respects here, and he left the village some time ago."
These words were spoken with such a show of simple truth and honest
indignation that Taras looked at the peasant doubtfully. But the man
never winced; answering the charge with a smile almost. "I must say,
Baron, this beats all we ever knew of you as a liar! It is natural that
you should seek for a loop-hole, but I suppose I know that I am I! This
is preposterous ... After this it will seem useless, hetman, to ask
this wretch another question. Let that man of yours speak for my
identity whom you sent to us, he knows me--that is one comfort."
And Karol Wygoda cried out: "Yes, hetman, certainly, I have known him
these twenty years; his name his Harassim Perko, and he is the judge of
this village."
"It is false," groaned the baron, and, stepping closer, he looked into
Wygoda's face. "You also seem known to me ... Yes, I remember--your
Christian, name is Karol, and you were in my service as a farm labourer
years ago. I remember you because you are the only man I ever had to
hand over to the law."
Karol listened with an unperturbed air, looking at the baron with an
amused sort of wonder, as one might examine a natural curiosity; and,
turning to the hetman, he said: "There now, this is as fine a proof as
we could expect of this man's capacity of wronging a poor fellow. I
daresay he may remember having seen me since I lived in the village;
but I never set foot on his property, and still less did I give him any
chance of handing me over to the law, as he says."
"Have you no fear of God, man?" broke in the baron. "I----"
"Stop," said Taras; "answer me one more question. Do you think that
your own servants are likely to betray you, or tell a lie in order to
have you killed?"
"God forbid!" exclaimed the baron, eagerly. "Honest old Stephen, I
fear, cannot have returned, but my coachman sleeps in the house, and he
can tell you that this man is not Harassim, the judge."
"Have him in," ordered Taras, and the coachman appeared; his hands had
been tied on his back, he was pale as death, and shook from head to
foot.
"You have nothing to fear," said Taras; "we only want you to tell the
truth; but woe to you if you prevaricate. Who is this man?"
"Harassim Perko, the judge," stammered the fellow.
"Peter!" cried the baron, "you have lost your senses. Why, you know the
judge as well as I do."
"This is sufficient," said Taras. "Be silent now, till I require you to
speak. Say, judge, has this man taken unlawful possession of part of
the common field?"
"He has," replied the man, adding a minute statement.
"What have you to say to this, Baron?" inquired Taras, of the nobleman,
when the accuser had finished.
"It is false," reiterated Zukowski--"a whole web of falsehood. I have
told you that this man is not the judge, but that good-for-nothing
Dimitri. If you, indeed, are bent on justice, Taras, I pray you send to
the village for the real judge. Do not soil your hands with innocent
blood."
"It is you that are bent on lying," said Taras, scornfully. "Other
scoundrels have endeavoured to deceive me, and to stay me in the
performance of my sacred duty; but a man of such brazen face I have
never yet set eyes upon. It is a pity that you seem willing to die as
you have lived.... But we have yet other witnesses--bring them in."
The peasant Wassilj entered, followed by the reluctant girl; her father
had almost to drag her in.
"Do you know these two?" said Taras.
"The man is a stranger to me," replied the baron, unhesitatingly; "I
have never set eyes on him. But that girl was in my house this morning,
with a message from my poor Stephen's dying sister, entreating him to
come.... Taras!" he added, excitedly; "now I see all this wretched
plot. They have made up this tale of the dying sister to decoy my good
old Stephen away, who would rather have died than betray me, and I
suppose they have bribed my coachman. They are deceiving you, so that
you should order me to be murdered!"
"This is cleverly put together," said Taras, coldly, "it is lamentable,
indeed, that, gifted as you seem to be, you did not make better use of
your life; it might have saved you from this hour. Answer me, Marinia,
as in the presence of God Almighty. Is it true that you were in this
house this morning for the first time in your life?"
"No!" she faltered.
"But you were here three weeks ago when this wretch wronged you?"
"Yes!"
"How dare you!" cried the baron, with flashing eyes. "Oh, God! how
should I--look at my grey hairs, man!"
"Silence!" returned Taras. "What have you to say, Peter--does this girl
speak the truth?"
"She does--old Stephen told me."
"The Lord have mercy on me!" groaned the doomed man. "Taras, have pity
on my age. I have but little money in the house, but what there is,
take it all--only spare me!"
"I am not a robber, but an instrument of God's justice," replied Taras,
solemnly. "It is very evident that you have deserved death amply. If
you would recommend your soul to the Judge above, I will give you ten
minutes."
"Spare me, for mercy's sake! Call any of the peasants, there is not a
man in the village but would stand by me."
"We have had sufficient witness. Say your prayers."
"Assassin!" cried the aged baron, and with the strength of despair he
flew at Taras. But a bullet from Lazarko's pistol laid him dead at
their feet.
The girl shrieked and fainted, her father carrying her from the room.
The others remained till they had found the cash-box. It contained, as
the baron had said, but a moderate sum.
Taras avoided touching the money. "Take it," he said to the judge, "and
divide it justly among those that have suffered most."
Before the day broke the manor house of Borsowka lay wrapped in silence
as before, and utterly lonely, for Peter the coachman had gone off with
the two villagers, Taras and his little band speeding back to the
mountains.
The following day, after a sharp ride, they reached the low-lying,
water-intersected waste between Kotzman and Zastawna, where they
resolved to halt till the evening. The place being within easy distance
of Karol Wygoda's home, the latter begged to be allowed to look up his
relations. "I have no objection," said Taras, "only be careful not to
fall in with any traitors. I shall expect you back by sundown."
Karol promised and went.
But he did not return. Taras, growing anxious, kept waiting for him,
gazing into the deepening night, but not a sound broke on the
stillness.
"We had better start without him," said Nashko, at last. "Either he has
been caught, and in that case it were folly for us to tarry; or else he
has made up his mind to remain with his own people, in which case we
cannot force him to come back to us."
"I cannot believe that," said Taras; "for he has ever proved himself a
trustworthy man; he would certainly have told me if he had any idea of
leaving us. And I cannot bear to think that the faithful soul has come
to grief. Some accident may have detained him; indeed, I feel sure he
will return. Let us wait till midnight, at least."
But midnight came and no Karol. With a troubled heart Taras at last
gave orders to mount.
On the third day, which they spent under the shelter of the forest by
the Czeremosz, Taras consulted his men, whether they had better return
to the camp in the Dembronia Forest, trusting to the Huzuls for further
assistance in any considerable enterprise, or move northward to the
Welyki Lys and gather a new band to their banner. But they would not
decide. "We follow you whichever way you lead us," they said.
"Well, then," said Taras; "I am for taking you back to the Dembronia
Forest. The Huzuls, certainly, are troublesome confederates, but we
must not consult our feelings, we must do what seems best for the cause
we serve. While Hilarion is inclined to back us we are strong, whereas
without him we might not always be able to fight great wrongs
effectively."
It was late in the evening of this day that they rode into Zabie. The
village lay hushed in sleep, the cottages standing dark and silent, the
inn excepted, whence a pale light gleamed, though the place was closed
for the night. Taras rode up to one of the uncurtained windows, and
peered in. The large bar-room was empty, save for a bowed figure
sitting by the hearth, motionless.
"It is Froim, the innkeeper," cried Nashko, who was looking in at
another window. "For God's sake--I trust nothing has happened!" And,
trembling violently, he tapped at the pane.
The old Jew started, turning to the table as if to extinguish the
flickering lamp. But recognising Nashko's voice, he came to the window
instead, opening it, and saying with a hoarse whisper: "I suppose you
would like to have a last look at her!"
"Tatiana!" cried Taras. "Man, say, what is it?"
"We could not have her laid out here," continued the innkeeper, slowly
and shaking with emotion. "Poor lamb! we would have loved to show her
that last honour, but we are Jews. She is in the little chapel of the
cemetery, and to-morrow they are going to bury her."
"She is dead!" cried Nashko, with anguished voice.
"Did you not know? I thought you might have returned so speedily
for this sad reason," cried Froim. "We got her out of the water
yesterday--the good pope here, and myself, and some of the villagers;
but it was hard work, for the Czeremosz is a cruel river, holding fast
its prey."
"Tell us," cried Taras, "who has dared to take her life?"
"It was her own brave doing," cried the old Jew. "She would rather die
than be dishonoured. Ah! how fair and sweet she was, and how good; and
to come by such an end!" The honest innkeeper struggled with his tears,
continuing, amid sobs, "We have known her these few days only, my wife
and I, but we grieve for her as for a child of our own."
"But how did it happen?" cried Taras, vehemently.
"Cannot you see?" returned the old Jew. "Two days ago, toward midnight,
that Huzul came----"
"The Royal Eagle?"
"Yes; but Vulture were a truer name! He came with a hundred of his
men--or two hundred for aught I can tell--and, knocking at this very
window, insisted that I should let him in. 'What do you want?' said I.
'Open the door,' says he, 'or I shall force it open.' 'I am a poor old
Jew,' I replied, 'and there are but three women in the house besides
me--my wife, and her servant, and Tatiana. Of course we cannot resist
you, but I ask you whether it is fit for a son of Hilarion, whom they
call the Just, to turn house-breaker, and worse!' 'Open,' he retorted,
'or you shall rue it.' 'So please the God of Abraham,' said I, 'but I
shall never let you in with my own hand, for I have sworn to keep the
girl safe, and God Almighty will punish him who breaks his oath. I am
afraid of you, of course I am, for I am but a poor old Jew, but much
more do I fear God, and I will not let you in.' So he kicked open the
door and carried off the girl. On to his own horse he lifted her,
holding her in the saddle before him, and was off to the Black Water.
But she was a jewel of a maid, and her honour was dearer to her than
life. She slipped from the horse as they rode by the river and leapt
into the roaring water. They tried to save her, but in vain. I heard of
it early in the morning, and went to seek for the body with some of our
men, the good pope himself coming with us. And, as I said, they'll bury
her to-morrow morning. Go to the chapel if you like to have a last look
at her."
The piteous tale had been interrupted with many an indignant
exclamation from the men, Nashko and Taras only listening speechless,
nor could they find words at once.
"Come to the chapel!" said Taras, after a sorrowful pause.
In deep silence and slowly the band rode through the village, reaching
the cemetery at the other end. There they dismounted, casting the
bridles over the railings, and one after another they entered the
chapel, baring their heads.
It was a modest place, damp and bare, lit up with a couple of torches.
And there, at the foot of a large, crude crucifix, stood the open
coffin in which they had laid the body. No one was watching by the
dead, those to whom the pope had delegated that pious duty no doubt
preferring to spend the blustering night in more congenial quarters.
With bowed heads and murmuring a prayer the outlaws stood by the humble
coffin and gazed at the marble features, lovely even in death. The fair
face, but for its pallor, seemed bound in sleep only, and the green
wreath, the crown of virginity, rested lovingly on the maiden's brow.
The hearts of these rough men were stirred to their depths, but one
only was unable to keep silence, and with a smothered cry the maiden's
name burst from his lips. He broke down utterly.
That was Nashko. Taras went up to him gently and led him out into the
night, making him sit down on the steps of the chapel. And bending over
him, he passed his hand tenderly over his face.
"I know ..." he murmured, "I have seen it for some time ... and if I
cannot avenge her, you will do it!..."