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