Basia suffered so violently for a week yet, that had it not been
for the assurance of the doctor both Pan Michael and Zagloba would
have admitted that the flame of her life might expire at any
moment. Only at the end of that time did she become notably better;
her consciousness returned fully, and though the doctor foresaw
that she would lie in bed a month, or a month and a half, still it
was certain that she would return to perfect health, and gain her
former strength.
Pan Michael during her illness went hardly one step from her
pillow; he loved her after these perils still more, if possible,
and did not see the world beyond her. At times when he sat near
her, when he looked on that face, still thin and emaciated but
joyous, and those eyes, into which the old fire was returning each
day, he was beset by the wish to laugh, to cry, and to shout from
delight:--
“My only Basia is recovering; she is recovering!”
And he rushed at her hands, and sometimes he kissed those poor
little feet which had waded so valiantly through the deep snows
to Hreptyoff; in a word, he loved her and honored her beyond
estimation. He felt wonderfully indebted to Providence, and on a
certain time he said in presence of Zagloba and the officers:--
“I am a poor man, but even were I to work off my arms to the
elbows, I will find money for a little church, even a wooden
one. And as often as they ring the bells in it, I will remember
the mercy of God, and the soul will be melting within me from
gratitude.”
“God grant us first to pass through this Turkish war with success,”
said Zagloba.
“The Lord knows best what pleases Him most,” replied the little
knight: “if He wishes for a church He will preserve me; and if He
prefers my blood, I shall not spare it, as God is dear to me.”
Basia with health regained her humor. Two weeks later she gave
command to open the door of her chamber a little one evening; and
when the officers had assembled in the room, she called out with
her silvery voice:--
“Good-evening, gentlemen! I shall not die this time, aha!”
“Thanks to the Most High God!” answered the officers, in chorus.
“Glory be to God, dear child!” exclaimed Pan Motovidlo, who loved
Basia particularly with a fatherly affection, and who in moments of
great emotion spoke always in Russian.[28]
“See, gentlemen,” continued Basia, “what has happened! Who could
have hoped for this? Lucky that it ended so.”
“God watched over innocence,” called the chorus again through the
door.
“But Pan Zagloba laughed at me more than once, because I have more
love for the sabre than the distaff. Well, a distaff or a needle
would have helped me greatly! But didn’t I act like a cavalier,
didn’t I?”
“An angel could not have done better!”
Zagloba interrupted the conversation by closing the door of the
chamber, for he feared too much excitement for Basia. But she was
angry as a cat at the old man, for she had a wish for further
conversation, and especially to hear more praises of her bravery
and valor. When danger had passed, and was merely a reminiscence,
she was very proud of her action against Azya, and demanded praise
absolutely. More than once she turned to the little knight, and
pushing his breast with her finger said, with the mien of a spoiled
child,--
“Praise for the bravery!”
And he, the obedient, praised her and fondled her, and kissed her
on the eyes and on the hands, till Zagloba, though he was greatly
affected himself in reality, pretended to be scandalized, and
muttered,--
“Ah, everything will be as lax as grandfather’s whip.”
The general rejoicing in Hreptyoff over Basia’s recovery was
troubled only by the remembrance of the injury which Azya’s
treason had wrought in the Commonwealth, and the terrible fate
of old Pan Novoveski, of Pani and Panna Boski, and of Eva. Basia
was troubled no little by this, and with her every one; for the
events at Rashkoff were known in detail, not only in Hreptyoff, but
in Kamenyets and farther on. A few days before, Pan Myslishevski
had stopped in Hreptyoff; notwithstanding the treason of Azya,
Krychinski, and Adurovich, he did not lose hope of attracting to
the Polish side the other captains. After Pan Myslishevski came
Pan Bogush, and later, news directly from Mohiloff, Yampol, and
Rashkoff itself.
In Mohiloff, Pan Gorzenski, evidently a better soldier than orator,
did not let himself be deceived. Intercepting Azya’s orders to
the Tartars whom he left behind, Pan Gorzenski fell upon them,
with a handful of Mazovian infantry, and cut them down or took
them prisoners; besides, he sent a warning to Yampol, through
which that place was saved. The troops returned soon after. So
Rashkoff was the only victim. Pan Michael received a letter from
Pan Byaloglovski himself, giving a report of events there and other
affairs relating to the whole Commonwealth.
“It is well that I returned,” wrote Pan Byaloglovski, among
other things, “for Novoveski, my second, is not in a state
now to do duty. He is more like a skeleton than a man, and
we shall be sure to lose a great cavalier, for suffering
has crushed him beyond the measure of his strength. His
father is slain; his sister, in the last degree of shame,
given to Adurovich by Azya, who took Panna Boski for
himself. Nothing can be done for them, even should there
be success in rescuing them from captivity. We know this
from a Tartar who sprained his shoulder in crossing the
river; taken prisoner by our men, he was put on the fire,
and divulged everything. Azya, Krychinski, and Adurovich
have gone to Adrianople. Novoveski is struggling to follow
without fail, saying that he must take Azya, even from the
centre of the Sultan’s camp, and have vengeance. He was
always obstinate and daring, and there is no reason now
to wonder at him, since it is a question of Panna Boski,
whose evil fate we all bewail with tears, for she was a
sweet maiden, and I do not know the man whose heart she
did not win. But I restrain Novoveski, and tell him that
Azya himself will come to him; for war is certain, and this
also, that the hordes will move in the vanguard. We have
news from Moldavia from the perkulabs, and from Turkish
merchants as well, that troops are assembling already
near Adrianople,--a great many of the horde. The Turkish
cavalry, which they call ‘spahis,’ are mustering too; and
the Sultan himself is to come with the janissaries. My
benefactor, there will be untold myriads of them; for the
whole Orient is in movement, and we have only a handful of
troops. Our whole hope is in the rock of Kamenyets, which,
God grant, is provisioned properly. In Adrianople it is
spring; and with us almost spring, for tremendous rains are
falling and grass is appearing. I am going to Yampol; for
Rashkoff is only a heap of ashes, and there is no place
to incline one’s head, or anything to put into the mouth.
Besides, I think that we shall be withdrawn from all the
forts.”
The little knight had information of equal and even greater
certainty, since it came from Hotin. He had sent it too a short
time before to the hetman. Still, Byaloglovski’s letter, coming
from the remotest boundary, made a powerful impression on him,
precisely because it confirmed that intelligence. But the little
knight had no fears touching war, his fears were for Basia.
“The order of the hetman to withdraw the garrisons may come any
day,” said he to Zagloba; “and service is service. It will be
necessary to move without delay; but Basia is in bed yet, and the
weather is bad.”
“If ten orders were to come,” said Zagloba, “Basia is the main
question; we will stay here until she recovers completely. Besides,
the war will not begin before the end of the thaws, much less
before the end of winter, especially as they will bring heavy
artillery against Kamenyets.”
“That old volunteer is always sitting within you,” replied the
little knight, with impatience; “you think an order may be delayed
for private matters.”
“Well, if an order is dearer to you than Basia, pack her into a
wagon and march. I know, I know, you are ready at command to put
her in with forks, if it appears that she is unable to sit in the
wagon with her own strength. May the hangman take you with such
discipline! In old times a man did what he could, and what he
couldn’t he didn’t do. You have kindness on your lips, but just let
them cry, ‘Haida on the Turk!’ then you’ll spit out your kindness
as you would a peachstone, and you will take that unfortunate woman
on horseback with a lariat.”
“I without pity for Basia! Fear the wounds of the Crucified!” cried
the little knight.
Zagloba puffed angrily for a time, then looking at the suffering
face of Pan Michael, he said,--
“Michael, you know that I say what I say out of love really
parental for Basia. Otherwise would I be sitting here under the
Turkish axe, instead of enjoying leisure in a safe place, which at
my years no man could take ill of me? But who got Basia for you? If
it shall be seen that it was not I, then command me to drink a vat
of water without a thing to give taste to it.”
“I could not repay you in a lifetime for Basia!” cried the little
knight.
Then they took each other by the shoulders, and the best harmony
began between them.
“I have planned,” said the little knight, “that when war comes, you
will take Basia to Pan Yan’s place. Chambuls do not go that far.”
“I will do so for you, though it would delight me to go against the
Turk; for nothing disgusts me like that swinish nation which does
not drink wine.”
“I fear only one thing: Basia will try to be at Kamenyets, so as to
be near me. My skin creeps at thought of this; but as God is God
she will try.”
“Do not let her try. Has little evil come already, because you
indulge her in everything, and let her go on that expedition to
Rashkoff, though I cried out against it immediately?”
“But that is not true! You said that you would not advise.”
“When I say that I will not advise a thing, that is worse than if I
had spoken against it.”
“Basia ought to be wise now, but she will not. When she sees the
sword over my head she will resist.”
“Do not let her resist, I repeat. For God’s sake, what sort of a
straw husband are you?”
“I confess that when she puts her fists in her eyes and begins to
cry, or just let her pretend to cry, the heart in me is like butter
on a frying-pan. It must be that she has given me some herb. As to
sending her, I will send her, for her safety is dearer to me than
my own life; but when I think that I must torture her so the breath
stops in me from pity.”
“Michael, have God in your heart! Don’t be led by the nose!”
“Bah! don’t be led yourself. Who, if not you, said that I have no
pity for her?”
“What’s that?” asked Zagloba.
“You do not lack ingenuity, but now you are scratching behind your
ear yourself.”
“Because I’m thinking what better argument to use.”
“But if she puts her fists in her eyes at once?”
“She will, as God is dear to me!” said Zagloba, with evident alarm.
And they were perplexed, for, to tell the truth, Basia had measured
both perfectly. They had petted her to the last degree in her
sickness, and loved her so much that the necessity of opposing
her wish and desire filled them with fear. That Basia would not
resist, and would yield with submission to the decree, both knew
well; but not to mention Pan Michael, it would have been pleasanter
for Zagloba to rush himself the third man on a whole regiment of
janissaries, than to see her putting her little fists into her eyes.